Chapter One
This wasn't the first time Deondra Wither realized she was dying. The cold reality was not something she had hid her 77-year-old mind from. She lived with the thought of it. And it wasn't like she floated through life, constantly thinking, "This may be the last time I do such-in-such." Deondra (let's call her Dee) lived. One might even say she was happy.
Trifloor Apartments was a tall brick building designed to hold three floors of people with enough money to be away from home, but not enough money to buy an actual house. Or maybe they decided that a cozy apartment was big enough for themselves and their occupations. The first floor had three rooms. The second floor belonged to the apartment owner. The third floor held four rooms.
The third floor of Trifloor Apartments is where Deondra kept her residence. Hers was the first door you saw if you were to walk up the stairs and look down the hall. The cream colored door had a curly 5 on the front in brown. If you were to take the knob of the door and open it, you would hear a creaking noise that might make you feel a little uncomfortable and cringe.
Dee's apartment would be dark. She liked to keep it that way. A kitchen to the right and a living room in front of you, you would immediately notice the distinct smell of cat. Butters may emerge from the grey-blue couch and greet you by rubbing himself on your leg, and you would not be able to resist reaching down and stroking his glossy apricot coat.
The bedroom would be down the hall, and that was the one room in the house that did not smell of cat. The scent of some faded perfume would almost knock you down as you entered. The comforter on the four post bed was an ugly flower print that just looked uncomfortable to sleep in. The walls didn't even match the rest of the room because they were puce green. Antiques could be found sleeping on the large wood vanity that stood on the wall.
Dee woke up to this cold room on one October 25. She sighed and reached over for her pencil, which she stuck in her messy bun. She sat on the edge of her bed, letting her feet dangle off the side. The bed almost looked too big for her, her height only reaching 5' 3". She slowly slid herself down onto the floor, her feet landing snuggly on her faded pink slippers. Wiggling her toes in further, she shuffled out of her bedroom.
The coffee pot hadn't been used for years. It seemed odd that Dee had one at all, but you must remember that sometimes the customers enjoyed a mug of coffee while they told Dee what they wished to purchase. You see, Dee was a seamstress. She could sew absolutely anything you desired. Talented since she first picked up a needle at age 12, she could make your clothing dreams come to life. On this October 25, Dee had an appointment with one Chrysanthemum Hayley.
Dee filled the coffee maker with grounds, water, and pressed "brew strong". She took her tea pot out of her cupboard and put it onto the stove to boil.
After a small repast of a muffin and eggs with her cup of mint tea, Dee took out her clipboard and used the pencil that she had put into her hair and wrote "Chrysanthemum Hayley: Wedding Dress Design". And at that moment, there was a knock on her apartment door.
Soon, Miss Chrys was sitting across from her designer on one of the three grey blue couches. She didn't see a reason to dress up from the occasion, and with it being so early in the morning, she had pulled her blonde highlighted hair into a ponytail and was dressed in yoga pants with a college T-shirt. The smiling young lady could not have been more than 23.
"I really appreciate you doing this," Chrys said in a cheery tone that didn't seem to fit an early morning in October. Dee didn't look up from her clipboard as she scribbled down Chrys' sizes, which had been discussed earlier.
"It's how I make a living. I would do it for anyone," Dee replied. Chrys' smile didn't disappear. She was engaged, after all. How could she be mad at anyone?
