She Was Venus In Fur?

She can’t recall the last time she felt like getting out of bed. Is it weeks? Months? Her brain is coated with fur. She cannot summon mental power for simple calculation.

Being her is too hard.

Rolling onto her back uses every reserve of energy. She may never move again. The ceiling presses against her like a trash compactor. It squeezes out all will to live.

Or it was supposed to. When did it stop moving? She sits up, looks around, realizes it’s late July.

She is missing the sale at the mall.

In a whirlwind-like frenzy, she moves from bed to shower to hair dryer to makeup mirror. With every flush of the toilet, she imagines her depression leaking from her, disappearing in a swoosh of blue water. So she keeps pushing the lever. Every liquid swirl carries her higher and higher.

At the closet, she cannot fathom which combination of fabric will clothe her new mood.

She runs her fingers over silks and satins, but no option satisfies. Who bought this $2,500 halter dress covered in red sequins? She knows it cost that much because the price tag is still there, handwritten calligraphy safety-pinned to the neck. But then again, it looks as festive as she feels, and it’s here, so…..

She pulls the red dress from the hanger, undoes the zipper, and steps into its softness.

The seams strain around her hips once she finally manages the zipper, but she chooses to believe it makes the most of her every curve. She ties a bow at the back of her neck. When her eyes lock on herself in the mirror, she gasps. Of course! She bought this gown eight or nine months ago at that couture shop in the mall simply because she couldn’t believe it made her look this beautiful.

She slips her feet into red satin pumps. Swipes her smile with a lipstick called Valentine. Stops at her jewelry cabinet and loads up each finger with at least two rings. Takes them all off and opts for five diamond bracelets on each wrist. Nope, not enough sparkle. She adds the rings back to the mix.

She is a shimmering, glittering fox. Boy, she looks as good as she feels.

It takes several key turns and a few pumps on the gas, but her car’s engine finally starts. She runs her bedecked fingers over the faux leather steering wheel cover and wonders whether she should just buy a new car. A red Mercedes convertible to match her dress maybe. No, her husband will kill her when he gets home from work, so she sticks with her original plan.

The mall is her balm, her haven, her temple. Every dollar she spends lifts her higher and higher.

She struts through the brass-trimmed revolving door. Her high heels float a few inches above the marble floor. Everyone stops to look at her like she’s the best thing they’ve seen all day. She hurries past the fine jewelry store and the shop that carries couture clothing. Those places never give her the hit she needs, no matter how much she buys. And then she stops. Tears flood her eyes. Her heart leaps at the sign.

Fur.

She rushes into the fur shop. The sales lady cannot even keep up with her. A full-length black mink. Another of sheared beaver. Oh, and she cannot resist the chinchilla. But what about those days when she doesn’t need something so covered up? Ah yes, she must definitely have this brown mink jacket. And this short sable coat.

Finally. Five fur coats. She plonks down her husband’s credit card. Signs the receipt without looking at the total.

$30,000.

Her husband won’t find out until he gets the bill. It will be too late to return them, and besides, he can’t yell at her anyway. She will have long since retired to her bed. Mania spent. The coats will remain piled on the floor in her closet, tags still attached.

Until she dies.

Her daughter cleans out her things. Gives her mother’s sister one of the infamous fur coats. That sister lives near Miami, but so what?

And when that sister’s niece tries to get her to donate the fur coat to charity, the sister screams, “I need that! I’m going to freeze to death when I move to South Carolina, and I need that fur coat!”

The sister never wears it, either.

So now the niece has it. A bunch of minks died ages and ages ago. She thinks keeping the coat is the best way to honor both their sacrifice and this bonkers story. But really, every time she sees it hanging in her coat closet, she mutters, “I hope I’m not as crazy as the rest of my freaking family.”

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This post is a continuation of The Aftermath of Death. Because good stories are worth keeping when we know they’re attached to a thing.