All Is Vanity

My mother was an aristocrat, at least in her own mind, she had a certain noble air, a ramrod for a spine. She knew her face was beautiful, exceptional and rare, and when she walked into a room, one and all would stare. She held her mouth a certain way, with Mona Lisa's guile, but stiff and somewhat mask-like: a practised, partial smile. She knew all eyes were on her, every moment was a pose, the world revolved around her in her pricy designer clothes. She was the leading lady, her life was all an act, the cameras rolled continuously, so she could not relax. She was always kind to others, though we all sensed some unease, somehow we felt belittled by her poised nobless oblige. And at her dressing table, I'd stand beside her knee, She'd brag about her beauty and I dared not disagree. And, damn it, she made sure this child would never be a threat, and all those facial injuries looked like mere accidents. I wonder what she planned to do, when age would take its toll and gone would be that flawlessness and she'd finally be old. When everything you are in life rests soley on your looks, and the image in the mirror shows the toll that time has took... She could have grown old gracefully, with age become divine. her beauty would've transcended the ravages of time. Instead, defeat and bitterness, her pride no longer fed, she couldn't cope with knowing that she wasn't turning heads. So, one last time, she made up her face, lost in dark insanity, and blew her brains out with a gun and all for vanity.