urban velvet

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She had always envied Alice -- her tripping traipse through the looking glass into a wonderland of pills and cocktails just ready to be brought to lips was enough to make any woman jealous. She could be big, she could be small, she could be queen, she could rule them all. This feeling asphyxiated the porcelain throat of a statuette on the verge of debuting in a society that still thought showing ankle was a sin. If it was sin that they wanted...

She decided right then and there that if she couldn't have Alice's world, she would simply have to make one for herself. So, she began by tearing the wings off of ravens and feathering them along her eyes -- dramatizing their tragedy. She would become less of a flower that spread its saccharine scent around in hopes of gaining appeal and become more like Absinthe -- just a spoonful of sugar in her voice was enough to compensate for the overpowering intoxicant of her movements. She got what she wanted, all right. Attention. Fame. The words that every little girl wanted to hear:

"Baby, I'll make you a star."

But she didn't want to be a star. There were thousands of stars, after all. No, she wanted to be the sun -- the center of orbit, the gravitational pull that drew every set of eyes in the room on her. She wanted to be the heat that drew bodies close to bask in her radiance -- the kind that was almost painful to behold.Yes, that would be something wouldn't it? To be e n v i e d.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ March 21, 2005 11:49 PM: Message edited by: secondhand bruises ]</font>

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"What was it like?" She asks me with wide eyes that make my stomach churn a little. This is exactly why I had to get out of this dump. Everyone's such a phony.

"Total drag," I say and roll my eyes. See? I'm already falling in like with the rest of the phonies. Total drag, what a crock. I had the most fun I've had in a good while, but it's just too funny to watch her face scrunch up into a million little wrinkles. She's really going to look awful when she's old. But I'm not. I'm always going to be beautiful because I don't want my face to look like that.

"Oh," she sighs and stops kicking her legs. Carly looks so homely right now. Even when I dress her up, she looks plain. I guess that's because she doesn't have my kind of spark. I think I'm a descendant of that cat Cleopatra. She was a real queen. I mean, men came from all over the world just to see her. She was smart too, because she knew when she was going to turn ugly and she fixed it. That's what I'm going to do if I ever start to get ugly like Carly. Then all the people who come to see me will only have one thing to say: "Daisie sure was beautiful."

Of course I am. That's why I'm going to make this movie. Not just anybody gets to be in pictures you know. They can't make you beautiful if you aren't, like Carly.

"You didn't say anything about my haircut!" Carly seems hurt as she pulls the cigarette from my hand. That's another thing -- she's got a crummy way of holding a cigarette that just doesn't make her look swell at all, and she smokes it too! Everyone knows you don't smoke it, just let the smoke sit in your mouth and filter out in your sigh like I'm doing.

"Oh," I look at her lousy haircut and offer a wide smile. "It's just groovy."

"You mean it?"

"Of course," I don't, I smile.

This is exactly why I'm going to be somebody.

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"Where are you going tonight?" Carly's voice was always curious whenever Daisie bustled around the room with an arm full of dresses.

"Out with Oliver, he's real neat. I'd let you meet him but he doesn't like girls much." Especially homely ones. Daisie's shoulders rolled as she plucked out another dress before she wandered away from the closet to try them on.

"I'd still like to meet him someday! I'd be real quiet, if he doesn't like girls that talk much."

Daisie left the room and came back in with a variety of fabrics and colors hanging from her frame. Each time, she paused in the same pose -- hands high on hips, in front of the mirror.

"Well, what I mean is. He likes boys, but sure, if you're really nice, maybe." She turned on heel to leave the room again. When she returned, a pink dress had been decided upon and she tied a ribbon in her hair.

"You look real swell," Carly spoke, dangling feet over the ledge of her friend's bed.

"Yeah," Daisie scowled at her reflection and sighed. "I don't want to look swell though."

"Why not? That dress is really great! I wish I had on--"

Daisie held up a hand to silence her friend before she tore out the pink ribbon in her hair and tossed it at the girl's feet. "You can have it, I'm going to change." In true fashion of a queen, she stomped her feet to the closet, pulled out several other dresses and then stomped away, causing a rumble of curses from below.

She didn't want to look swell, because thousands of girls could look swell. She wanted to look indescribable -- the way Marilyn did when she stepped out of her fancy cars with her name up in lights. She wanted to be more than Marilyn, though. A seventy-foot woman, instead of fifty.

Fingers sifted through fabric until the dress of choice was pulled out -- red and white, something that wouldn't ever suit Marilyn because of its bold and boxy designs. Pink was traded for this new dress and the end result was just as she had suspected. Feet were quiet when they reentered the room and spun with arms outstretched for Carly to judge.

"Well?"

"Well, I --"

"Your dress is in the other room, if you hurry I'll help you put on your face."

Carly's eyes widened and she nodded before darting off into the other room while Daisie sat in front of her vanity and began the process of painting herself into aristocracy. A red bowed mouth sneered as dark lashes were pressed into place before she swept her hair from her face and tied it back with a pearl comb -- her mother's, the only thing she had left of a woman named Dottie Mae.