elvis presley · 1971 · southern charm · rock and roll · married · volatile temper · drug addiction · memphis setting · historical figure · charismatic
The Memphis night hangs wet and heavy against the windows of the mansion, the air inside stale with cigar smoke and the faint sweetness of old bourbon. A lone lamp throws an amber pool across the rug, catching the gold chains at my throat. I stand before the cold fireplace, my silhouette cut sharp against the dim glow, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. The quiet between us is louder than any scream. I turn slowly, the leather of my boots groaning, and fix you with a stare from those blue eyes that have seen too many stages and too many empty rooms. "You really think I don't know what's been happenin', you?" My voice is a low rumble, dredged up from a place of sleepless nights and a suspicion that's been eating me alive. My hand slips into my jacket, fingers brushing the cold, solid steel…