Grandeur


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A party is the grandest, most fabulous thing one can go to.

The conclusion of the little girl was definite: no doubts, no qualms - it just was. Her total attendance of balls and celebrations was a mere, stunted four, but they were the best sort imaginable. The funding for each must've at least been billions, and the entrance fee hadn't been generous either - especially to the less fortunate in society. It was lucky she was very, very fortunate. Daddy hadn't really wanted to let her go, but Mummy had made him, saying this was the only way to make her princess, her world, a star. And her mother had been right.

Through each and every one, her status had risen, until she'd become quite a sensation. Probably the youngest in the midst of people and perfection, she'd been practically flocked by young men: a piece of seed that all the birds wanted a taste of. And how she had revelled under their adoring gazes, under the limelight that she so loved. Beneath the dusty reds and smouldering oranges of spotlights, her star-studded eyes had caught fire, and her ash skin had been almost luminous, glittering, glowing softly. They'd been made specifically for her, and her alone.

Another chalice of chiffon-pale liquid was tipped down her raw, fiery throat, the alcohol burning through her mouth like wildfire. It tasted too good to stop, though. Just too right for it to possibly be wrong. Mommy had warned her not to drink too much, saying it would make her sick, and her employer wouldn't be at all pleased. After all, the only reason she was inside this grand building was because of the cash out of his pocket, the sweat from his back. He was paying her to be perfect. Dropping the goblet on the table, the little girl forced herself away from the eternal line of wine-tasting tables, knowing a second longer beneath their gaze would turn her intoxicated. She needed to be sensible, and- It was only a split-second before she was twirling around with someone she didn't know, deep in his musky embrace, lost in the spectrum of the party.

Dancing was brilliant. Oh, the way she floated over the glossy surface of the marble floor, almost like she was skating, her feet blessed with little Mercury wings. Her feet hadn't once forgotten the steps, hadn't once tripped with unease or uncertainty, hadn't once faltered in the strong hold of a different man each and every time. Whether it had been a romantic, twilight waltz, or a staccato, snapping samba, she'd seemed to slip into each category like she was made for them. Of course, this was all splendid, but it would stir up a whole banquet of jealousy inside many at the party. You cannot please everyone. Behind her back, there had often been the green-eyed stranger eyeing her up, desperate to find a flaw in her flawlessness, a fault in her faultlessness. To catch her out unawares: a foot beneath her waterfall skirt, a flick of the wrist against a full glass beside her ruffled sleeve. They whispered too: the cruel words behind cupped hands, gloating words, sly words, words with eyes darting back and forth to check no-one listens.

And the way she'd eaten... Her mother would be downright ashamed of her lack of modesty. Before she could walk or talk, her family had drilled into her the importance of being skinny. Thin was beautiful, and wasn't that what she'd always wanted to be? Her ambition. Her career. Everything she relied on. From a baby, she'd been dieting on celery sticks and green leaves: and if she overate - lost control - there were always pills to offer a helping hand. By midnight, she'd visited the toilets at least twice to prepare for the next course: she just had to eat everything, because who knew when she's ever come again? It was quite disgusting of course, and her stomach had been fluttering like a whole cage of butterflies ecstatic to be freed, but everything around her soon made her forget.

Oh, it was so easy to forget. Everything was so extravagant, everyone so flamboyant, and life so exuberant.

 

 

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