Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
It slides open on her command, revealin' an elevator.
An elevator. In a closet. In a bedroom.
Of course there's a fuckin' elevator. Of course the Ashbys have secret passages, and hidden rooms, and layers upon layers of privacy built into their fortress. Of course Savannah grew up in a house where you could disappear into the walls, where you could hide from cameras, and expectations, and your own mother's obsessive need to document every breath you took.
Of course there is.
The elevator requires a key in the form of a code—numbers Savannah punches in without hesitation. We get in. The doors close. We descend.
The ride down feels longer than it probably is, and I'm acutely aware of how small this space is. How Savannah's pressed against my side even though there's room to stand apart. How she's still holdin' my hand like she's afraid if she lets go, I'll disappear into the same abyss that swallowed Brick, and Roach, and Ledger, and all the others who thought they could survive by choosin' the wrong side today.
We exit.
And I step out into a shrine of photographs.
All of it, Eleanor's work. Everywhere. Floor to ceiling. Wall to wall. Thousands upon thousands of images preserved in climate-controlled perfection—negatives in archival sleeves, prints in acid-free boxes, contact sheets organized by date, and subject, and whatever system made sense inside Eleanor Ashby's brilliant, broken mind.
This is where she kept her real legacy. Not the Instagram empire. Not the coffee table books, or the magazine spreads, or the perfectly staged moments she sold to millions of followers who thought they were seein' authenticity.
This is where I end this day. I almost laugh. It’s almost funny.
But none of this is funny.
None of this has ever been funny.
Back in time, I'm twenty-five years old and ridin' my bike into Glendive, Montana on a Thursday afternoon in September.
Eleanor’s studio is in the quaint downtown. Sandwiched between the Yellowstone River and the train tracks. The buildin' is old, nondescript brick. Single steel door. Number painted in faded white. I’ve been here before, obviously. Been coming to this place for seven years by the time this day comes around.
But it’s different now. There’s no sign anymore. Nothin’ that says she’s in there.
I kill the engine and sit there for a minute, smokin', wonderin' what the fuck I'm doin' here. Wonderin' why I keep comin' back every time she calls, every time she leaves a note on my bike, every time she drops another breadcrumb about my father. A man I never knew. A man I never wanted to know.
But I know why.
Because Eleanor's the only person who ever looked at me like I mattered. Like I'm somethin' worth preserving. Like my existence is evidence of beauty instead of evidence of sin.
I flick the cigarette into the street and walk inside.
The space opens up into somethin' that doesn't match the exterior at all. Professional photography studio. Lights on tall stands with umbrellas and softboxes, pristine white backdrops suspended from ceiling-mounted rails, camera equipment organized on rolling carts—everything precise, and deliberate, and expensive. The kind of setup photographers dream about.
And there's Eleanor.
She's thinner than she was last month. The change isn't dramatic. Yet. But it will be soon. Her face has this gaunt quality that wasn't there before, like somethin's consuming her from the inside out.
But she's smilin'.
Actually happy. Not the practiced Instagram smile she wears for cameras, or the polite social mask she shows donors and politicians. Real happiness. The kind that lights a person up from within, the kind that makes her look younger despite everything that’s tryin’ to eat her alive.
And I realize—standin' there in my jeans and leather jacket, smellin' like cigarettes and motorcycle exhaust—I realize… I make her happy.
It’s me that makes her smile.
Just my presence. Just bein' here. Just showin' up when she calls.
I light somethin' up in her that's been dimmin', and I don't know if that makes me her salvation or her damnation, but I know it's true.
"Legion." My name in her mouth sounds pretty today. "Thank you for coming."
I nod. Don't trust my voice.
She gestures to the backdrop—seamless black rollin' down from the ceiling, spotless and pure, waitin' to be filled with whatever image she's got in mind. "Stand there for me?"
I nod.
The time for candid shots is over. She's been done with the stolen moments captured through telephoto lenses from two hundred yards away for years now. She's over the secret documentation of a feral boy she's been stalkin' since he was too young to understand what her attention meant.
She wants to make some art.
She wants to turn me into art.
She wants to photograph me properly. Wants to create somethin' intentional instead of somethin' stolen. Wants my permission, my participation, my presence as her subject instead of her prey.
I get it. When I’m here. When I’m with her, it really does all make sense.