The Plot Calls #41 : "Prestigious Neglect"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

____

Camille Prestige didn’t envy strangers. She envied her sister—Priscilla Prestige.

Priscilla was a different breed. The epitome of pride. A pride Camille craved.

Priscilla, Camille’s younger sister, was the family favorite. The one with the beautiful face, the undefeatable dominant desire, and the pride that caused her to exceed expectations in every avenue—school, sports, skincare, beauty. Camille’s achievements always landed second. Their father encouraged Priscilla and placated Camille. Camille didn’t hate Priscilla. She didn’t blame her either.

Priscilla was the favorite—the pride of the Prestige family. Camille just wanted to be beautiful. Praised. Encouraged. Loved.

The whisper came after an awkward holiday dinner. Low. Voiceless. Calling from a hill near their home. Camille saw it from her bedroom window. She avoided it at first. Something inside her told her it was wrong. It called to the envy she tried to suppress.

Then, on Christmas Day, Camille glanced at a gift she received, labeled “Not Priscilla.” A common joke her parents passive-aggressively used to “motivate” Camille to be “better.”

That night, Camille’s heart cracked, and her envy oozed into her being. It had always been contained, but now the slime of her envy seeped into the cracks along the walls of her soul.

Camille marched to the soil with one of the few medals she ever won. A second-place, “thanks for participating” medal she earned doing her best in a sport she only played for her parents’ attention, approval, and acceptance.

There, on the hill, Camille came upon the plot. The soil pulsed—black-violet, breathing between the stones. The plot was empty. Waiting for something to be planted. An offering.

Camille gave the medal she clutched in her delicate, depressed hands. “I want to win. I want to be known. I want to be seen. I want to live up to my name—the Prestige family name.” She placed her medal on the soil.

She stared. Nothing happened. It didn’t sink.

Suddenly, as if appearing from nowhere, a creature that resembled a man stepped out from a direction Camille didn’t comprehend—a door that can open anywhere, anytime, if someone knows how to turn at an angle not meant for man.

“It’s not enough. Your envy is not enough,” the pale, Idle Man whispered.

It grabbed Camille, indifferent, and tossed her over the plot. “The One Beneath called your envy—and yet…” The Idle Man, the plot person, paused. “Your envy was love. Return to your life, or feed the soil. Your blood carries the flavor of shame. That is enough.” The Idle Man pulled a knife from its robes. “The One Beneath will remove you from existence. A gift of mercy. Feed your blood. Feed your soul. No one will miss you. No one will know you.”

Camille understood something she couldn’t explain and knelt above the empty plot. “I was born as a test. My family failed. They never rose to the occasion. They descended to their pride. They’ll have everything they ever wanted—and it will never be enough.”

She tilted her head back, exposing her neck. She stared at the clear sky. Something within her let go of what she’d clung to. Then, she heard something from above the sky—something from beyond the horizon.

It was night, but Camille saw something like the Sun. Radiant. Beautiful. Her heart opened. There was a flash. Camille vanished.

Still and expressionless, the Idle Man did as it always does. It stood idle.

Then, there was a shriek from a nearby house. The Idle Man felt a tug. It glanced at a window. There was a young girl. She gazed at the Idle Man, and the Idle Man gazed back. Despite the distance, there was a strange, mutual understanding.

The girl in the window—Priscilla Prestige—pulled out a notebook and wrote something.

The One Beneath whispered something inaudible.

The Idle Man remained silent, still staring at Priscilla’s illuminated window. “This was fated,” it responded.

“. . .”

“I see,” the Idle Man replied.

“. . .”

“Yes.”

“. . .”

“Sideways. Dreams. The prequel?” the Idle Man asked.

“. . .”

The Idle Man paused. Its hollow lips parted and it whispered:

“The Plot Thickens.”

____

Want to follow my horror, fantasy, scifi, and romance content as I publish it?

Subscribe to my "Mark A Figueroa Presents" Official YouTube Channel for videos.

Join my Official Discord Server for notifications by genre.

Join my WhatsApp Group for easy and simple updates for all my content.