"Some things are more precious because they don't last long" - Oscar Wilde

Grace – Short Story

Diana sat on the floor with her back to one of the tall cupboards while the fan above her blew all her toys around. Silence in the home was complete; at least, she thought it was.

The automated buzz from the lights continued to drone in the background, bringing a dullness to the room. A painting hung off the wall with two girls in white, both watching eagerly as another person was sent to the gallows. In their eyes, his death would cleanse him and make him a perfect soul. She pushed her knees straight out and rose with her white shirt, tucked aggressively into her black jeans. She thought of how she could take better care her appearance, just like her sister Ava, who always wore a silky white dress laced up eloquently from behind. Her hair tied up but not too tight. Her nails trimmed short but not too short. There was an elegance in each of her steps that made it appear as if she was walking on glass. If all else perished and it was just her, she would make a heaven out of this hellish planet, but her contempt would send her burning along with the rest of them.

But Diana wasn’t like her, and she came to accept that. There was no stitching, no seam, no order with her, and she seemed so chaotic and worthless and pointless and insignificant and undervalued because every time she would look in the mirror she would only see the reflection of disappointment. Well, if she couldn’t control her appearance, at least she could control her thoughts. Thoughts that were familiar to her and as comforting as the preciseness of the bend in her elbow. She wanted to think that she was unique, that she was the one distinct voice drowning in the similarity of the other billion, pushing for her voice to be heard and her words to be taken seriously. Still, this distinctness is what also made her feel lonely – a sinister and cruel sense of loneliness with only the automated buzz of the lights droning in the background.

Ava was perfect – even her name lined up perfectly. She felt a thorn piercing the inside of her throat, but her envy could not be contained and would eventually spill out, burning those that were near her. Looking up, the fan moved in circular rotations – perhaps perfect in its own nature but never as perfect as Ava. If she had been in that garden with her dear Adam, she would have been too perfect to have sinned. To be as perfect as Ava, one would have to surrender themselves to death; perhaps that would make Diana: as great as her, as glorious, as beautiful, as graceful.

Tying the noose to the fan, it held a perfectly circular shape that so easily slipped around Diana’s throat. She misplaced her footing and slipped earlier than expected, but by then she didn’t have the chance to think about what she had done. Her body hung gracefully, but even Diana knew, that it would never be as graceful as Ava.

 

 

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