I don't do Ino studies much. I've wanted to write for her before, but the ideas I've received were sub-par.
This, however, is an exception. :) And, this is my fiftieth published story! YAY!!!!!!! Milestone!
I hope you enjoy.
Also, more tidbits of info: This was going to be a one-shot. Did it turn out that way? Of course not. Obviously, the alternative is to do chapters. Yippee.
Another thing, the song you see below is the one that goes with this chapter. For each new chapter, I will have a different song. They are the chapter titles, after all. XD
Since I ran out of room in the summary box, these are the warnings for this new Fic: Language (ha, as usual), themes of suicide, themes of depression, themes of eating disorders, some mild alcohol consumption. . . Yeah. I'll just warn you along the way, how's that?
Okay. You can read now.
Song: Satellite Mind by Metric.
Disclaimer: Kishimoto owns because he is simply amazing. :) And you know, he came up with everything.
It was a cutthroat world she resided in.
People would gossip about you as soon as see your face, their stories spun on a whim and usually untrue.
Ino ignored all of it.
Or, at least, she tried to.
Modeling had its benefits and its disadvantages.
Perk: Mingling with some of the hottest and most successful people this side of the Atlantic.
Disadvantage: Sticking your tongue down the throats of some of the scumbags of the earth to get there.
Disadvantage: Communicable diseases.
Perk: The clothes.
Disadvantage: Getting caught with the articles you weren't allowed to take.
The list goes on.
But despite the advantages and consequences, Ino still enjoyed what she did.
Walking down that runway in these interesting and empowering clothes was all Ino needed.
She required no boyfriend to make her feel good, no best friend to divulge her secrets to, no family to support her.
Ino made those things happen all by herself.
She was her own form of comfort and secret keeper and sustentation.
She didn't need anyone but herself.
And of that she was convinced.
Paris is cold.
Ino huddled outside, waiting for a cab to be hailed.
Her coat was warm enough, but she had forgotten her gloves, and her fingers were threatening to fall off.
Finally, the outside attendant succeeded in his cab hailing, and one pulled up to the curb, Ino quickly sliding inside.
After telling the address and noting that they were moving, Ino settled back into the wide seat.
She had been here all of two days and already she was working.
Ino exhaled, watching the cars whiz by them.
In the distance, she could see the Arc de Triomphe, looming bulkily over the wide street of the Champs-Elysees.(1)
Disappointed, Ino frowned, seeing her reflection in the glass.
She rarely got the time to sightsee. Modeling commanded almost all of her time, and even in the time she was not working, she was usually sleeping. Sleep was a hard thing to come by with her busy schedule.
But in the past few months, even sleep had been stripped away from her.
Ino could be tired enough to pass out, but her eyes would not close. They stayed open, drawing her attention to mundane things that hardly interested her, but diverted her, nevertheless.
Ino was sure she had insomnia.
"Thank God for beauty products," she had heard a fellow model say once when she entered the room.
Her friend had laughed, loudly, and Ino had sped by them, trying to ignore them all.
That was what depressed her; the cruel girl had been right.
With Ino's lack of sleep, her energy and complex features had been sucked right out of her.
The bags under her eyes were dark blue and purple, resembling bruises. Her skin had turned waxen, losing its creamy white texture. Ino had lost weight as well, even though she didn't need it; she was already thin.
There were rumors about her. Rumors about her weight and questions of her health. These were natural rumors, ones every model experiences at a time during her career.
Only, Ino's were never ending.
The cab lurched into a stop, and Ino looked out at the stylish buildings.
She checked the meter and counted out the money to pay for the ride, handing it to the cabby.
Ino did not respond and got out of the car, shoving her hands into her coat pockets to keep them warm.
She walked against the chilled breeze to the slate steel building.
It was a photo shoot today, either clothes or shoes or something else stupid like that. It was all the same.
Ino exhaled once she entered the lobby. At least it was warm here.
She briskly walked by the security guard, shooting him a wan smile when he looked her over.
After passing, the corners of her mouth slid back down, deepening into their usual scowl.
It was a small production, something Ino was grateful for. Taking pictures with other girls complicated everything; you had to be aware of all of them and their positions.
Ino entered a large room down a hallway, where assistants were setting up camera equipment.
She blew past them, going to the door that had a sheet of paper that said Hair and Make-up.
A twenty-something at the end waved her over.
Ino vaguely glanced at the two other models in the room.
One was listening to her iPod as her hairdresser spiked her auburn locks, and the other was scowling at her expression, black hair perfected into curls.
Ino reached her chair and sat down, casting her hairdresser a look.
He was young and his blue eyes were bright and icy; his dark hair stood in a fauxhawk, carefully sculpted. His cologne hung on him like a coat and Ino coughed at the thickness.
"Bonjour," he greeted in a strict Texan accent.
Ino stared at him.
"Hi," she responded, quiet.
"Oh, my God, thank the Lord Jesus for someone who speaks English!" he exclaimed, throwing his hand up in the air for mock praise.(2)
When Ino claimed surprise, the hairdresser quickly explained, running his long fingers in her hair.
"I swear to God, child, I have been dying here. France: Worst country in the world."
Ino raised her eyebrows, and her hairdresser continued to ramble into existence until her hair was finished.
It was blown out from her face, accentuating her long neck and high cheekbones.
Another forty minutes and her make-up was done, and Ino was being whisked off to wardrobe.
It was a shoe add, and Ino took her time; the other girls were already getting their photos done. It wasn't a group shot; she wasn't required yet.
The shoes were three sizes too small and they cramped her feet, but Ino didn't complain. They wouldn't care, as long as she sold the product and made it look good.
The first girl with the spiked hair returned and cast off her shoes and the clothes they'd given her to wear with it.
Ino walked out, wearing dark wide-legged jeans and a white tee shirt.
She liked these simple photo shoots where she didn't have to wear anything particularly restraining.
The other girl with the black hair was finishing up, doing high jumps that Ino envied. She wasn't that eager, especially in these last few months.
The photographer waved the dark headed girl away, finished.
"Merci!" he called as she was making her way back to the dressing rooms.
She shot Ino a look as she passed; a try-to-do-better-than-me look. Ino knew these looks all too well.
Ino allowed the photographer to kiss her cheek, and then hurried over to the place where he gestured.
The lights tuned and the camera started clicking.
Ino had been modeling since she was five, and she was great at it.
She knew all the poses, the way to manipulate her body to make it appear thinner than it actually was, the way to work her face.
It was easy.
In fact, everything was easy.
Everything except living.
(1) Do you recall that big arch thing that lots of cars go through in movies? Yeah. That's the Arc de Triomphe. It is at the western end of the Champs-Elysees, that popular street in Paris.
(2) This is a tribute to one of my classmates who actually talks and acts like this. Hahaha. He won't ever read this, but his face popped into my head and cracked me up. This is for you, Will! ;P
Yes, I know it seems a bit strange. Believe me, I know.
But if you give it a chance, I'm sure you'll adjust well. :)