Post by TIFFANY ELAINE PRESCOTT on Feb 20, 2013 18:47:23 GMT -8
| [atrb=style,width: 420px; background-color: efefef; background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/6jh1H.png); padding: 5px, bTable] TIFFANY E. PRESCOTT 26 | STRAIGHT | NEWSPAPER COLUMNIST | LOCAL | ASHLEY BENSON [/style] [style=font-family: megrim; font-size: 45px; color: #1c161e; letter-spacing: -3; width: 400px; text-align: center;]THE INTERVIEW HELLO. THANKS FOR COMING IN TODAY. SHALL WE START WITH YOUR NAME? “Tiffany Prescott,” she informs her interviewer professionally, offering a polite smile. There is really no need to mention her mother nicknamed her Tiff as a child. Uttering her surname is effortless here. No one knows the curse of the Prescott name. She nods her head to signify she wants to move on. THAT'S A NICE NAME. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING? Not much, she thinks, bitter. “I used to work at a theater in Princeton while I was majoring in English at the university. I was a bookkeeper and helped out with all the paperwork,” she says matter-of-factly. “Now I’m a columnist at Times Record, the newspaper.” Again, she keeps her answers short and sweet. Tiffany has a whole lot of nothing to do elsewhere. INTERESTING. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN? I breathe occasionally, she thinks. Tiffany pauses, unsure. Her life mostly consists of channel surfing and researching for her weekly column. “Work consumes most of my time,” she says honestly. At least she isn’t lying. “I do whatever strikes my mood, I guess,” she adds. “Next question?” WOULD YOU SAY THOSE ACTIVITIES REFLECT WHO YOU ARE? “Working and following my heart?” she inquires, quoting “following my heart” with her fingers. Another long silence grows between them. “I think that would probably vary depend on who you’re asking. Personally, I don’t think so, no.” The interviewer eyes her, almost urging her to continue with expectant eyes. She hopes he isn’t allergic to disappointment. She’s full of it. Normally people pick up on her cold, stubborn façade by then. She wonders if he’s being paid by the hour to interview random brats like she. COOL BEANS. THEY SAY YOUR FAMILY SHAPES WHO YOU ARE. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOURS? “I have a mom and a dad like any other sensible person,” she responds. “Despite the constant nagging for grandchildren, my mother and I are relatively close. We tend to bicker. That’s when Dad normally steps out of the room.” Again, she shrugs. These answers have been rehearsed over a decade. As usual, she makes no notion to mention her brother. All of her friends in college were told she does not have a brother. That’s exactly what she plans to do in Brunswick, too. AND YOUR LIFE? TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PAST. I'M EAGER TO HEAR. “I grew up in Virginia,” she begins, again rehearsing the story she tells everyone. “I went to the local elementary school and had a decent amount of friends. My parents were always rough on me. They had high expectations. Pretty soon it was time for me to graduate high school and go to college. Like I said before, Princeton was my choice. English was my major. I graduated two years ago. I moved up here for a change of pace, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.” What about a secret? Everyone has a secret. “Here’s a secret: you’ll really love this one. I’ve never told a stranger a secret!” she smirks, beginning to collect her things. The very mention of the past is enough to send her skin crawling. But, to be honest, Tiffany has a secret that has been eating her inside out for ten years. She killed her brother. Not intentionally. She wasn’t even alone. During the summer after her Sophomore year, Tiffany, Neal, and their family friend Hayden Scott were all drunk on top of a warehouse roof. That was their signature party spot. A game of truth or dare went terribly wrong, and Neal ended up mangled and bloody on the concrete. He had fallen and died on impact. Tiffany fled the scene, though she was later questioned as a subject. She and Hayden weren’t found out nor convicted, but the crime she committed against her brother has never left her mind. The secret has caused her to be the cold, reserved creature she is today. ALRIGHT. TIME'S ALMOST UP. