THE DARLINGS OF PRISCILLA MONTMERAY

She loves her darling little flowers. She loves them almost as much as she loves her darling little dolls. Porcelain, of course. Synthetic hair, luckily, but they also have designer clothes and accessories. Madame Montmeray treats them as if they are the most valuable things in the world, and there may be some truth to that statement. Her financial status does not disappoint the eye, and the amount in her bank account outnumbers most of those who think of themselves as rich.

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Priscilla has always loved beautiful things. Pinks, and blues, and whites, and frills, and smoothness, and perfect droplets. Strings without frayed ends, light spreading evenly throughout a room, and a cleanly shaved face, made her heart pitter-patter like no other. Ever since she was a child she has had an aversion to everything that presents a sort of ugliness, even the looks of people. One wouldn’t dare to present a bruised apple in front of Madame Montmeray, not if they would like to live to talk about it. However, her definition of what is beautiful differs and will always differ from what I think should be considered.

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Priscilla Montmeray knows style. She knows how to make a person feel welcome in her presence, and manipulation is her forte. At least, that’s what I think. I think that she has a magnetism that is hard to deny. She brings out the worst and the best in every slice of humanity she worms herself into, but you know she will do it all with a sly smile. Perfect teeth. White, pearl white. Her perfect white manicure, with pearls draping throughout her long and shiny hair, her light pink furs that extend her figure to the godliest of measures, that viciously beautiful click and clack of her heels as they hit evenly across the marble floor of the lobby. It is impossible not to fall for her.

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Of course, that is the only time I truly see her. There, at the reception desk of the apartment building. Her penthouse is one I have yet to see, but oh, how I want to see it so badly. Thinking of seeing the beauty of a princess in her tower makes my skin burn and my blood boil so delightfully.

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The room is full of people, far too many for Madame Montmeray to consider comfortable, I would assume. I only see her with a single security detail, and when she does go out of the building, the tabloids always attach themselves to the fact that she rents every public space to be fully empty. I see Her eyes shift to the large golden doors she was brought through just a few moments ago, and she analyzes the beautiful handmade carvings throughout it. Roses, thorns, suns, moons, and Mother Nature herself stand frozen in them. Her hands begin to tremble as she lifts them near her eyes, aligning the top and bottom of the doors with her fingers where she sits across the room. Her hand makes a fist.

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She knows that she has grown to be spoiled by the world around her. Priscilla Montmeray waits for no one but herself. Patience is a virtue that has never fully developed beneath her perfectly soft skin, and it will stay like that for as long as she walks across this earth. And, as of that moment, I see in her eyes that she wants nothing more than to hold the beautifully crafted doors in her possession. She removes her pink leather gloves and stands, drawing the eyes of every being in that room as they stare at her like she is the most important thing in the universe. Madame Montmeray’s mouth tilts up in a handsome smirk as she lifts one foot after the other. Almost sensing the gasps after each step, she laughs to herself and walks to those gorgeous doors. She snaps her fingers.

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The frenzy is astonishing. The number of hostesses running up to her asking when she would like them brought to the penthouse is far too many to count. However, it is nothing compared to the mass of security guards that move to protect her from the instantaneous crowd. I note that it is unlikely to have only one security guard. It seems that she has always had quite the entourage. She spins on her heel, still clicking and clacking against the floors despite the amount of noise in her wake, and walks to the penthouse elevator. Private. Only her and certified guests are allowed to use the elevator. I have barely even seen inside it, never allowing myself to get too close to take a look. If I look too close, I will want to get inside of it. From what I have seen, it is perfection. Like her.

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I see the deliveries made to the penthouse sometimes. They are extravagant in nature, and often the most expensive things the eye can see. She comes down once in a while to watch as they unload her purchases. Like today, I stand behind the reception desk as always. Watching.

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She is wearing yellow. A perfect yellow that’s not too bright, not too eye-catching. Just the right amount of beautiful. Her hat is tilted and has fresh daisies, which I assume are from the greenhouse at the top of the building. The slope of her nose is eye-catching this morning, and I applaud the fact that I can get this close to being able to see it. The air feels different. I am not one to stand out, and I am the person who no one truly notices when they see me on the street. If I have the pleasure to talk to anyone, they do not remember my name, or recognize me even if we are neighbors. Priscilla Montmeray makes me feel seen. Has she looked at me? No. But I can sense that she will one day. And when that time comes, nothing else will matter anymore.

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Tonight, I am working alone. Madame Montmeray does not come downstairs.

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This morning, I am working with Gertrude. She is a mean old lady. Priscilla is still in the penthouse. No sight of her from the reception desk.

