Shallow Motives

The moldy fragrance of shame emanating from her sister's mouth was so fresh, it was impossible not to take in its malady. “Hello Lilienne. How’ve you been?”

Zasa’s manner was curt, unbefitting of the love they shared. It was to be expected. Lilien knew a bond had been broken, deep as jealousy’s shear could tear.

Receiving an invitation to the shower should have made her rave. Yet, so had Lilienne suffered that even a sister’s betrayal bore her little pain. Much did her soul carry, to have space left for such nugacities. Her body’s time, too short now for further contempt, professed only pity. What ills Zasa made her to endure today would but ail her later, as she, too, had sickened Lilien.

Inside the dining room, the guests celebrated, champagne in hand.

“To the child in her womb,” an uncle cried as he lifted his glass.

“To the child in her womb!” the rest of the family cheered.

The child in Zasa’s womb was to be a girl, fathered by him whose kisses had made Lilien weak only a year ago. The champagne flute broke in her hand as they toasted to the health of her sister’s unborn joy.

Mind teeming with alien thoughts, Lilien hid her bloody fingers and excused herself from the gathering.

In her boudoir, the shades of dusk colored the room of orange. Dead candlelight permeated the air with its faint, burnt scent. Lilien entered and stared blankly at the scene.

Had it been here, on this bed, in her room, that it had happened? In the bath, while she lay fast asleep? Or had they worn enough decency in their passion to seek other quarters? She did not know, perhaps wanted to know, but would never ask.

Lilien grabbed a chrysanthemum from the vase on the bedside table. In a gentle but resolute motion, her hand closed on the purple bloom, crushing the petals with delight. Their soft skin disintegrating beneath her fingers was singularly, if dangerously, pleasant.

She walked to the desk and sat on the tall chair behind it, placing both hands on her lap.

Were they to be wed? Would they elope after the babe was born or as Zasa’s belly swelled? Or had vows been exchanged while Daemon still whispered love in Lilien’s ears, in secret? She did not know, perhaps wanted to know, but would never ask, because they would both lie.

A strong summer wind gusted through the window, making the translucent silk curtains sway. Sunlight gleamed in, falling on the blade of a thin letter opener. Lilien’s eyes gravitated to its glow, contemplating the possibilities riding along its sharp edges.

She grabbed the letter opener. Stood from the chair. Walked to the full-length mirror. Stared at the woman staring back at her.

“She had accomplished so much,” they would say. “She had such talent,” they’d say. “She was so handsome and young, and what a tragedy about her sister,” they’d say.

“If she had only said something,” they’d say.

If they had only been listening. Just listening. Just. Listening.

Lilien raised the blade, and in the mirror before her suddenly gleamed the mirage of her body in a coffin, wearing an Armani dress. She predicted their tears, masked in regret but born from treachery.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to say our last goodbye to Lilien Joneathan Loews…” she recited, adding from her favorite poem:

You are terrifying and strange and beautiful,

something not everyone knows how to love.

And then she laughed. Shook her head. Set the letter opener back on the desk. She thought of Zasa and their shared lover; of the people out in the parlor and their shallow motives, and of her own, and laughed again.

Vanity is a cruel sin. But, sometimes, it’s the only thing that saves you.