okay… im going to give you a short explanation. pretty much, this is for hillary. but i have to have a piece to submit to a writing contesty thing i was selected for, but it can only be 2 pages long… so i had to shorten it… a lot. so i need to know if it’s now poo… perhaps it was originally poo and now is even worse… i can tell you that originally it was even more emo. anyway, i need feedback. because otherwise ill be using a critical lense lol (not really, id choose something else). anyway. here it is:

An excerpt from Fallen Angel
Imagine this with me. You’re upstairs in our house, in your room, in front of the mounted mirror. Your daughter, my sister, I s getting changed in the bathroom, and you’re waiting anxiously. You’ve already had her hair straightened, then decided it didn’t match, so you had it curled and put up. You’ve helped her put on a light coat of foundation, a small amount of eyeliner and mascara to accent her expressive eyes, a dash of blush on each cheek, and some light lipstick and eye shadow. Finally, she emerges. She’s wearing the dress. It’s perfectly white, strapless, and lacy. Real diamonds are sewn into the veil. Her shoes are silver kitten heels, but you can’t see them under the floor length dress. She looks beautiful, every bit the 25 year old about to be married.
She walks over to you, shifts her dress back and whispers in your ear, “No fair. I work all afternoon to get ready, and you’ll be the beauty of the ball.”
You blush on cue and kiss her cheek, replying, “You get the guy anyway. You can’t have everything.” You giggle quietly together, trying to relieve your stress for each other through laughter. Slowly, your laughter turns into tears as you both realize that this is possibly the last time you’ll spend together, living in this house.
She pulls away first, and without looking at you, turns toward the door and says quietly, “It’s time to go.”
The entire limo ride is silent. Not an awkward silence but an unspoken appreciation of each others’ presence, an absentminded missing of each other before even separating, like all true goodbyes. In perfect goodbyes, you honestly mean the “good”- as in, have a “good” life, a “good” time, “good” friends- and please remember me. Real goodbyes have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and they don’t always involve words.
There’s a large church filled with hundreds of guests, all your closest friends and then some, lining the pews, decked in spring pinks and greens for the women and perfectly cut, dark tuxedos for the men. Everyone is chatting as the excitement rises to fill the room with a hum, then reaches its peak as all sound ceases. All sound but the playing of the organ, a familiar song. Your granddaughters- my daughters- walk down the aisle in catalogue flower girl dresses of palest lavender, tossing yellow rose petals alongside themselves as they slowly walk up to the front. You follow, escorted by your father, her grandfather, who incredibly is still alive, and you are fighting back tears as your weary body shuffles up the center. Behind you, dear old dad (by now so obese that his tux had to be handmade because they don’t come that big, but still looking sharp) escorts a lovely young lady up the aisle, beaming with pride. Blonde hair, blue eyes with a mischievous and mysterious shine to them, perfect makeup and hair, and a stunning dress- the one you yourself wore for your wedding day all those years ago- you, her mother, whom she credits with shaping her life. At last at the front of the church, she stands next to an attractive, middle- aged businessman- whom she is about to marry. You love him nearly as much as your daughter, aptly named Angel, does. The wedding begins and continues in ceremony and blandness to the most important sentence you will ever hear in your life. Her fiancée is the first to be asked, and as rehearsed, answers.
A simple “I do.”
The entire vow repeated, your daughter is asked to say the very same thing. But she doesn’t answer.
She’s dead.
Abortion is a permanent thing.

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