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DREAMS. QUICK! Dreams? How can she possibly think of the future when she struggles to cope with each passing moment? All of her dreams had died with her brother. “Why would I need a dream when I have everything I could ever want in my life?” she lies cleverly. All of the standard wishes for women her age are completely out of the question. Love? She’s undeserving. Kids? She’s unfit to be a mother. Money? What good would that do her? She’s perfectly content with her misery. AND THAT'S A WRAP. IT WAS NICE GETTING TO KNOW YOU. “I wish I could say the same,” she shoots back, collecting her purse and standing up. Soon she'll be out the door. BEHIND THE MASK CHAR | 105 | PACIFIC | BIRTHED IT | NONE YET Your secret's out... a voice inside her head whispered. .... Everyone knows you've lied. It's not too late to run. Tiffany stared straight into the face that stared right back. His image was foggy from passing tears, but the amount of surprise, anger, and guilt on his countenance was evident enough. What had she done? The eyes of her family members left her bleeding out, ashamed. Her parent's eyes were the most difficult to resist. She could only imagine what crazy diagnoses were running free in their minds. Knowing her mother, Tiffany wouldn't be surprised if she had a voicemail from her therapist when she returned to her dainty New York apartment. Questioning her life's choices was the little push she needed to fall over the edge, spiraling and flailing down towards a deeper level of self loathing. Get out! that same voice hollered, instructing her feet to the door. Tiffany left Hayden's presence wondering where the door would lead. To the garage? To a nearby park? New York? The most recent option was hardly plausible. Her credit card was nestled somewhere in her purse upstairs. Unless, of course, she decided to stick out her thumb and hitchhike. Her embarrassment hadn't winded her enough to put her life on the line. Not yet. There were times in deep sorrow when she pondered joining Neal in the clouds. Peyton and Garrett basically had enough squared away. Mrs. Prescott could indulge in Peyton's prosperity, fore Tiffany had little hope for her own future. Dead or alive. Growing up forced Tiffany's parents to hold their heads high come rain or hell water. Tiffany's generation, however, broke down at the prospect of a broken nail. In comparison, Tiffany was nothing more than a musket against an automatic rifle. Sobs continued to shake Tiffany Prescott to her core. No one came out to check up on her, though no one was really to blame. Losing her cool on Hayden came off as manic and savage. Surely the raging imbecile inside wasn't the sweet child everyone loved! Alas, it was. Tiffany's dark side became more prominent as the years pressed on. Her mental state disintegrated as her guilt grew stronger. Idealists often said distance makes the heart grow fonder, and in her case-- Neal's soul being intangible no matter how much she wished otherwise-- the saying rang incredibly true. Five more minutes of conversation would make the next sixty, seventy, or eighty years less intimidating. Five more minutes with her brother would help her unravel the intoxicating riddles screaming in her head to be solved. Those five minutes were never going to come; Tiffany could sit at Neal's grave for days and never hear the words she needed him to say. Only the birds would chip at her in their strange language. Only the crickets would play her a song while she groveled at the unattainable. "Tiffany?" a voice called, frenzied. Tiff looked up to find a silhouette standing not too far off. The cold night atmosphere swallowed her whole. The lingering glimmer from a car's headlights were the only source of light betraying Tiffany's hiding place. Who would have thought the garage door was open? "Tiffany? Are you okay?" The figure stepped forward cautiously. From her obvious curves, Tiffany made sense of her gender. Peyton Scott. Normally her warm and earthy aura calmed Tiffany's frayed nerves. Tonight, her charms were ineffective. The darkness that had settled over Tiffany's mindset made her immune to Peyton's concerns. "Tiffany, what's wrong?" Peyton repeated, taking a seat next to her. "Is she okay?" a man's voice inquired. Garrett. "Tiffany?" Peyton's voice. All she wanted was some space to breath, but her throat had closed in. She was rendered unable to reassure her childhood friend of the situation. "Why don't I meet you inside, babe? I'll