In the Eyes of The Beholder.
Her beauty, indisputable to any onlooker, meant little to me. She cavorted around like a mink on steroids, stilettos tapping, indigo eyeliner a blur in the low light. She burned, of that there was no doubt, had fire in her belly, even, but for and on behalf of what, who could say? She was a woman who lacked virtues, a moral compass, yet had enthralled a small community of men. What that said about they maddened me further.
My son, a boy of six, and daughter aged nine, held my hands tighter as the crowd grew more raucous. They anticipated, and had reason to be. I did not, for I knew her true self.
The buzzing she emitted gave her away if her exaggerated display of energy did not. The cobalt light that flickered behind her rather too opaque eyes only sealed my opinion: she was an automaton, a remade, and not a man amongst them knew it.
Like the Pied Piper, she led her tribe of oversized rats down a back alley; I covered Kara’s and Jame’s ears then. In a flash of blue and thirty seconds of screaming, she had her way. All was silent in the alley until she tottered back out.
“Your lipstick’s smudged!” I bellowed across the divide for everyone knew an automaton’s auditory capabilities were poor.
“Sir,” she nodded in thanks. She wiped her lips with the back of her handbag, the crimson blood spilling across porcelain cheeks. If she noticed, she did not show it.
I watched her realign her wig, tug her knickers back into position, no one liked to see an exposed metal arse, and trotted away into the coming night replenished.
How did I feel?
Relieved, in truth. Better them than us, I thought, as my daughter tugged at my cuff and said, “Wasn’t she pretty.”