“What the hell? Pamela, why am I on your TV?”
“You’re on Facebook, Audrey. I put up the page from my laptop. It’s about fashion victims, and you’re one of them…”
“I can see, Pamela. Fashion victim? I am not a fashion victim… and what the hell is a frigging fashion victim anyway?”
“Well, it’s someone with no sense of style and maybe should stop trying to dress like her teenage daughter.”
“Where does it say that? I want the precise definition of.. of that libelous term. Right now, Pamela!”
“I already looked it up, mum. According to the dictionary, the mark of a true fashion victim is wearing every faddish trend that comes out, and typically all at one time. Oh, and something about the fashion police should arrest such people.”
“Arrest? The Oxford English Dictionary said that?”
“No. The Urban Dictionary, online. It’s cool about such things, mummy, dearest.”
Audrey’s spirit sank along with her body onto her daughter’s bed. “Who wrote this drivel, anyway? And try to enjoy this a little less, Pammy. Who stabbed me in the back?”
Pamela went to the screen and pointed at the author’s name.
Audrey laid back on the bed and pulled a pillow over her face.
“C’mon, mum. I’ll have Rose bring you scotch and a bandage for that knife wound. I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“No. Where? We’re suppose to have lunch at Highcrown’s.”
“Do you really want to go there with that gaping hole in your back, mum?”
” You have to help me figure out what to do about this… this assassination.”
“Pull yourself together, Audrey…”
‘Help mummy, sweetie. I’ll buy you a…”
Audrey and Pamela turned and looked at Rose standing inside the doorway, holding a glass, a box of bandages, and a bottle of scotch in her arms.
“Bring Rose up to speed, Pammy. I need a drink.”
After a few minutes of conferring with Pamela, Rose sat beside Audrey and put her arm around Audrey’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry about this. You don’t care what people think of you. So you dress too young for your age. So what?”
Audrey flinched at Rose’s words and poured herself another scotch.
Rose looked at Pamela. “Who is this Randy Dresser?”
“It’s a pseudonym, Rosie. A pen name.”
Rose, confused, addressed Audrey . “Do you know who it is?”
Audrey walked away from the huge screen and finally spoke, “That Benedict Arnold… I’m not a fashion victim. I’m fabulous, legendary. This means war girls. Who’s with me?”
Thoroughly frustrated, Rose barked at Audrey. ” Who is it?”
Flash Fiction Challenge
Prompt: “While scrolling through Facebook, a women sees a picture of herself in a post about fashion victims.”