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Margot lost her mother when she in her teens. She technically never really had her parents around, they were you stereotypical distant rich people who preferred parties over their own daughter. Sometimes Margot forgot that she lived with them still, their meetings were so scarce. There was a role she had to fill as not it inconvenience them, dressing up extravagantly and twirling around the room thoughtlessly. A part of her yearned for simplicity, but at the same time, she knew she’d never survive in the same environment as the common man. It was naive to assume that almost nothing would change but her own peace of mind.
“Stand up straight,” She heard her mother ring in her head every time she stood in front of a mirror. “There are people staring.” Someone was always watching, judging her every move.
Sometimes even books couldn’t protect her from the selfishness that developed when she happily indulged in her fortune.
Her mother died from alcohol poisoning, keeling over dead on the couch in the middle of a party. Nobody realised until the end of it, well, except for Margot. She’d approached her mother in the hopes of being allowed some money for a new dress, finding that she was completely unresponsive. It would do her no good to inform anyone, no one would listen to what they assumed was a spoiled brat. So she donned her black dress, her favourite, and sat down beside her mother. She straightened her back and brushed her hair back until there wasn’t a single hair sticking up. The horror of the situation would be forever frozen into her memory, and even worse, the sense of calmness that filled her when time slowed.
In between her mother dying and meeting Julian, Margot lost three more family members. She didn’t know them well enough to be truly wounded by it, but she grew accustomed to wearing her mourning dress. Margot preferred to be prepared for the next one. Julian was nothing like that, he both took life for granted and lived it to the fullest. Compared to her, he was a flurry of colour, vibrant and enchanting. He offered her the life she was used to, but most importantly, she loved him. He was wild and free and handsome.
He was there when Margot’s father died from liver cancer. Julian despised funerals, he’d told her so whilst she helped him get dressed. Doing up his tie brought on the same calmness as sitting silently in wait. Oh, if only the women he slept with once knew what bliss it was to look at him in the daylight. Despite his distaste for death, he still tried to be sympathetic, as much as he could. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, his arms wrapped around her small frame. She knew it was what he thought would make grief end quicker, so she let him.
Julian held her hand throughout the whole service, refusing to even look at the body. He stared at the ground the whole time, unchanged until he willed himself to look up at Margot. She wasn’t crying, but she probably would later. He smiled awkwardly at her, squeezing her hand uncertainly. They went home afterwards, Margot half-expecting him to find an excuse to leave. He just groaned tiredly and held her close. His warmth was the only thing that kept her grounded, even if she had trouble sleeping that night. It was a rare occasion where someone didn’t expect something from her. That was one of the first moments she thought of when he died.
Margot refused to attend Julian’s funeral, because his death impacted her more than any others. A passerby would say she was dumb, privileged and out of touch. She knew what he was doing, what he was, and she loved him. He was a liar but he was hers. And he was gone. Julian’s heart attack almost broke her own. All Margot had was little Rachel, who had trouble understanding most of what was going on. She got through the grief with her daughter and will to get back on her feet. She’d never forget the way Julian could still throw her for a loop, years after his death.
At seventy two, Margot was death’s best friend. It dance around her like a feather blowing in the wind, or a leaf falling from a tree in autumn. She saw so much decay that condolences became her mantra. Margot didn’t really mind being the ghost of her own home, stalking the halls dressed in black from head to toe. Rachel unknowingly emulated her by wearing various greys, but Margot deeply appreciated her daughter carrying a part of the family with her. She loved her girl as much as she loved her Julian. The only colour adorning her was the glimmer given off by her wedding ring.