A Vain Bit Of Beauty (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

A Vain Bit of Beauty

A rush of breath, straightforward and excited by her delight filled Mary Hulls conscious delirium. She sat before the vanity, primping and consoling herself, the facade she had been borne to. Her chocolate complexion was flawless and her liquid brown eyes were an allure that men fell into with a careless abandon. She inspired the desires of married men and those possessing the courage to approach her with admiration and fearless interest.
She stroked her hair, long silken in web like tendrils, and applied a bit of saffron oil, her secret hunger touching the corners of her pouting lips. She dabbed a moist cloth to her parched lips and for just a moment her tongue traced the shape of her mouth. The cloth was a bright crimson and the puddle beneath was a faded pink in hue.
The fortress was her home and her walls were adorned with portraits of her in various moments of blushing kept beauty. She arranged the lace chocker and pendant around her slender neck as she hummed an old Broadway tune,

“On to the ghostly show of purpose

And row,

A drama in red,

A drama in red

And so they said

Dear darling

A drama in red.”

She sang and hummed in tandem with the ticking of the wooden grandfather clock that stood in salute to her time; her time she thought, all of it for me.
She splashed some perfume, rose attar in full bloom across her bosom and stepped toward the heavy maple door, burnished in linseed oil and ornate with wheat blooms. She faltered for an instant, trailing a crimson smear across the floor with her flat soled alabaster white slippers. The blood had pooled to the center of the room and was sticky in congealed puddles. She adjusted her flowing violet flowered dress and silk sash as she opened the door to the stage, the dead critic lay cold and in jealous silence as she made her way to the audience.
She had a story or two for them, the audience, a tale or two of passion and eternal submission to the tendriled webs of those who had oppressed her, had rejected her in calloused regard. She had quipped, “You have no talent dear!” Mary had gone insane for a moment and her private theater had become a charnel house.
She wiped her feet against the small Persian rug near the door as she prepared for the audience. They would listen, by the gods she could act and they would watch and listen. She stepped through the entranceway and began the performance of her life.