I sat in front of my vanity, putting one last coat of her Dior lipgloss before examining my work one last time. My chocolate hair fell into elegant curls, my eyebrows had not one hair out of place, my ice blue eyes were lined to perfection, and my pout was glossed away.
I could almost hear my mother's discouraging and snarky murmurs from hell. "You have too much eyeliner on." "You should have straightened your hair." "Your teeth look yellow." "The weight you've gained is going to your face."
My mother had always had a never ending list of insults for me. Ironic — even when it's the day of my own mother's funeral, the monster still manages to get inside my head to haunt me every time I look in the mirror.
I couldn't help, but think of what Cecelia had looked like lying in the dark oak casket. Her once beautiful chestnut locks were flat and lifeless. Her fit body was sunken in, making her elongated figure look small and frail. Her harsh grey eyes were finally put to rest as she peacefully slept away for eternity. To my mother, beauty was everything. Beauty was power. I couldn't fathom how my mother must feel about her embalmed body and the awful makeup job that the person did on her. I even chose out of spite to put my mother in a floral dress, even though she had deeply hated the pattern.
I smoothed out any pesky wrinkles in her knee length black dress and slips on a pair of black Louboutins. I even threw on a wide brimmed hat with a mini veil to cover my face. "Camille remember, you always have to look the part to uphold this family's image."
I made my way downstairs, while taking a huge swig of whiskey from the flask I had tucked away in my Chanel bag. I needed the liquid courage to get through all of the faux pity from people.
I sigh when I discover that the pent house was empty. My father was no where in sight. Even though this was nothing new, I still have never felt more alone in my whole entire life.
When I finally made it to the bottom of the building, I found a town car waiting for her in front of the doors. The ride to the burial ground was short and quiet. The driver, Peter, kept silent knowing that I was not in the mood for small talk this afternoon. Sadly, the peace was cut short as people swarmed me with pathetic sympathy and invaded my personal space as I got out of the car. Most of the people that surrounded me were strangers, not even family or so called friends. I wondered if even a handful of them had actually known Cecelia.
I received enough voicemails, emails, and texts as it is, I certainly did not need all this. I excused myself through the crowd to find my father, murmuring "thank you's" along the way. I couldn't help but think about how my mother would be thrilled with all this attention for her own funeral. I doubt that not even half of the crowd that gathered here today had good intentions or remorse. I know that most of the women here are in hopes of gaining the attention of my, now widowed, father. However, I know they don't want him, they want the luxurious life and fortune.
I finally take place beside her father. He, as expected, was tapping away on his business phone. He didn't even look up to acknowledge his own daughter. Figures, he couldn't leave his work at home for his wife's burial service.
My parent's relationship was strained as it was with my father spending most of his time in different countries for work and foreign supermodels. The only time they really talked was when he was telling her that he was going on another business trip.
Things had seemed to rarely effected my pristine mother. Cecelia had always seemed to turned a blind eye to his affairs, but when I heard my mother's sobs through the thin walls at night, I knew there was a lot more going on underneath the surface. How could I pity a woman who didn't have the strength to leave a man who made her feel like she was disposable? After all, after Elliot's death her mother's way of comfort was to preach that I didn't need a man for me to be a strong woman and to suck it up. So why had the woman not followed her own advice and left? However, we all knew that poor Cecelia could never live without designers bags and Cartier.