be in there in a second, alright?" Garrett's footsteps slowly receded before disappearing altogether after the garage door slammed behind him. "Tiff, what happened?" "Please go away," Tiffany whispered, wiping her tear-stained cheeks with her arm. Peyton didn't move. Tiffany could feel her gaze burning a hole in her profile. Self-consciousness kept Tiffany's eyes glued to the floor. Giving Peyton the opportunity to see her icy eyes breaking apart meant exposing her vulnerability, and honestly, Tiffany didn't want to make Peyton second guess her choice in bridesmaid. Peyton and Garrett's marriage was the only event Tiffany had to look forward to, even if she didn't openly admit the fact. Peyton's hand stroked her back maternally, but Tiffany shook her off. "Please, Peyton," Tiffany urged, more forcibly this time, chancing a quick glance in her direction. "I'll come inside soon." Peyton hesitated. "Promise?" she asked, child-like. "Yes." And that was that. Peyton didn't look back once she stood. Tiffany watched her go with another round of tears awaiting departure. Closing her eyes, Tiffany brought forth Neal's image. Neal's handsome face was sprinkled with golden stubble and perspiration. His highlighted golden hair was tousled and obviously neglected. His forest green eyes were full of life and ambition. Many agreed his voice held the same endearing qualities. Neal was the epitome of ambition, symbolic of life itself. Irony had never been grander. Recalling his image so easily relieved Tiffany as much as it pained her. Drilling his memory into her mind with the scrapbooks upstairs had served their purpose. His voice was lost in one of the boxes in the attic. Tiffany wasn't strong enough to face his bedroom equipment, trophies, and clothes. Thumbing through those wretched picture books were enough to drive her into hysteria. Tiffany could only imagine how loony she'd become if she dared to invade the boxes containing Neal's life achievements. Maybe another look through those books... Maybe just a peek. Mechanically, Tiffany stood up, dusted off her dress, and shuffled towards the garage door. The bright kitchen light left her stumbling while her eyes readjusted, and a series of concerned peeps from her relatives trailed behind her as she retreated once again up the stairs. She didn't want to look into their faces and see the messages obviously running through their minds. Had she gone crazy? What treatment did she need? Every single of them would cough up thousands of dollars to send her to some rehabilitation center, she'd bet. Lunatics would tarnish the all-American theme her family had going. Neal's death had already been a generous exception made. At this point, Tiffany wondered if they blamed Mrs. Prescott as much as her offspring for their corrupted family behavior. Tiffany knew she did. Her parents made the world out to be rainbows and fucking unicorns. A new snapshot of Neal shuttered through her mind with each step up the staircase towards his bedroom. Neal acting. Neal playing football. Neal singing karaoke. Neal dancing. Neal kissing one of his many girlfriends. Neal drinking. Neal pulling a prank. Neal falling, falling, falling. Neal lying dead on the pavement. Neal's closed eyes on the coroner's table... Tiffany's eyes blinked open, bewildered once again. Meltdowns like these didn't typically occur in Chantilly. Normally Tiffany was able to fend off her skeletons until she returned to New York. This extended stay was definitely the exception of the rule, and her misfortune was far from over. Standing in front of the door of Neal's bedroom was Hayden Scott. Tiff had no idea how long he'd been there. Honestly, she didn't care. Flipping through those scrapbooks were her therapy and punishment. Flipping through those scrapbooks was a private matter. Hayden needed to leave her house and leave her life because she was fed up with his sugarcoated excuses. "The door's not going to bite you, Hayden," she told him dryly. Her shoulder brushed his chest as she twisted the crystal door knob and stepped inside. Again, a snippet of Neal flashed through her mind. He was lounging in the papasan chair that was now a desk. "Dad does the bills in here now." she gestured to the piles of envelopes near the computer. "And mom wraps presents." Her head moved in the direction of various wrapping papers, tape, and scissors. "It's like Neal was never here." |
