Masquerade

Chapter 1

I’m a pretty simplistic girl. Give me a cup of good tea or coffee and a great book and I’d be content. Truly, I would. Some people want huge amounts of money, a mansion of a house for each season, a yacht the size of a small country, and who knows what else. But that stuff… it gets outdated, and soon the brightest and newest becomes old and embarrassing, and then you’re back in square one. “I’d be happy if…” Now, you’re probably reading this saying, “Oh fantastic, another indie weirdo in the world.” I’m not indie. I’m no more individual than the next person. I’m just a girl. A girl who doesn’t need all the plastic and artificial things around her. I mean, I have an iPhone, I listen to modern music (and a range of other music too), I buy clothes from normal shops.

My aunt (through a recent convenient marriage to my conveniently wealthy uncle), is not like me. She insists on buying the most ridiculous things. She literally spends a whole day shopping on Rodeo Drive, and arrives home with enough bags to contain my entire wardrobe, and is still not content. Funnily enough, my whole wardrobe costs less than one item of clothing in one of those bags.

I never understood why my uncle married her. They were so different from one and other. He was so… down to earth, kind and loving… She was so plastic. Whenever we’d meet she’d literally bend down and make an ugly pouting face to say hello to me. She’d make sure she got up close, and I could smell an excess of some ugly smelling rich person perfume. I would always do my best not to gag, but looking at her face absolutely didn’t help. She wouldn’t be that ugly if she didn’t cake her makeup on. But, instead, she had a Dorito coloured tan and foundation and face powder to match. Her eyelids always matched the brightly coloured, and very tight clothing she wore, and without fail, she had some ridiculously long false eyelashes in. Then I’d look down and discover the reason she felt the need to bend down to my level. She wore insanely tall, stripper looking platform heels. For someone who was so concerned with being elegant and classy, she sure looked an awful-lot like a slut.

It’s not necessarily her looks and her need to ‘lower herself’ to my level whenever we spoke, as if I were a five year old, that made me hate her. It was her exclusive nature. Those cheerleader girls in high school, my aunt is what they grow into. She refused to allow my uncle to invite all the children on his side because, and I quote: “it would ruin the aesthetics of the event.” That meant me, even though I was seventeen when they got married, I was still classed as a child. When my mum told me, I didn’t even know how to react. My uncle had always been there for me. Like a second father, and now I wasn’t even able to see him get married. Stupid, stupid bitch.

So, on came the fifteenth of July, and there I sat, in my pajamas watching a lame reruns of some 90s show all day, and all night. My parents had left early on during the day, my mother being the sister of the groom and all. They were apparently ‘cordially invited’ to some pre-wedding event for the groom. Organised by Miss High-Maintenance herself, I assumed. The parents returned late that night, quite amused. My mother more so than my father.

“So.. How was it?” I asked sarcastically.

“Oh it was so lovely!” My mother answered in the same tone. “Watching her in some overdone wedding dress that were so overdone and tacky. The whole night, all she did was talk about how the dress was a custom Versace gown. All I have to say, is thank God it was custom, otherwise, I’d be demanding Versace sack their designers. I don’t know why your uncle married her.” She laughed.

“I hope the aesthetics were very pleasing. Were they very fragile?”

“So fragile dear! A seventeen year old child would most certainly ruin the whole event. Rich people never procreate ever! No, that’s only for the poor peasantry like us simple simple folk!” my father faked concern.

We all collapsed in a pile of laughter.

I just felt sorry for poor Uncle Harold. He’d always wanted children. A little Harold Junior, ready to create mischief and be subject to the spoiling of his father. And a beautiful little daughter to be loved and protected by her father… A mirror image of her mother, I had always imagined, but now I prayed that she would look more like her dad. But they’d never have children. It’d most certainly destroy the aesthetics of her version of a perfect snotty life.