The Marionette

Chapter Four - The Theater

Chapter Four - The Theater

Voicemail. All three of the girls cells went to voicemail. Perhaps they were all busy preparing for the funeral. I know that Cara believes that Cleo doesn't want me there — but there's a good possibility that Cleo is deflecting her grief onto our friendship and there's a good chance that she is just hiding behind a wall of sorrow. Surely she will be willing to work it out with me? I would give her a chance to explain if needed.

I have to find answers and make this right. I had planned on going to support the family anyway, but now, I have to get to the bottom of this as discreetly as I possibly can. I'll, of course, offer my condolences. I can speak to the girls after the service has ended, console Cleo... if she lets me. She wouldn't throw me out of her mother's own funeral, would she?

I bit my lip. It was a nervous habit I formed from my childhood. My father almost hit a vehicle that was pulling out in front of him in a crossway when I was a child. I was little -- around five years old, maybe? But I remember it clear as day. The headlights reflected off the side of the black SUV, blinding me. The wheels screeched as Dad hit the brakes and my Mom was screaming while my Dad yelled, hold on!

Ever since then I have bitten my lip or my fingernails to help my anxiety as well as staying calm and focused when in a bad situation or when I have to make a decision I don't want to make. This was a mixture of both. I didn't have any nails left to bite, so instead, I bit the skin on my lower lip.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn't I just get a straight answer from someone about what has happened? Maybe I should go to see a Physician. He might be able to do some tests on my brain and tell me what's happened to my memory. For now, I will stick with going to support my friend when she needs me the most, regardless of how she feels about me right now.

Time was ticking down. I had gone shopping with my mom to get a nice dress that would suit a funeral and the show that Vladimir was performing at the theater. The dress itself was sleek black with straps on the shoulders. It had an elegant dip in the front that showed just the tip of my cleavage and it angled to a tip on the right side. The left side reaches just above my knee, whereas, the right flowed almost to my ankle. I had my hair straightened and wore light makeup with a touch of Clinique Happy, Sunflower. My black ankle boots completed the ensemble.

As I stood at the two doors of St. Augustine's church, fiddling with the strap on my black and white clutch purse, I cleared my throat trying to gather the courage to walk in. I was with my Mother, but it still felt like I was alone; as if I were standing alone in this mystery. The scent of fresh air calmed me some but it still wasn't enough. Nothing would be enough. I wasn't good enough to keep my loved ones in my life.

I frowned, my brows knitting together in confusion. Why on earth would I think such things? All this stress was getting to me. I need to meditate and clear my mind and body from the negative energy that's surrounding me. But, first things first, Funeral. I have to get through the doors or the Funeral before I can even try and work everything out.

The doors were pulled open thanks to my Mother. She ushered me inside, and as we entered, all those in the pews turned to stare at us. The ones who were late. My anxiety kicked up a notch. All of the pews held someone near and dear, friends, family, of Cleo and her Mother.

The church was so beautiful. Enormous. From the outside, it resembled a castle but it wasn't gray brick, it was painted white. The inside was so beautiful that words could not express the beauty it held. Tan columns lined the walls and the ceiling was painted with elegant designs, a glass paneled, scoop ceiling where the Bishop stood behind the podium.