Watching
My Body
I watched numbly as my body was primped and pampered by wrinkled strangers with long, bony fingers.
The fingers of witches.
I watched as they dyed my light brown hair a deep chestnut, and as they plucked my eyebrows to form model-perfect arches. I watched them file my nails and strip the dark red polish off of them that I had worked so very hard to apply just three days ago.
I watched them sigh as they threw chalky powder onto my face, having trouble concealing the brush of freckles that streamed across my cheeks. They clucked their tongues and pitter-pattered across the stony floor in their worn slippers, reminding me of old chickens.
Ugly chickens.
I watched as they slipped a blush pink, ruffled skirt onto the lower half of my body, but not before struggling to fit too-small, white stockings over my thighs and up to my waist. A tight, vanilla white blouse was pulled carefully and gently over my head, one of the women holding my up by the shoulders, the other two tugging on the blouse. It revealed all the rounded curves of my torso, showing off enough that I might as well have been naked.
So, this is how she wanted me to be.
The shorter of the three elderly women applied the final touches on my face: mascara, lipstick, a fine blush that would have made me sneeze.
The other two jammed my wide feet into three inch heels that looked like they belonged more to a fairytale princess than a face-in-the-crowd nobody like myself.
The three hags stepped back and observed their work. They clapped their hands together like fat seals, and barked their throats sore with job-well-dones.
The tallest of the three clapped her hands together one final time and sighed. “Well, the funeral is tomorrow. I think she’s ready.”
They tiptoed out of the cold room, chuckling. The wooden door closed behind them, and locked with a heavy click.
My lifeless corpse lay there, in the dark.
The fingers of witches.
I watched as they dyed my light brown hair a deep chestnut, and as they plucked my eyebrows to form model-perfect arches. I watched them file my nails and strip the dark red polish off of them that I had worked so very hard to apply just three days ago.
I watched them sigh as they threw chalky powder onto my face, having trouble concealing the brush of freckles that streamed across my cheeks. They clucked their tongues and pitter-pattered across the stony floor in their worn slippers, reminding me of old chickens.
Ugly chickens.
I watched as they slipped a blush pink, ruffled skirt onto the lower half of my body, but not before struggling to fit too-small, white stockings over my thighs and up to my waist. A tight, vanilla white blouse was pulled carefully and gently over my head, one of the women holding my up by the shoulders, the other two tugging on the blouse. It revealed all the rounded curves of my torso, showing off enough that I might as well have been naked.
So, this is how she wanted me to be.
The shorter of the three elderly women applied the final touches on my face: mascara, lipstick, a fine blush that would have made me sneeze.
The other two jammed my wide feet into three inch heels that looked like they belonged more to a fairytale princess than a face-in-the-crowd nobody like myself.
The three hags stepped back and observed their work. They clapped their hands together like fat seals, and barked their throats sore with job-well-dones.
The tallest of the three clapped her hands together one final time and sighed. “Well, the funeral is tomorrow. I think she’s ready.”
They tiptoed out of the cold room, chuckling. The wooden door closed behind them, and locked with a heavy click.
My lifeless corpse lay there, in the dark.