Cymbals 2020

I
artfully styled my blonde curls, gathering them in
my hands and tying them with a white hair tie. The
end of the ponytail brushed just beneath my
shoulders, tickling my bare back. I used to wear my
hair in a ponytail when I danced with my best friend.
It felt refreshing to be able to have it up again.
I took a breath and began to mentally prepare for
what I was about to do. Outside, the breeze chilled
my bare shoulders and back, the faint glow of candles
illuminating my heavily made up face. The stars
dotted like pinpricks in a black shade. Fireflies danced
around me and crickets accompanied the sound of
my voice.
Before me will be thirty-two
perfectly wealthy people,
each person perfectly sitting
with perfect posture,
everyone dressed in their
absolute best: carefully
tailored suits in varying dark
shades scattered amongst the
lavish gowns hued on the
lighter side of the rainbow.
The women will be dripping
in jewels that so perfectly
match their attire. I can almost
hear their careless chatter that
no one will remember by
tomorrow. Their endless
glasses of champagne will be
delicately held in the hand of
each person. Suddenly, I
wished that it would rain.
“Oh, Lilly darling, you’re on in
five,” Cordelia said as she
slithered into my dressing
room. She didn’t glance up
from her clipboard as she
spoke to me. “You look lovely, as always. How do
you feel?”
Illusion of Perfection
dresses like the one I had on now. The dark violet
was elegant, the open back dipping low enough to
be beautiful, yet modest. The fabric beneath my
arms was itchy and much too tight. Without the sun
to warm me, I would surely freeze, but my comfort
was never Cordelia’s top priority. I faced the mirror
and tried to reposition the dress so it didn’t pinch
me.
Finally, Cordelia looked up from her clipboard. “Oh
darling, we can’t have you looking like that. Your
hair looks like a blind rat styled it.” She wrinkled her
nose at her own statement. She gently placed her
clipboard on the vanity and
tugged my hair out of its
ponytail, adjusting my
immaculate curls onto my
shoulders until she gave a
satisfied nod. Pouring a
peanut-sized amount of
styling gel on her palm, she
started to smooth out the
top of my poor hair. I felt it
stiffen under her hands as if
also repulsed by her touch.
“There we are, darling. We
couldn’t have you looking
like a monster, could we?”
Cordelia smiled broadly. She
gestured for me to stand up,
and I obliged. We began our
walk through the halls to get
to the stage, and all the while
she fussed about various
things around me. Her voice
cut away at me, telling me
again and again what I could
and could not do. All for the
sake of my reputation and
career, of course. Her hands
moved about in a flourish, changing and arranging
things until I felt like a doll a child was playing with.
14
I said nothing to her. Instead I glanced away to the
rosebush that grew so close to the window its petals
brushed against it.
Cordelia continued, “you know you’ll do fine,
darling.” She highlighted something on her papers in
bright pink.
I spared her a moment's glance before taking my
black Christian Louboutins from beside my chair and
putting them on. Cordelia always made me wear
Eventually we arrived backstage. In a steady
crescendo, the classical tune commenced. A violin
and cello played a duet of beautiful sorrow. Cordelia
breathed out. “You have just a minute. Okay,
remember darling, these people paid a lot of money
to see you. There were only thirty-two seats. Do you
understand? Don’t mess this up, darling.”
She turned my shoulders toward the stage.
By Chloe Schiff
Painting by Yusra Rashidzada