Youthful Advantages.

1.

This story does display suicide and mention it. If that bothers you, please do not read it.

"My dear Lady Irongate." The lowly servant greets the wealthy woman. She's pale with light blond hair that is neatly pinned up in a bun. The woman has on a hoop skirt in the shades of magenta and pink and a matching blouse.

"Well that's mighty pleasin', but there's no need for them formalities. I just be a simple woman." She replies in a thick Southern drawl and flashes him a smile. The servant bows before her and opens the heavy, wooden doors. Inside is a large ball, full of the higher classes. Ladies wait on couches to be called on to be danced with and men flutter from one brightly colored woman to another, like a bee going from flower to flower collecting honey.

She whips out a pale pink fan and begins fanning herself, the room is already boiling hot. At the back of the ballroom are three violin players, playing a rather fast tune. Young and beautiful couples are in the center, dancing perfectly to the music. A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she remembers her days as the belle of the ball. Now a days men no longer court her, nor call on her to dance. She can still hope though and still hope that someone will find her faded dress or older face appealing. A young thing, barely twenty with dark brown ringlets walks by her giggling and chattering to another beautiful young girl. A feeling of envy begins to grow in her bosom and spread upwards, like a plant pushing its way through soil. Why can't she be beautiful?! Why won't anyone dance with her?! A sour expression replaces her look of hope, and makes her look her age.

"Miss Irongate?" A kind voice asks as she forces herself to smile and face the voice. It's another young person, a young man who looks rather nervous.

"Yes, darlin'?" She asks using that sickly sweet voice that would make men fall at her feet. This man, a servant by his buttoned up uniform looks uncomfortable as he looks at her. It's as if his reputation will be tarnished if he talks to her for too long.

"If you wish Madame, there is a carriage outside..." He hints not wanting to directly state what he means. 'Of course there's a carriage outside. It's almost ten, much too late for a woman of my age to be out and about." She bitterly thinks and gratefully accepts the man's hand, still forcing herself to smile as she stands. The walk to the entrance of the ballroom feels like a walk to the gallows, she enviously watches the others as they dance and leap around without a worry or care. In that moment, she wishes that she was someone else. Someone who was beautiful and young and married, someone who wasn't fifty-five years old. The carriage ride back is silent as she reflects on the short night out. She did plan to spend the night out but her plans have been destroyed by her age once more.

"Mrs. Irongate, I presume?" The carriage driver asks as he opens the door to the carriage.

"Yes that is I." She quickly replies realizing that she must have dozed off while thinking. She takes a couple of seconds to re-gather herself, and when she's done she looks as if nothing has changed. She's still in a dark pink dress, and still looks like a fool.

She lives alone in what used to be a lovely home. Time has passed though and Time is not kind, especially to manors where women live all alone. Suitors of all kinds, of all classes used to come to her doorstep with a bouquet of pink roses, her favorite flower. Now, no one comes to her door. Her days of youth and beauty are over and society wants her to realize that she is no longer the beautiful woman that she once was. Having people no longer visit her is one way of telling her that her life, well her life in public is done with and through.

She slowly removes the dress, remembering how she used to have a lady's maid that did this for her. Her maid was older than her, yet was full of experience and always left a vase full of pink roses in her room. She can smell the roses, their sweet yet enchanting smell that would fill her home and give her such a pleasant feeling. The dress is soon removed and left on the floor, for she has no need to wear it again. All she wants to do is pull on her nightgown and allow herself to succumb to sleep.

Her nightgown is a dusty pink color and has lace around the hem of it, it nearly reaches her knees and reminds her of her of the first dress that she wore when she first started courting. A sad smile forms on her face as she twirls around, allowing her mind to wander.

Suddenly Mrs. Irongate isn't in her shabby and cold bedroom anymore. She's in the ballroom and is with the youthful people as a youth herself. Her face is shining in the candlelight and her cheeks are as red as the several roses that quite a few suitors have given her.

She's polite and well-mannered and liked. She has friends and people that care for her, and a father that she persuades a dress from at every ball and celebration. The windows are open letting in a warm southern breeze that ruffles her hair, which is braided down her back. The smile never seems to leave her face and she is called on to dance again and again and again, until her feet are sore and she has one of the suitors, a kind man named Henry bring her home.

Henry is strong and smart and wealthy. They are soon engaged and then wed. The wedding is stunningly beautiful with loved ones all around them. They make love for the first time that night and soon she's with child.

A healthy baby boy is hers and then a girl, and then another girl. All the children are healthy and perfect in their own sweet ways. She is a model mother and soon her children are off to finishing school, and then her two daughters have been wed to kind and handsome men. Soon her son is married to a beautiful and charming young woman and she is left with Henry.

The two grow old together, visiting their children and grandchildren and dancing the nights away by candlelight like the first time they met.

Mrs. Irongate returns rather slowly as the dream fades. There is no Henry or even children to love and care for. There is nothing.

She's lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and she knows that there is nothing in her future. No kind suitor to sweep her off her feet, no children to birth and love, and no friends to turn too.

Mrs. Irongate is truly alone.

Would anyone miss her if she was to fade away into the eternal night? Would anyone care if the old woman who wore the dark pink dress was found dead? Would anyone find her? As stated above, she has no friends and no one would willingly be her friend. She's seen how the others look at her, even the women of her age leave her to her own devices.

She has a pistol. It's small, barely bigger than her hand and with a pearl barrel. Her long gone mother gave it to her when she first moved to the city in case anyone tried to hurt her child.

One bullet. One pull of the trigger. That's all it would take for all the pain and misery and loneliness to go away.

She slowly rises, feeling more dead than alive and shambles over to her dresser. The drawer is tugged open and the pistol is retrieved. Her shaking hands load the chamber of the gun and it is placed against her forehead.

Silence fills the room and she seems to pause in her actions.

Is this what she really wants? Does she really want to go through with this? The tip of the pistol is cold and causes her to shiver.

There is no one out there. No mother, father, sibling, or even a friend that would shed tears if she was to cease her existence.

No one.

No one is out there.

No one cares.

Mrs. Irongate inhales shakily and with the twitch of her finger, she is no more.

Her body is found a week later when she's three days late on her rent. The landlord is disgusted and wastes no time calling the proper people to take her away.

She's cleaned up, re-dressed in the dark pink dress for it was the only suitable outfit that they could find in her home.

Not a soul from her days as a belle showed up at her funeral on that rainy Saturday afternoon.

Her grave was left to rot at the back of the cemetery, though some people recall a shadowy looking man visiting the grave.

Some people recall the weeds being cleared away and a single pink rose being left on the grave.