Empty

Mother told the tony town of Greenwich, Connecticut, exactly what she thought of dear old Dad’s anniversary gift by killing herself in the back seat of her Range Rover. “A former principal dancer in the New York City Ballet,” her obituary began, “she went out in style, sipping a French 75 out of a crystal champagne flute with a sidecar chaser of carbon monoxide.” But Dad, a hawk of an entertainment lawyer, knew how to spot a loophole from a mile above as he ran thick red lines through my copy and replaced it with, "She died at home surrounded by her beloved husband, Allen, and their twin daughters, Angela and Lauren, after suffering from a brief illness." He showed extrinsic kindness by choosing an old cast photo of Mother as Aurora from Sleeping Beauty to run alongside her obituary in the Times' Sunday edition.

My twin sister Angela found Mother dead in the garage naked under a sable fur coat. Dad should have known better than to leave the decision to David, his Kardashian-worshipping lover, who masqueraded as his personal shopper and mistook sable fur as a textile, the suggested gift for thirteen years of marriage. Elegant in death, the New York City Ballet would have expected no less. Her makeup was perfect. And although rigor mortis had set in by the time she was found, her body was exceptionally dewy from her extensive moisturizing routine. Always a scene stealer, in her final act, Mother reclined artfully on the white leather seats of her beloved Range Rover underneath the gift of ninety murdered Russian sables.

My first year in our performing arts high school I wore a uniform of rage. I don't judge my sister Angela for opting to play it safe by taking David's suggestion of a wardrobe full of Tory Burch. “Why call any more attention to yourself?” He prattled on, confident in his new role now as our Versace-clad Mommie Dearest, now that he's ensconced in Dad’s Upper East Side co-op.

I go to great lengths to ensure that Dad's heartlessness will be remembered. I tell our story to the horrified stares of our neighbors, teachers, and classmates. I wear a never-ending rotation of dance leotards over fishnets riddled with holes from my fingernails gouging crescent moons into my legs. I pair my ensemble with Doc Martens and an angry slash of Mother’s lipstick. When winter comes, I steal one of Dad's cashmere overcoats to wear, refusing to take it off until spring, where I'll emerge an emaciated swan.

BIO: Laura Bogner is a writer and visual artist who lives a quiet life in Joshua Tree, California after many years of living in the fast lane of Los Angeles. Laura has published fiction in Punk Noir Press Magazine, Urban Pigs, Rock and A Hard Place, Space Cowboy Books Podcast, and Literary Garage.