The Trapped

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- B L A I R E -

11.04.16 // 5:48 p.m.

I STARE AT MY reflection in the mirror for at least ten minutes, as if looking at myself for a long time would somehow make my outfit change. I sigh, again, as I tug on the flimsy material of my dress for the thousandth time today.

It is a nice dress, for a six-year-old maybe or someone who has no desire to look good in public. I got it from my grandma for Christmas two years ago and I couldn't believe my mom is really making me wear it to the country club tonight.

It is tight around my waist and itchy whenever I rub my legs against the black linen. It has a red rose pattern, something my grandma loved so much that I am surprised she didn't keep the dress for herself.

My hair is frizzy and tangled from the sticky, humid air that was outside earlier today when I was at the pool. I run a hand through my thick curls, messing them up even more before I leave the comfort of my room to go face the beast, otherwise known as my mother.

I saunter down the large spiral staircase in my house, my hand trailing along the soft wood of the handrail, admiring the precision and hard work put in to build this place for my family.

My heels clink loudly against the marble floor, the only sound echoing throughout the silent house. When I enter the great room, my mom is sitting on the couch with her usual perfect posture and crossed legs. It is always right leg over left leg. God forbid if you ever did it vice versa.

Such a sin.

I roll my eyes at myself before joining my mom on the couch. Her thin brown hair is placed on her head in a perfect bun, not one hair out of place. Her thick eyebrows look as if they are glued to her forehead due to the shiny eyebrow gel she got from our European exchange student.

She sips hot tea from her favorite Royal Antoinette teacup collection. Her slender fingers wrap delicately around the handle, one pinkie perfectly raised as she blows on her steaming drink.

Her bright green eyes flicker up to mine when I stand in front of her. She gives me one of her warm smiles, the corner of her perfect thin lips curving up.

"Blaire, honey, you look beautiful. Straighten up though," she tells me and I automatically raise my shoulders and tilt my head up. "Are you ready for tonight?" She asks.

"Yes ma'am, I am very excited," I respond politely, plastering a smile on my lips. She sets her tea down on the Benetti's Italian Sicily Coffee table, the cup making a small clinking sound as it makes contact with the table.

She stands up and brushes the invisible crumbs off of her Satin and Sleeveless black cocktail dress. She gives me a tight smile as she smoothes down my hair with clear disapproval etched onto her face.

When she is done, she makes her way over to the door, walking gracefully with perfect precision.

I follow after her, not quite matching her perfect step, but I try nonetheless. Our Chauffeur, Luke, gives us a small bow and opens the front door for us, welcoming in the chilly fall weather.

Autumn is strange here in this part of Beverly Hills. The trees remained green from summer until the middle of October and then there was a riot of colors after that.