Lipstick.

   I always loved watching Aunt Beatrice getting ready to go out. Her presence was quite prevalent in my life, growing up. The way she’d smooth her dress down onto her small frame, meticulously sculpt her lips with her favorite red lipstick and (my personal favorite) the way she’d gracefully pin her brown ringlets into a loose bun on the back of her head- always forgetting but two tendrils of hair that fell around her cheeks. But now, looking back, I think she always did that on purpose.

    She was the only woman I knew that could look so elegant and yet so sultry, without looking cheap. She was an interesting lady, too- that is, if you could get her talking. She was the kind of woman that would sit amongst conversations, but never truly be a part of them. The atmosphere she created was very subtle, but very powerful if you noticed it; which of course, I always did. I always felt very comfortable around her- unlike most of the people in my family. My mother would whine that her “pretentious, judging sister” was going to be around, and I never understood why she felt that away about her. My aunt wasn't pretentious or judgmental….just very quiet and sullen, most of the time. I think I was the only one who really saw her for who she was- even though I’m probably mistaken. She was conditioned to be that way.

    When she smiled, it was beautiful, but I always noticed something underneath her smile. Hiding, like a child hiding behind his mother’s skirt on the first day of Kindergarten; afraid to show himself to the world, afraid to be honest. She always had that quality about her. Again, it was something very subtle, but I always noticed. She was a bird who had lost her nest, yet couldn’t call the open skies her own. She was confined; like a prisoner in a cell- yet she had done no crime. Her long sleeves in the summertime were her handcuffs, there to serve as a constant reminder of why she was trapped. My mother liked to refer to her as “the nun” when she wasn’t within earshot, because of her “prim and proper” dressing style. The adults were always so caught up with sailing their own oceans; they never noticed when one of their own was drowning. I hated my mother for the way she viewed her sister. As a child of 10, I was able to see the cracked glass in my Aunts eyes that my mother couldn’t see after thirty-five years of sisterhood. But, maybe that was because I understood my Aunt in a way my mother never could. 

    The breathing of the Fear that slept next to my aunt at night served as a clock, tick-tocking the seconds down to when it was going to break her again. I knew nights were the worst for her, because they were teasingly cruel. They seemed safe, but were a flooding reminder to what the daylight would bring. Nights were the worst for me, too, but for a different reason. 

   The Fear that crippled my aunt was the same silhouette on my wall that would appear during family get-togethers, when I was alone and dreaming. The darkness of my room could never compete with the complete darkness of the figure that would slither next to me in hushed tones. I would try to focus on the howling of the wind, or think of a beautiful day, but it got to the point where I could no longer picture a day that was beautiful. I was 8 at the time, and already I couldn’t remember the color of my dreams, or the honesty of a smile. And while my Aunt cried while everything was dark and quiet, listening to the sound of Fear beside her, I could only stare into the pinched, sinister eyes of my pain, and grit my teeth.

   I always admired her ability to paint her smiles on, despite the anguish that seemed to nestle into her face, making her appear older than she was. Unlike her, my pain seemed to hide somewhere within that was so far down, it wasn’t even available to paint over. I always wanted to, though. She had to lie to everyone else, but knew the truth on the inside. I didn’t even know the truth; I unwillingly had to lie to myself. The ultimate sense of betrayal is when you can breathe the word “truth” as if it’s as natural as oxygen, yet somewhere within, a part of you is hiding the fact that it’s as poisonous as carbon dioxide. The only times truth would vaguely visit me were in my dreams- which weren’t even mine anymore. They belonged to some corner in my mind where the true meanings of my lies drowned every happy dream I could ever have. Injected terror and venom into the happy virtual realities. 

    It wasn't until I got older that it started to hold my hand, and told me it was there, soaking into every nook and cranny my mind could hold. It came, it saw and it conquered. That’s why I always felt tethered to my aunt, in a sense. The same crime was being committed, yet we were the prisoners. We were anonymous prisoners though, because no one ever realized we were locked up.  They all had their opinions as to why the weather changed, but they never bothered to learn the actual reason. I wish I had been able to get ready like my aunt did; so gracefully, like a princess and so practiced, like an artist painting a smiling face onto a gray canvas. The despair that held my hand wouldn’t ever let go- even for a moment- so that I could feel beautiful. Then again, I’m not sure if Aunt Beatrice ever felt beautiful either…it might have been just another thing she was so practiced at.

She was the most honest person I’ve ever known. 

Reviews

[SRMarx]

This is a great description. I really enjoyed reading it.

[Robbie~xoxo~]

I agree with Coyote...This is an amazing story! You write with ease, and there was a natural flow as I read this. You held my attention so effortly, yet it was intense for me because I connected with the narrator. I felt like I could relate to your story. This is a great write!

[Stormy Weather]

Thank you very much! :D

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is amazing. It felt like a real story of a person life and actions. I like the Beatrice in the story. In the days of old. People hid pain and misery. Few times did you see weaknesses or tears. I read the story a second time for the pleasure of the story. Thank you for sharing the outstanding story.
Coyote

[Stormy Weather]

Thank you for the kind review :)

[JRB]

yes i agreee with the others it well written and truely an amazing story told

[Stormy Weather]

Thanks! :)