Vivienne studied her reflection, adjusting her mouth to form the words of the lie she needed to tell. She stared at the image in the ornate oval frame and then looked herself in the eyes again, forcing a smile. “Yes; the likeness is uncanny, isn’t it?” she said aloud. She put a hand to her breast, feigning modesty. “Well, it has been said that the Westmore women have a distinctiveness that remains with each successive generation.” She gestured to the chair next to her dressing table demurely. “Look at my lovely daughter; can you see the resemblance?” Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her fate and that of her daughter; like the Westmore women who had come before them, they both carried the curse of near-immortality. Her daughter relished the idea of living for centuries, while Vivienne had felt the guilty burden of it for most of her life. The photo about which she formed the lie was not her grandmother or her mother; it was her own face staring back, beatific smile preserved, taken nearly 50 years ago to the day. As she looked from her eyes in the image to her eyes in the mirror, she began to cry soft, ancient tears.
A little 205 word piece for today’s Write Now! prompt. Click below to visit and add yours.