***2023 SHORTLISTER FOR THE @OPENNOVELLACONTEST & FEATURED ON (FORMERLY) @STORIESUNDISCOVERED'S 'FEAST ON FICTION' READING LIST IN OCTOBER 2023***
Born and raised within a few steps of Hollywood's golden gate, Arlene Berkshire always knew she wanted...
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Word Count: 2649
The woman's neckline was deep. V-shaped, a "vestee" was cut underneath it, giving the impression that two layers of fabric were what comprised the cover for her straight torso. A belt that presumably matched her dress's color slimmed down her waist and short-sleeves revealed her forearms; forearms that held a premade bouquet of daisies.
Arlene tightened her grip on the black-and-white photograph she had found on her vanity after she had returned from filming across town with Norman, and as she looked past the woman in the photo's head of fair curls, her eyes settled on a young-looking Norman at her side. He looked primarily the same; however, his mustache was thin and grown, and not reserved to a line of stubble like it was currently.
Smiles adorned both of their faces with what appeared a film studio as their backdrop, and Norman's hand fondly around the woman's waist was enough to make Arlene's stomach drop slightly.
Turning over the photograph, Arlene's eyes widened and a gasp escaped from her lips. In spite of the oddly-placed streaks of a strawberry tint that resided on its back, she could still make out the penciled location of the photograph—MGM's main studio.
What was even more pronounced to her, however, were the initials of the photo's subjects written by the same hand.
N.S. & V.L
The nausea hit her like an automobile. Feeling the color drain from her face, Arlene reached for the childhood photo that she had stuck between her mirror and the mirror's line of oval-shaped light bulbs. She turned it over, putting her photo and the new photo side-by-side.
She hoped for it to be a coincidence, hoped that the handwriting didn't match. But even before she willed her eyes to compare the backs of the two photos, she knew.
That woman in the photo was Arlene's mother, Vera.
The same Vera that her father had trained Arlene to forget and had hoped she'd be nothing like.
A knock at the door was nothing compared to the revelation Arlene had just made, so much that when Norman stepped into her dressing room, her attention remained on the two pictures laid out in front of her.
"The Cadillac is running and ready to burn rubber. Are you good to go?" His question hung heavy in the air that had grown more compacted since Arlene entered the room, and as a result of this, Norman's cologne etched itself stubbornly into her nostrils.
She used to adore the scent.
Had her mother too?
"Your color is off," Norman commented as Arlene forced herself to look away from the photographs. She met his gaze—his unsuspecting, innocent gaze—and swallowed back tears.
"I'm surprised you didn't see it."
Norman raised an eyebrow. "See what, Arlene?"
Arlene shook her head and put distance between herself and the photographs. Needing something to hold, she grabbed Norman's sport coat that she had stolen from him earlier that day and had thrown down on the curved sofa after fetching her script and hugged it to her chest.
