Brushstrokes

On the eve of the wedding, Milly brushed Alicia’s hair. One hundred strokes. She counted aloud, in a low voice, more a hiss than a whisper. Her daughter sat stone still, wrapped in an ivory satin robe. The silky strands of auburn hair flowed to her daughter’s tiny waist. No one should have a waist that small, Milly thought, brushing harder. It was indecent, and confirmed her belief that Alicia had been spawned by the devil. Yes, she had emerged from Milly’s peri-menopausal womb, but she could never believe that her dull husband had contributed to this beautiful woman. Milly took thirty seconds to rest, then began the ritual again. The boar bristle brush, a family heirloom, sterling silver with an ivory handle, was heavy. Her wrists ached.

Alicia was tall and slim with a fair complexion and peach-tinged cheeks. Her lips were always poised in a smile. She was a Disney princess without ever trying. Alicia had been born sweet and had never lost her innocence. People were drawn to her, and little animals licked her hand. Her aura was rose.

Milly, short and freckled, with a strut like a bantam cock, sported spirals of fiery red hair. Her ex-husband, in a fit of anger, had called her Chucky. Her dazzling white veneers were blinding. Sometimes people crossed the street when they saw her. Her aura was ebony. She hated her daughter, but still, she was her mother. And mothers prepare their daughters for their wedding, don’t they?

Milly continued brushing long into the night, replaying the slings and arrows that had ruined and pierced her life, her chances of happiness.  Alicia sat stone still, perhaps replaying her own life, thinking of the meds her mother had tried to cram down her throat, to make her thinner and smarter. Milly was competitive with her friends, family, lovers, and most of all with her beautiful daughter. She had wanted her to succeed and be the best, even though it secretly killed her and shrank her heart into a leathery amulet of hate.

In the morning, when the wedding party came to collect the bride, they found her sitting in the same chair, stone still. Her satin robe was spattered with blood, a pattern that could only be caused by the continuous brushing of a boar’s bristle brush, which had been laced with razor blades.

They found Milly in the garden, dancing among the roses, with a red rose between her teeth. She wore the wedding dress that was too tight, too long, and speckled with drying blood. She was flushed with ecstasy, with a release she had never known from the touch of a man, and this suffused her freckled face with a fiery glow that matched her always hated, but never to be forgotten hair.