Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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I stand beneath the gazebo, fingers caressing the white petal of the flower beside me. Of them all, it is this single one that claims my attention. Steeped in additives, preservatives, nutrients, yet the very edges of the petals are fraying with a brown hue, death trimming a beauty that should have lasted for eternity. It's a harsh irony – a dying flower to observe the birth of a marriage, neither of which should ever have happened.
For a moment, I want to pluck the petal, keep it with me so I can watch it further wither and curl, browning until it's rubbery and fragile. Simply to remind myself that all things come to an end – my freedom, happiness, and everything in between.
I leave it however, deciding it hypocritical of me to speed its demise, when the very same has happened to me. Instead, I go back inside, slow steps through the corridors, up the stairs, all of which bustle with energy of the staff busying with finalizing the arrangements of the Manor. None of them bother to bear me notice – my somber expression wards them off, and they probably fear that even the simplest of gestures will set me on a downwards spiral of tears and anguish.
Four hours. That's all it is. Four hours until I am to marry, so even less until guests arrive.
As I find my way back to my room, I enter to company. Zaveri, Margot and Leevy, all of them waiting, expressions as melancholy as I. "We have drawn you a bath." Zaveri says, gesturing lamely to the bathroom. I nod numbly, sparing my shoulders of the satin gown as I walk towards the door, letting it pool to the floor haphazardly, no longer caring for tidiness.
Undressing, I hold my gaze away from the mirror, not daring to observe my sunken eyes or hollowed jowls. Eating has become a monotonous task, the withering of my frame a clear depiction of such. Sleeping is simply a momentary escape from reality, and even with hours' worth of rest, my eyes still sport blackened rings of exhaustion. Self-care seems impossible, so my hair is knotted and greased, my skin paled and grimy.
My head sinks beneath the surface and I remain there until my chest tautens with a desperate need for air. Lazily, I card shampoo through my hair, lathering soap across my body, scrubbing the days' worth of dirt that has layered on my skin till I redden from the impact. "Allora," Zaveri calls out. "We need to ready you."
Slowly, reluctantly, I climb from the bath, wrapping a robe around my frame, not bothering to even dry myself or my hair which has congealed into a knotted mass, running a river of water down my back. Margot has pulled a chair away from my vanity which is scattered with hair products and stylist equipment. Rolled towels sit beside her, and she gestures for me to sit.
"Do you have anything in mind?" She asks me. I shrug, then shake my head. I don't hear her sigh, though I'm sure she desires to, exasperated with my glum demeanor and miserable attitude. Slowly, she pulls a comb through my hair, carefully working out the tangles, splitting section after section over my shoulder, coating my hair in oils and creams.
