Dissatisfied Slide

Posted on 03/24/2020 @ 9:14pm by

Mission: S1E2: The Plomeek Soup Conundrum
Location: Boothbay Harbor, Maine/USS Crazy Horse Sickbay
Timeline: Day 5 at 1235

Every year, her sister won awards for scholastic achievement and every year, Amelie D'Anvers did not. She would sit in the audience with a practiced if insincere smile on her face and watch her sister, dressed in one fashion fiasco after another, receive the attention she craved. In a family of scholars and scientists, grades mattered.

So it was that by the time she was sixteen, in the privacy of her bedroom, Amelie had already performed a brutally honest self-assessment. She knew that she possessed an unusual sort of beauty – a heart-shaped face with large, sparkling eyes framed by a cloud of auburn curls. A lush figure that she kept under control by scrupulously watching what she ate and an innate sense, that no one else in her family would ever understand, of the importance of fashion and color. On the negative side, she knew that she was nowhere near as smart as her siblings nor did she care particularly to live a dreary life dedicated to service.

At sixteen, Amelie understood that she had had the bad luck to be born into the wrong family. And so, she turned to the world. She had an active social life and her choice of boyfriends though, as luck would have it, the one she wanted never seemed to notice she was in the room. At sixteen, Amelie D'Anvers had achieved physical perfection and every year after that seemed to be another inch or two on the downward slide to average. Those El-Aurian genes, the ones that had graced her siblings with eternal youth, had passed her by; oh, she fought it with spa days, exercise routines, regular visits to the doctor, as well as hair and makeup appointments and a new wardrobe for each season to no avail. She kept her social calendar packed, lending her talent for organization and vast network of friends to popular causes, and played to her strengths.

But the beauty she had had at sixteen, was fading. Every night, she sat in front of her mirror and took an assessment that left her vaguely dissatisfied with her life. She was thirty-five, the baby of the family, and she was beginning to look like the oldest. It was … maddening … Tonight, she was readying for her third marriage with the grim determination of a general marshaling troops for battle. Her bridal gown was a pale cream, almost white, an original design, elegant and sleek, with bead work that subtly caught the light and invited the eye to feast upon learn curves. It now sat on a dressmaker’s form behind a screen, kept away from prying eyes, because Amelie knew the value of the big reveal. Her hair would be equally elegant and upswept, kept in place by old-fashioned hair pins that her husband would pull out, one by one, on their wedding night. Her jewelry were gifts from her intended – a pearl choker and teardrop earrings.

The food had been ordered, the guest list would impress. Yes, everything was ready. Tonight was the rehearsal dinner (not that she needed to rehearse) and was ready. Hope trembled along her nerve endings that this time, she would get it right and all would be well. She sat on a charcoal gray loveseat, poised carefully so as not to wrinkle her outfit, and listened to her sister who was far away on yet another ship.

“I’m sorry,” Leonie said, as she passed a PADD off to someone out of sight, “I just can’t make it back. Key was ordered to report weeks early and we’re just not going to be anywhere near Earth for a while, I’m afraid. I am sorry, Am. Hopefully, my present arrived. Picked it out special for you.”

Amelie nodded, a graceful incline of the head, and offered up a practiced smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “I understand,” she said and she did. They were nothing alike and had never been close. Probably the biggest difference between them was that when Amelie said she wasn’t coming it was generally a tactic while Leonie, sainted Leonie, would never stoop so low. It was a relief not to have to share the stage with her sister and so, Amelie could afford to be gracious. “And it did. Its lovely … I will treasure it always. I know you have to go so … I’ll be quick. Good luck to you both and please, send Cian my love.”

“I will,” Leonie said softly. She looked to one side and nodded, then leaned back into view. “Sorry, I really do have to go. Talk you soon.”

The connection ended and Amelie rose smoothly to her feet; she lifted the box, containing a necklace and matching earrings, walked into the kitchen and tossed it into the reclamation chute. Satisfied, she headed toward the front door and her future.

A Post by:

Leonie D'Anvers, M.D.
Medical Officer
USS Crazy Horse