Stepping out of the shower, Jim sighed heavily as the weight of the upcoming evening pressed heavily on his mind. He had really reached a point where nothing was off-limits or out-of-bounds for the Weaver family. He knew that there was almost nothing that he could come to find happening in his home that would surprise him at this point. For him, this was more than a little bit disturbing, considering it was a home with his daughter and his wife.
Where the true panic came, however, was the presentation of that boundless depravity to the outside world. Yesterday, his son was a part of that outside world. He was yet corrupted by the freakshow that life inside of this home had become. While he and Cam had never been very close in terms of father and son, due to him being such a mama's boy, he still represented a point of pride and an enduring bastion of normalcy carrying the Weaver name toward something great.
That too, had been shattered by the unavoidable rot of hedonism that permeated everything and everyone with which this house came into contact. His friends had experienced it, his daughter had experienced it, and now his previously spared son had experienced it--saying nothing of the creation of it through his own and Sharon's behavior. It was now an-all-consuming entity of befouling influence that seemed destined to destroy every last vestige of normalcy that remained present in his life.
At once, Jim was enraged and resigned, incensed, and paralyzed. He knew that he alone could not do anything to get his family out of the trajectory of the oncoming meteor of destruction that loomed darker and darker each day--threatening to expose the entire house-of-cards to the community at-large and presenting shame, rejection and possible legal repercussions that made his current predicament all the more terrifying.
It was, perhaps, the process of getting ready for the party that best exemplified his sad acceptance of the inevitable. Like any other social gathering, Jim picked out a dark blue pair of slacks and a smart black polo to go with a shiny black pair of Oxfords. He clasped his expensive silver Montblanc Heritage watch around his wrist and combed his salt-and-pepper hair into a presentable neatness and peered at himself in the mirror.
He cursed the image in front of him. The smartly dressed, clean-shaven, well put-together man in his 50's that had lost complete control of his family. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle even if everything that was happening behind them was mired in self-deprecated internal conflict. He sighed heavily, unable to get rid of the weight that seemed to perpetually make its home pressed on his sternum, and liberally applied his expensive cologne. It was time to sink further into oblivion, so he might as well smell good.
Stepping into her room Amanda went directly to her vanity, where she pulled out her mirror. It was a family heirloom that her grandmother had given her before she had passed away. It was a large oval housed in an intricate seashell design of ivory with a teardrop handle. The ivory itself was slightly yellowed in places but still shone brightly enough to confirm its quality heritage. Amanda had gotten it when she was around 13 years old, and it was her most prized possession for several years.
She would sit in front of her vanity and look at herself as she brushed her hair, learned to apply make-up, and curled her eyelashes. She had loved her grandmother, who had been the most shining example of class and elegance that she had ever known. When she was preening and primping herself with the ivory mirror in-hand she felt like she was able to channel a bit of that class and elegance for herself. It made her feel a little like a princess, which was her favored Halloween costume as a young girl.
When she had really started experimenting with drinking, drugs, and boys at the age of 16, she lost interest in the idea of being an elegant princess and connected with counter-culturalism and the stoner scene. Her mother's harsh response to this stage of her adolescence had given rise to a deep-seated resentment towards the very notions of class and elegance and emboldened her to pursue greater connections to everything opposite to those tenets. Now, the mirror represented an ideal that she could never attain, and the constraints that her mother and grandmother had tried to put on her.
It gave her a sick thrill to have made the mirror her go-to surface to do lines on. Before she would crush Oxy, Vicodin, Percocet, and whatever else she managed to get her hands on to rail on the antique mirror. Recently though, it had been all coke. She separated three lines of it onto the now-hazy surface of the mirror and grabbed a straw that she'd cut in half to place just inside of her right nostril. Bending down to the vanity Amanda vacuumed up all three lines easily one after another.
The pulse pounding high of cocaine and the cool numbness that ran through her sinuses and the back of her throat felt amazing. She didn't hesitate to tap out and separate another set of thick lines to go up her other nostril. After six successive lines, Amanda was flying. She knew that three would have been good, but she always felt like she should share the load evenly between her two nostrils despite the fact that it all ended up in the same place plastered on the front of her pre-frontal cortex.
Amanda enjoyed the feeling of the drip on the back of her throat and took a sip of the beer that she had stolen from her brother's 'party stash' downstairs. She reveled in the feeling of the stimulant she'd just snorted and the anticipation of a night she intended to be a legendary display that would stick in the memories of all the attendees for the rest of their lives. She was going to go above and beyond, as if her clothing choices had not already made that abundantly clear.
Her hatred of Cameron had festered first as sibling competitiveness, then jealousy, and now an outright rejection of who he was as a person. She had decided that she was going to bring him down a peg tonight and give every person who had ever seen him as the perfect boy scout from an affluent and respectable family something to think about. That would require her to work in tandem with her mother to be the sluttiest, least respectable piece of fuck-meat she could possibly aspire to be. Her mother was working toward her goal unknowingly, simply by being herself, but Amanda would take her help any way she could get it.
She wrestled a bit with her father's presence in all of this, as she knew her actions would no doubt hurt him as well. But ultimately, she had resigned herself to a mindset of collateral damage being unavoidable. After all, this was war as far as Amanda was concerned. She would be able to make it up to her dear father at the end of the night, she just knew it. But until then, she was going to be everything her late grandmother despised. Looking once more in the old bitch's mirror she winked at herself and smiled, hoping she would be rolling in her grave by evenings end.
Foster was a little nervous, Cam had never thrown a party, let alone an absolute rager like this was shaping out to be. As the people began to file in, he wondered how this would all be received by his parents and if Cam was bluffing about being nonplussed about it. The first person to quell some of his concerns was Cam's mother, Sharon, who had walked into the large open living room dressed to the nines in what he could only describe as 'slutty bar fly' attire. She looked primed to be picked up by any man interested enough to do so.
He remembered fondly her cocksucking skills from the evening prior, wherein he blasted his load down the back of her throat in what would likely go down as his most prized and unexpected sex story of all-time. Frankly, he couldn't wait for Cam to go back to college so he could start telling the tale to his local friends. It also didn't hurt that he had crushed on Mrs. Weaver since he was like ten years old. She had always been the quintessential 'hot mom' and so elegant and unattainable that he'd always thought she was gorgeous.
While she had lost none of the beauty that she'd been gifted by the wonders of biology, she had certainly lost the elegance and unattainability. She was practically eye-fucking any guy who entered her general vicinity while almost flashing her cunt at them from the obscene angle of her dress. He couldn't deny though, that if he believed he could get away with it without Cam or his father noticing, he would have already made his move on the woman.
The second person to douse the flames of his anxiety about the evening was the introduction of Amanda, Cam's younger sister, to the party. He had already been floored by her maturation as witnessed earlier that day. It had been a couple of years since he'd last seen her and even if it had looked like she'd just rolled out of bed, she was a total and complete babe. Last Foster had seen, she was a cute 16-year-old with a budding reputation of a bit of a wild child. Now though, she was a woman with every curve to prove it.
