The Bodyguard

The Little Things

Emilia flinches briefly as her mother yanks out yet another stray bit of her eyebrow, reaching up to touch the sore spot only to get her hand slapped away rather harshly. 

"Ooww!" She whines, rubbing the slightly throbbing lightly red spot near her thumb. "What was that for?" she asks, dodging her next attempt to pull out more eyebrow hairs that she thought were out of place.

"You were going to ruin your makeup Emilia, and after it looks so good too!" Emilia's mother practically squeals, acting like Jasmine for just the briefest of moments as Emilia feels a soft pang in her chest. God she missed that girl, her hairbrained schemes and terrible ideas that always got her in trouble. She hadn't been able to call or text her since that night, Jazz probably thought she was pissed. But after everything that happened at the cafe. . . she couldn't tell Jasmine anything, and if she wanted her best friend to stay alive, she couldn't see her either, not until this whole nightmare is over.

Emilia stares in the mirror through the thick fake lashes plastered to her mascara coated eyes and thick shadow making her look something like a panda in her personal opinion. The foundation is so thickly laid that she was quite certain she would break out any moment now for the lack of breathing her skin could do at the moment. Her skin would be clogged for a month for certain and her eyes might be stuck closed from the weight of that eye makeup. Not to mention her lips stained with such a blood red that she could be a vampire, slightly overlined to give them the appearance they were actually full and not that halfway lopsided look her thin upper lip usually gave her, forcing a permanent frown and giving her a little pout that made her unapproachable. 

Forcing herself to smile back at her mother, holding down the vomit lying in her throat with the gritted teeth as she slides out of the chair, turning her back to the beaming grin across her mother's face. She thought in that moment she may throw up, swallowing hard to keep it back as she reaches for the pair of gold and emerald studs that lay before her in the small jewelry box. 

Remnants of her father, one simple birthday gift that was worth a fortune in her heart. She didn't care for the gaudy things her mother called jewelry, tugging at her ears like children begging for attention with their sparkle. She liked the simplicity of the small jewels that complimented her hair so fairly. The blonde shaming the gold with its glistening length and the emeralds paling in comparison to her eyes. Tucking them into the holes as she tries to hide her ever rising temper, she brushes a strand of hairspray stained hair attempting not to ruin the perfect curl created by an iron hours before.

It truly amazed her how long the process had taken, her thick hair refusing to hold a decent curl without copious amounts of spray and multiple tries, and her mother's insistence on pulling all hairs even a hint out of place from her skin before allowing the placement of products. Let alone the time it had taken to squeeze the dress onto her body and lace up the back.

It might be beautiful, but it was painful to wear in her opinion, as if she were wearing a thousand knives, each held by Mr. Delmont's hand to keep her perfectly still, keep her from doing anything stupid like tearing the garment from her body and running for the hills at that very moment as her mother finally steps out of the room and she is allowed to sit on her bed to breathe at last.

Emilia wanted to cry, she wanted to rage, to hit something, to run, to do anything in that moment but she knew she couldn't. She knew that it would only end badly, that her mother would be disappointed or she would be punished by Mr. Delmont. Though what he could do to her directly at this point was so limited she wasn't even certain what would happen. She had spent the past three days confined to her room, the only conversation being with Mr. Knyte and then only a yes, no, or thank you for food. She had lain on her bed for three days trying to comprehend that singular day.