I Got Money Now May 9, 2010 20:57:16 GMT -5
Post by Tiago James Squalor on May 9, 2010 20:57:16 GMT -5
I Got Money Now
A Jerome Squalor short by Tiago Squalor - inspired by the P!nk song, 'I Got Money Now'
This fic is dedicated to Emma Squalor as a birthday present.
Jerome Squalor suddenly awoke at night. It was really late, and he was alone in bed, sweaty. His heart was pounding. Jerome had a nightmare in which his wife, Esmé, was kidnapped by an evil villain of a man. Jerome knew it was only a nightmare. Esmé did not get kidnapped by that evil man who claimed to be Gunther, an in auctioneer. Esmé had in fact, eloped with that man.
Jerome stood up, the in dark silk sheets falling from his body onto the floor. A window was open, and the moonlight poured through. Jerome was cold. The 667 Dark Avenue penthouse was a really tall building. Temperatures were lower up there, and it was a tad too drafty inside the room. Jerome looked at the moon.
'You must know what it's like.' said Jerome, to the moon. 'All alone up there, with no one next to you.' Jerome forced himself not to cry. Esmé had chosen to leave, and he wouldn't argue with her. From a young age, his father,Maxwell Squalor, taught Jerome to avoid confrontation. As a result he became too dependent on his parents and his current status as an unemployed heir to the Squalor fortune. Jerome was used to using his money to avoid all confrontation. He was used to having things dealt through the front door. That is why he so quickly married that woman, Esmé Squalor.
Jerome felt cold, as he closed the windows of his current room at the penthouse apartment. The cold he felt however, was inside him. Jerome was tired of being alone, until one day, as he had breakfast at his favorite restaurant, Esmé appeared out of nowhere. After that, they had drinks and came over to the penthouse, and spent the night together in one of the many richly decorated rooms.
Esmé was warm, he remembered. Like a warm autumn afternoon, just after summer ends. It's getting colder with time, but the heat is still there, somewhere. That's what he felt when laying next to her. And that made it worth putting up with her obsession with fashion and trends.
Jerome was naked, and he decided to put on his in dark silk robes, the ones Esmé had ordered at the House of In boutique, custom-made, just for him. He decided to walk around until he found a kitchen to have some tea. The halls of 667 Dark Avenue's penthouse were all dark. Jerome wandered in the darkness, with a candlestick in hand. Jerome felt even lonelier when his thoughts went onto the Baudelaire children, the children that he wanted to keep.
'If only they would come live with me...I could make them be in safety.' he thought. Jerome loved the Baudelaires, and the image of them running after Esmé and that evil man at Veblen Hall was a constant burder in his memory. Jerome found a kitchen, and went on to prepare his tea. His hazel eyes observed the tall clock across the room. 'How unnusual to have a clock like that in the kitchen. I guess Esmé thought it was in'. he thought. Jerome suddenly felt a tear drop from his left cheek.
But it was ok. He would be fine. Jerome was rich, and he did not need to work. He thought that idea should be comforting, but somehow it wasn't. Not needing to work, what would he do? Jerome's fortune had attracted many, but they only cared for the money. After getting their share, the friends always disappeared. Didn't answer the calls, or letters. They avoided him. Jerome was isolated by his own wealth. Most of his relatives did not spoke to him after he single-handedly inherited the Squalor Fortune. An 'unfair, hateful will' was how they called the will of his father, the eldest of the Squalor brothers, who had made fortune in the city. Only two relatives still remained, but their activities in some sort of organization they wouldn't disclose kept them from visiting him. His only other friend, a man named Jacques Snicket, had apparently lost contact with him, not having sent letters in quite a while. When Jerome asked the doorman about letters from Jacques, the man simply laughed, as if mocking Jerome's loneliness.
Jerome looked at the clock; it was almost midnight. The full moon also poured it's light through the venetian blinds on the windows. The moonlight reflected on the dark floor, spreading an eerie glow on Jerome's pale skin. He pensively looked out the window, the other buildings of Dark Avenue in sight. So many neighbours, and he did not have a single friend.
Jerome felt horrible. He was lonely, and now without the Baudelaires, there was no one else in the immense penthouse there with him. He could not bear it anymore. Jerome had to find something to focus on, something to dedicate himself to. He was tired of not working. Jerome decided to write a book. It suddenly came to him. A book on the odious lusting after fortunes that leads people to commit crimes and lure other people's family away in one way or another. That would keep him going...for now.