The city stunk of smoke and fumes, and even from rolling down the car window I felt like I'd be sick. I plugged my nose, let the tainted air blow through my hair, and quickly rolled it back up. I gagged as I unplugged my nose and my mother rolled her eyes from the driver's side.
"It isn't so bad. We can move out of this city when you win this pageant," she said. I rolled my eyes back at her and looked out the side window.
"I won't win. Half of my friends are in this pageant and they're all better-looking than me," I mumbled. My mom stepped on the gas and my head hit the back of the seat. My hair was freshly washed and a bit wind-blown. Cresting in the distance was an enormous mountain. It was reduced to a mere silhouette against a purple sky. The glass building sitting at its top used to be an observatory, but now it was used for conventions and pageants. My mom drove the winding roads, dodging construction workers and soldiers that slunk around the city holding rifles. We weren't really afraid of them as they weren't permitted to harm drivers and pedestrians, but we were sure that eventually they would.
A curtain of haze from the city's factory swirled around the mountain's summit, imitating fog. My mom pulled her car around a hazy dirt pile that could barely be seen and into a parking lot. The asphalt everywhere was broken, not one-piece still whole. Cars that I recognized were parked all around. We helped ourselves out and toward the uncovered elevator that would lift us up the side of the mountain.
It was a large, metal platform surrounded by a wrought iron fence. It had been painted bright yellow and the floor had been striped with cautionary paint. My stomach flipped just looking at it, but I figured if I could handle riding rollercoasters and living in a city riddled with war, I could ride this thing without being sick.
My mom ducked into the popped trunk and pulled out the bag that held my dress. She threw it to me and I draped it over my arm delicately. She grabbed two or three other bags that contained shoes, a scarf, extra clothes, and lots of accessories. We loaded ourselves onto the platform, and by entering the key code that the pageant committee offered my mom upon entering me in their contest, it set off.
A cold wind whipped through my wet hair, making me shiver. The sight of the smoke-bombed city from this high atop the mountain was exhilirating. I'd never been up here before, although many of my friends had. I stumbled against the yellow fence and my stomach jumped in my throat. We were so... so high up from the ground! I tilted back and forth drowsily and my mom grabbed my arm.
"Don't fall over, you might fall down the mountain," she warned. I stood with my shaky legs as best I could until the platform came to a rolling stop. I wobbled off of it and came face-to-face with the pageant center. It was an enormous building constructed of mainly glass, though some kind of smooth metal held it all together. My mom held the door for me and bid that I hurry up and go inside.
In here, everything was sweet. Women wearing tight tresses and their hair up in curls even tighter brushed around the room carrying heavy silver trays upright on their dainty wrists. They offered virgin drinks for the young ladies entered in the contest and alcoholic drinks for their mothers. I spotted a friend of mine standing with her mother. Her mother puffed on an expensive cigarette and shmoozed the owner of the palace. I padded across the carpeted floor toward my friend, but my mom grabbed the neck of my shirt.
"You're already late. Go get changed and we'll talk later," she said. She threw the four or so bags at me and I waddled away toward a sign that pointed toward the fitting rooms. I caught my mom conversing with my friend and her mom from the corner of my eye. I only scowled and continued on my way.
The fitting rooms were nearly empty now, apart from a few girls who were rushing to get ready. A stylist hurried over, and bid that I pull my dress on. My dress was white and sparkly, encrusted with lace and covered in sheer diamonds. The breast cups were riddled with swan feathers that pointed up toward my coller bone. There laid a diamons necklace in the shape of a tear, hanging on a silver chain so thin that it was barely there. My mom had put so much hope into this contest that she'd gone and spent a fortune on this dress and outfit. I sighed and headed out of the dressing room.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Rastgele"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
