The Living Statue

36.

~Three months later~

You know those days when nothing's working in your favor? Like, when you have this feeling that the whole universe has joined for this urgent mission to make your day a fucking living hell? When life seems like this little, obnoxious satire - you're the main character and everyone else keeps throwing shit at you but you have to keep playing because the play is not over until the playwright, or the universe, or the Lord himself, says so?

Well, today was one of those days.

By the time I had lunch and was about to start preparing for the wedding I was supposed to attend two hours later, I was already having my fourth mental breakdown.

It's not that I wanted to go to the stupid wedding, or that I had an intention of getting extremely elegantly dressed for the occasion. The problem was that I had to, attend the wedding, that is, because my sister was getting married to that douchebag whose name shall not be spoken, and I couldn't even do the bare minimum, which is wash my hair.

Of all days, the pipe in the building decided to break today, and I simply refused to believe that such a thing was coincidence. I had no water. I was supposed to show up at the wedding in exactly two hours and I haven't even washed my hair. The fact that my mother kept calling me non stop was of no help either. I already got into a huge fight with her the moment I opened my eyes, because I was an incapable, obscene disgrace to the family who was still going through puberty. Her words, not mine.

Apparently, refusing to go to the hairdresser and wear the dress your mother has prepared for you was a deadly sin. Refusing to show up earlier in order to help with the arrangements, even though they had dozens of servants to do the job, was an even bigger one. And I've managed to commit both in less than two hours. I could only assume I wouldn't be talking to my mother on the wedding, although our communication is already so bad, I doubt it can get any worse.

And so I did the only thing that seemed even mildly rational at the given situation. I grabbed a taxi and drove to the other side of the city in order to wash my hair at Caroline's and see if she could help me get dressed, because fashion and I were never, and never will be, on the same page. It was a rational move, but not exactly a practical one, because by the time I reached her appartememt, it was already half past three, and I had to be at Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel at five. With the rush hour in which I will undoubtedly get stuck on my way to the Hotel, it'd be a miracle if I make it by six in the afternoon.

That would be the third deadly sin I'd commit in a day. My personal record.

Because I was on a very tight schedule, I rushed to the bathroom the moment I lurched into Caroline's appartement like a hyena gone mad, while I'd given her the honour of picking out an outfit on her own. She kept nagging me to turn around and look at what she'd chosen while I stood bent over the bathtub, hair falling over my face, but I successfully ignored her, mostly because I had shampoo in my eyes and couldn't see shit even if I tried.

It was a decision I regretted the moment I tied a towel around my head and turned around my axis to see Caroline leaning on the doorjamb of the bathroom door, cigarette hanging from her lips as she studied the silky, emerald dress outstretched before her.

Now, with Caroline and dresses there are two options - she'll either pick something slutty, or something vastly uncomfortable. The dress she was holding seemed to be both, a design reaching all the way to the floor with a slit that would, I was positive, barely hide the upper thigh of my left leg when worn. It had an open back, but was tied around the neck in a bow which seemed anything but comfortable.

"I am not wearing that," I said reluctantly as I rubbed my hair with a towel in order to dry it as much as possible. I avoid hair dryers if I can help it, but considering it was still winter, I had no other option but to dry it at least to the point where it wasn't dripping wet.