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It has been a week. I still haven’t seen Priscilla Montmeray, and I feel restless.

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I need to see her. I've had enough.

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Tonight.

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The night is young, and my heart is beating so fast, but I feel good. Better than good. I want to see her, and it is going to happen soon. I’m working with Janet tonight, who leaves every few hours for a smoke break. The security detail has been covering the lobby all night, but it isn’t too hard for me to bump into one and apologize while snatching their key card. You would think security this bumped up would learn how to avoid being pickpocketed. Oh well. Makes life easier for me.

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When the building locks at eleven p.m., each resident needs a special code to get through the doors. It seems that is when Madame Montmeray’s detail leaves for shift change. I wait for an hour for the guards to come down through the elevator. I stand to the side of the doors, waiting for them to move through before slipping inside silently. The doors close and I look at the elevator around me. The walls and floors are a bright cream marble, with golden details across the inside of the doors and the buttons. I feel myself start to smile at the view inside, as it is just so…her. Perfect. My hands brush across the single penthouse button on the wall, pushing in slowly. Searching the walls for more details, I hear a ding as the elevator begins to move.

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I feel alive. I feel so close to her and there is no other experience I have had that has made me this euphoric. There is a dense calmness in the air, here in this seven-foot by seven-foot elevator. Perfection is the word I would use for it. There is electricity running through my veins and I take a deep breath as the doors begin to reach the top of the building. The doors open in silence. Priscilla Montermay’s aversion to ugliness is nothing compared to her aversion to noise.

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As I stare from the doors, the hallway seems miles long, almost infinite. The walls are creamy white. I lift one foot and slowly place it on the marble floors as if the smallest step would make the entire building collapse on itself. When nothing drastic occurs, I step fully into the hallway. The doors close behind me almost instantly, as if it can sense I was hesitating. Walking carefully, I feel my excitement grow with every single move I make. I want to see her dolls, smell her flowers, feel her clothes, brush her hair, make her pretty. Like she deserves.

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The doors to the penthouse are the golden ones Madame Montmeray took from the waiting room a few days ago. Solid gold with beautiful carvings. I never have seen it this close before, despite me walking through them nearly every day. I lift my hand cautiously and grab the doorknob. I panic. What do I do if it is locked? Do I leave? Or…should I knock? No. If I knock then I don’t know what she’ll say when she answers. I could pretend I am her new guard. But the guard should be coming up any minute now. I don’t know what to– it isn’t locked. It opens right away, and silently. No creaks. I close them carefully behind me, and then…darkness.

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The penthouse is barely lit, just with candles placed unceremoniously across the floor. The only remnant of human life between these walls is the small crack of light coming from beneath the door around twenty feet away from the entryway. Where are the dolls? Where is everything she buys at those special auctions of hers? Where is…anything? Anything at all? The apartment is empty.

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I tiptoe toward the lit door, feeling confusion come across my being in waves. This is nothing like I was expecting. There should be more! This doesn’t seem like Priscilla Montmeray at all. As I come to my destination, I hear a soft humming coming from the other side. Suddenly, my hand reaches out without my permission, grasping the door handle and ripping it open without care. I flinch, regretting the action immediately, expecting a loud bang as the door hits the wall next to me. I am proven wrong when it is silent, just like the elevator doors. Just like the golden carvings out front.

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There, in the middle of the room, she sits at a vanity, brushing her delightful hair. Nothing else is in the bedroom. Where does she sleep? I don't even see a speck of dust anywhere. It seems as if she hasn’t even noticed I am here. I take a few steps forward, but all she does is continue her blessèd humming, a gorgeous and calming sound. I feel myself being drawn to her, just as before.

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“Priscilla?”

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The humming stops, as do her movements.

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“Priscilla? Priscilla Montmeray? It’s me. I’m here.”

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Silence.

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“Millie? From the reception desk? You haven’t been down for a few days and I wanted to check on you. Are you okay?”

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Nothing.

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“Madame Montmeray? Can you hear me?”

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I see her trembling where she sits at the vanity. I lift one foot after the other, walking closer to her to make sure she is okay. When I get close enough to see myself in the reflection of the mirror, I frown deeply. The mirror only shows me where I stand, Priscilla nowhere to be seen. She turns her perfect neck to look at me, but there is nothing. No perfect eyes. No perfect pearly white teeth. No perfectly sloped nose. Nothing. Her face is blank of all features. I mutter to myself in confusion, but before–

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“Wha–”

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Darkness.

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Priscilla Montmeray has always loved pretty things.