Like a Lady

Like a Lady (January 2019, Round 1, Day 4)

It wasn’t intentional. Really. I didn’t wake up that morning saying, “I’ll have oatmeal for breakfast, send a few emails, go for a walk, kill a man, head to the post office, and stop for coffee.” If it *had* been intentional, well, never mind, because it wasn’t.

I am simply not that kind of person. I come from a good family – ask anyone, they’ll tell you. My father was at the top of his class at Oxford. Not near the top or even in the top three. He was AT THE TOP OF HIS CLASS for God’s sake. People like him certainly don’t raise murderers as I’m sure you understand. He wrote important papers and was asked to present his brilliant ideas to heads of state. He, as everyone very well knows, was an important man.

He died, of course, as old men are want to do. He died in as dignified a way as possible and didn’t leave even a trace of a mess for others to clean up unless you count his corpse. There are people for that, though, so that hardly counts. He raised me well before he left this earth and the accusations being hurtled at me would make him roll over in his grave if he were within earshot.

Anyway. As I was saying, calling me a murderer is simply uncalled for, clearly. Not only was my father brilliant and well connected before he married, he married my mother. She – well, she was a force to be reconed with and would NOT have stood for anything so base as a murderous daughter. Anyone who had met her would tell you the same. She knew exactly which buttons to button and which to leave alone and you certainly don’t want to presume that anyone with that level of knowledge would bring up a killer. I was at her side, in the arms of my nanny, from my very first breath until the last breath of hers and, I promise you, I learned how to be a lady. 

Ladies, I’ll have you know, remember what’s important even in the face of adversity. Our reputation is our most valuable assett. Hair and cheek bones and a smooth round behind will only take you so far. She said that every time she dressed for dinner and taught me to say it, too. I’ll always remember getting to perch on the stool in front of her makeup table and puckering my lips so she could make them red and beautiful with her silver lipstic tube. She taught me things while I sat on that stool and you’d better believe I remember every lesson.

It really was his fault, you know, that he ended up taking his last breaths in my presence. I didn’t ask for it to happen. I didn’t ask to watch a man die – there is NOTHING ladylike about any part of that unpleasant situation. I’d say you should ask him how it happened and why, though I understand how that isn’t quite an option at this point.