𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

¹³

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." My mother says in her dulcet tones, gently laying my impeccable curls over my shoulders, gawking back at me in the bathroom mirror.

My forefingers drag along my prominent collarbone, over a costly diamond necklace my mother lended me for tonight. I can tell she's feigning generosity because my best friend died. Frankly, it's not working. It never will. I'll always see through her cordial facade — into the depths of her soul where her true obscenity lies.

Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley blares from the downstairs stereo, while I scrutinize every last blemish, freckle, flaw in my face, my mother studying me as I do so. She caresses the small of my back, as I secure a pair of sumptuous earrings in my lobes.

"Sweetie — " My mother turns me around, and I look at her through my lashes, twiddling with the bracelet around my wrist. She holds my shoulders imperturbably, giving me a sympathetic look. "Listen. I understand you're going through it right now. You can talk to me. You can always talk to me, about anything."

I sniffle lightly, warding off the tears twinging my retinas. Stifling those salty bastards that are always conspicuous at the wrong times. "I'm fine, mom. Really, I am." My voice is shivering, as though its been stocked away in a deep freezer.

She zips up my magenta-colored gown. It compliments the bronze tint of my flesh.

I gawk back at my dapper reflection. Although I've cleaned up, I still look exceedingly unkempt. Not in the flecks of dirt that were on my cheeks beforehand. The unlaundered clothes I was wearing previously. The knots that were in my auburn hair from days without raking a brush through it.

The slovenliness made itself evident in the way my eyes, usually spry and vivacious, had drooped to melancholy. My shoulders slumped. No matter how hard I provoked it, a smile just could not grace my cheeks.

I was an utter pigsty.

And I was not okay.

But no one could see that. No one. I didn't want anyone to. I am not acquainted with vulnerability — and frankly, I don't think I ever will be.

Those mawkish concepts were taught to me through music. And I get it. The claim that music can reach parts of the brain that words cannot really is a splendid doctrine. It is. But I never saw love. Never knew what it looked like. Couldn't reach out and touch it. Feel it in my heart. Only through the alleviating voices of Elvis Presley and Elton John, was love ever transmitted to me. And that isn't enough when you're only an eight year old.

But now, maybe. Just maybe. I'll be lucky enough to redeem love from someone who needs it just as much as I do.

"Have fun tonight." She says benevolently, giving me a solacing smile. "Just spend a night being a stupid teenager for once."

I smile meekly, inhaling and shrugging my shoulders. "Could I borrow your lip gloss?"

After I receive the 'okay,' I dart to the picturesque room of my parents.

It looks like a fucking dollhouse — in fact, our whole entire plight is so utterly like a dollhouse. Like we're all made of porcelain. Of course, excluding my brother. But my parents have friends who come over periodically for drinks, but have idly no idea what happens after the door is closed. They have no idea how extremely frivolous my parent's relationship is. They think Nancy and I are these picture-perfect, compatible twin sisters with skyrocketing GPA's and a staunch mental state.

But that's not the case. Not even a sliver.

Anywho, I impede my fathers disheveled closet and ransack through the hanging clothes. There's a section solely for formal clothing, and I choose a mundane, black tuxedo and one of my father's magenta ties to match the hue of my gown.