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The Balcony
Copyright © 2005-2007 by Aster Rose - All rights reserved		 

The Balcony
by Aster Rose
Ebony curls cascaded down her small porcelain face. Swathed in a dress of delicate blue, she stared down at the bustling Saturday traffic. Ears that almost tapered to a point jutted out from her head, making it awkward and disproportionate. The fan clasped in her folded hands sat closed, an accessory for the badly made doll. Every morning they smeared powder across her countenance, trying desperately to make up for the flawed features. As soon as they had vanished back to some other chore, she rubbed it off with the soft pink cloth that hung by her marble sink. Her mother’s sad eyes stabbed her in the heart every time she came down to breakfast, ever the ugly daughter. The mother sighed, tugging at the tight lace sleeve that imprisoned her thin arm.

“Lynette, dear, what are you gawking at?”

Shook from her reverie, the girl whispered, “Nothing, Mama.” Wringing her hands, the mother glanced desperately at her husband, who was much too involved in puffing on his cigar to notice those around him. Finally, the mother looked back at her daughter, slumped dreamily across the turquoise railing.

“Lynette…..why….why…..can’t you be like…oh….go practice the violin!”

Yes, Mama,” Lynette sighed, gliding into the drawing room. The mother plopped down onto the green velvet stool Lynette had been reclining on moments before. Resting her head onto her arms she sobbed for several moments, soaking the embroidered sleeves of her dress. Lifting her head, she called softly to the father.

“Antoine, Antoine!”

“Oui, Genevieve? What upsets you? Is it your heart again?”

“Non. It’s Lynette. We have to marry her. I can’t stand to die and know that the girl I birthed was too ugly to be wanted.” Silence permeated the air like a pungent scent.

“Don’t worry, Genevieve. You will be alive for her wedding day,” the father comforted.

“I hope you’re right.” Neither of them noticed the gold brocade curtains swish back into place as a clumsy figure darted back into the maze of hallways.

The suitor was loud. His pudgy face was a garish red from guffawing and hallooing at his own jokes as he pounded huge fists on the varnished oak table. Lynette slid into her turtle shell, made timid by this thunderous troll of a man. Georges, the brown and white dog, danced to the tune of anyone who held out numerous scraps for him to snap up in a frenzy of fur.

“Lynette, mon chere, talk to Monsieur Manette. You act as if he is a monster!”

“Yes, Mama, I will.”

“Bonjour, mademoiselle!” said Manette for the thousandth time, as he waved a meatloaf sized hand at her frantically.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” she whimpered.

“Why so afraid? I am nothing to be frightened of, my dear.” She wanted to snap some rude resentful comment, but was hindered by the sixteen years of etiquette drilled into her skull.

Instead, she replied, “I am not frightened of you monsieur.” It was hardly directed at the man Manette, more of a reassurance to herself.

“Really,” he chuckled, “well you sure are acting like it! Honestly, what’s the matter?”

“It’s not something you would understand,” she snapped.
‘
“Lynette!” her mother cried, “How could you? Apologize to Monsieur Manette!”

“My apologies, dear Monsieur Manette,” she said curtsying daintily.

“Well with that settled, I hear you’re quite the artist, mademoiselle Ly----”

“Oh….oh! No, not really, not at all, just a little hobby of hers, splattering paint on canvas,” interjected the mother, stumbling over words as she hurried to get the words out before anything more was said.

“Nothing to worry about Madame. I’m a bit of a painter myself. I’m not offended because painting isn’t a “womanly” quality.”

“Oh, thank God!” The mother’s grin was so long and wide it almost made a Black Dahlia of her face. Manette and the Madame turned to Lynette, only to find that she had fled.

Moonlight glistened on the shiny satin of her pearly nightdress. Tiny scarlet slippers, form fitted to a princess’s foot, curved around the blue green balcony, sliding their way across to the center, tentatively. Her toes grasping to the railing for dear life, which had suddenly become so less dear than it had previously been, she spread her arms out wide, looking as if she was going to fly off into the heavens. Perhaps she was. Lynette gulped in her last breath of air, savoring the sweet, sparkling taste of then night, soon lost to her forever. But maybe somewhere out in the revolving realm of space there was air sweeter and fresher. All she had to do was leave this behind, and fly off the balcony, into something unknown, something new. Loosening her death grip on the rails she prepared to fall, the wind rustling her hair as it whispered tales of a place where she could start over, where she would be loved. Heavy hands clamped down her thin, bird like shoulders. Repressing a scream, she waited in silence.

“What are you doing out here at one in the morning?” growled a voice, slightly muffled by a large, bushy red beard.

“Nothing, monsieur. Just couldn’t sleep.” Behind her, Manette’s eyebrows raised at this pointless and obvious untruth. He had stayed the night to accept more of the mother’s ecstatic hospitality. Unable to sleep due an unpruned branch scratching at his window, he had gotten up to smoke his pipe in the open air, away from the Madame’s disapproving eyes.

“I don’t think suicide is much of a nothing my dear,” he replied gently.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she choked, as her hot chocolate eyes began to water.

“How would you know that?” he asked softly. She sniffled, tears openly flowing across her cheeks. “I’ve had my fair share of melancholy, too.”

“No one loves me,” she sobbed, “Even my own mother thinks I’m ugly!”

“Maybe, I could love you,” he murmured.

“All the suitors hate me too. Not enough bosom, not even a pretty face,” Lynette muttered bitterly.

“We can be friends, perhaps. We are alike you and I. I think you see that now,” he mused.

“Leave me be,” she cried.

“Why do you want it to be like this?” he asked.

“Ow, you’re hurting me,” she grunted, swatting at his huge palms. Manette’s grip on her shoulders relaxed.

“Please tell me,” he begged.

“Because for every happy ending, there are a hundred sad ones,” she murmured. Slipping from his vice she plummeted, spiraling down into the dark abyss of death.
Manette stared at his hands, realizing he’d let her go. He’d let her fall. Salty droplets stained his face as he left the balcony, and the house, not wishing to be reminded of his blatant failure. The shadow figure glided from the house, tramping across the filthy sidewalks, his heart broken again.

The mother found the note the next morning.

Mama,
I’m sorry you never got to see my wedding day.
-Lynette

Giant tears plopped into her hands and onto the note, as she watched it fall to pieces in her cupped palms.

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