Dreams fly on the shadows of her pieced fringe and rests in the dark grooves of her eyelids

Dreams fly on the shadows of her pieced fringe and rests in the dark grooves of her eyelids. A dewdrop tear slides down the length of the eyelash- falling, falling under the weight of the rusted anchor, the tinted black scraping off the edges, off the surface into…white oblivion. Eyes gouged with salty tears, blood, the color of luscious lips lipstick, smeared on her face, down, up, sideways- spread with the nimble fingers of a painter. Her dress, in all its glory a light, shimmery golden gauze, yards and yards of fabric molded to her lithe body and a skirt bottom that twirled and flowed and flew, now shred, holes punched under the armpit, on the beaded bodice, along the seams- a breathless goddess, cast asunder, pitched into the caverns of slovenly abyss, large, tapered cloak with starry gashes flailing. Her crowning glory, the luxurious, glorious, breathtaking ornament of weaving gold and spun cornflower silk, those strands that curled with ease and circled her petite face- now, limp and hung in disarray. Clumps of agitated pieces, starting from the roots a slight, glimmering gold and then morphing into a mottled gray, bleak, and dark with disuse. She gazed in the mirror and bobbed her head gently, pert lips dry and itchy. She lifted her long, lean fingers to the oval reflection. Her brown brows inched forward, held together by a sad, confused frown.

“Who am I?” she asked in a voice surprisingly strong and deep. Her mouth was too dry, her throat aching to be scratched, from the inside. She coughed, hoping to expel the incessant itch. She coughed, coughed, coughed harder, coughed and coughed until she was screaming to breathe. On the floor, heaving, choking, forgetting how to take in air. Large, shuddering sobs escaped her- she couldn’t breathe! Her heart felt frail, pitiful and weak, beating rapidly, almost as if trying to escape from the cavernous confines of her dreary existence. She pulled at her tattered dress, her hair; she felt the stench of vomit seeping through her clothes, her body as she emptied the remains of her life onto the hard floor. Eyes open, frightened, looking at the black blood mixed with unidentifiable mess. She couldn’t stop. Screaming for her life, she ripped herself off the floor, crashing into her dressing cabinet. Her expensive perfumes fell, glass shattering, all the odors, silky strands clinging to each other. Still shrieking, she picked herself up, stumbling, shaking, rolling her head. Her eyes twitched, her body felt like it was on fire.

Not anymore, no more strength, she didn’t have any more strength. Crawling, inching forward, peeling herself off the self created mess of sticky scents, she crawled into her bed. She lay her battered head down, down on the soft pillow. She was so dirty, so dirty. She could smell yesterday’s orange peels still on the bed from when she had peeled it, Passion for Men by Calvin Klein mixed with yesterday’s late night activities; she felt the grime coating her skin, the broken peanut shells clinging to her body. It didn’t matter. She sighed, closing her eyes carefully. Her body shifted, curling up into an unborn baby’s fetal position. She wrapped her dirty arms around her tiny frame.

Just a few more minutes. She thought about red bicycles, blue jaybirds, and hula hoops. She thought about her infatuation with intelligent men who wore pasty skin, and trembling smiles. She wondered about God, where he was, really! and whether Matilda Vanderlawn the III would really marry Jeremy Astons. She thought that maybe, if she went to Heaven, she would visit Paris. Because she really wanted to, she wanted to see that famous Eiffel Tower and eat dinner in a fancy French bistro. She thought that would be very nice as she nodded off to a slumber. Maybe she would rent a private chateau with her own, handsome lifeguard. Maybe she pondered drowsily, slowly fading away into a dead stupor. Her eyelids shuttered close, her flaky lips sealed tight with a tiny bubble of air in the center. Her limbs loosened, her thoughts illegitimate, incoherent and slowly cluttered. Her head lolled back and color hesitantly left her face as the shadows of darkness closed in. Now, with death gracing her doorstep, with her hair fanned around her, disparate strands snaking into a flame like wreath, eyes shut, white eyelashes resting, shining, glowing from exertion, her face, no longer taut but smooth, alabaster skin from her hairline, down the curves of her body, to her long, swanlike legs.

Now, she was breathtakingly gorgeous.