a haunted house with a picket fence / big bolts of lightning hanging low

liminal sitting room. source: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/1970393583433882/ (not ai to my knowledge)

A/N: inspired by the ‘American Dream’ and the 2020 song ‘I Know The End’ by Phoebe Bridgers (the title is made up of some lyrics from it).

As the thunderstorm raged outside the house, seven-year-old Stephanie had her eyes glued to the TV as it broadcasted the Miss USA pageant; next to her on the couch, her mother Daphne partially watched the screen, but most of of her attention was on the senatorial election coverage blasting from her laptop. All three sounds mingled in a cacophony of the American Dream. The crack of lightning across the sky, the speeches of the prenaturally beautiful women onscreen, the arguing of the two would-be senators seeking to lead Connecticut. The darkness outside was expansive, bottomless, as if their home had fallen into a black hole.

‘I like her,’ Stephanie said, as the pageant candidate for Nebraska finished her introduction.

Daphne watched her child’s face. It was lit by their old TV, the plastic smiles of Miss USA hopefuls reflected in her eyes. Her ratty plaits dangled down her back. Not for the first time, she wondered where Stephanie’s obsessiion with these lithe, ultra-feminine dolls had come from. She had just come home from elementary school one day, speaking of the lurid competition of beauty Daphne had abhored at her age, and how much she admired the poor women who took part in it. Daphne had never been the kind of mother who restricted what her child could enjoy. Yet something about her little girl’s interest unsettled her.

‘Why do you like her, sweetheart?’

‘Well, I like them all, but I like her the most. I want her to win lots, Mom. She seems super nice. I’d like to be her friend.’

‘I like her too,’ Daphne lied.

She shifted her position on the peeling pleather couch, moving her MacBook Air closer to her and resting it comfortably on her thighs. The Republican and Democratic candidates were now hurling barbs back and forth. Daphne observed their pixelated forms, resigned, as Stephanie leaned so far forward to the TV that her small nose nearly brushed its surface.

An notification pinged, disrupting the chaos for a brief moment. Daphne scanned it as it bobbed at the bottom right of the screen.

‘Storm’s continuing all day,’ she said, more to herself than Stephanie.

‘When will it stop? I want to go outside and play with Kim next door.’

‘I don’t know when it’s ending, honey, I’m sorry. Please don’t go outside. It’s dangerous. You could get blown away. Just keep watching the TV.’

The girl pouted, but her irritation was short-lived. Before long, she was again entranced by the skimpy oufit of Miss Texas, a bikini top and short-shorts, each in a daring shade of red.

Daphne gave up on the election proceedings. It was too boring. She began to fantasize the two contenders scuffling on the studio floor. Pulling hair, uttering expletives, spilling blood in the incessant scratching and punching and biting.

The storm worsened outside, but both woman and girl took no notice. They just watched the parade of gorgeous contestants show off their long legs, each one perfect, unobtainable. An illusion of supernatural femaleness they would never be able to convey.