Title: They Remembered Jayne Mansfield
Author: Faithtastic
E-mail: faithtastic@j...
Summary: Cordelia needs closure. Response to Dead Letter challenge. 
(http://www.dymphna.net/deadletters)
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: list archives, anywhere else ask first.
Feedback: G'wan.
Acknowledgements: Dolores for beta-ing and to Kate and Sun who came 
up with the Dead Letters challenge thing in the first place.

*****

"SOAP STARLET CORDELIA CHASE DIES IN TRAGIC ON-SET ACCIDENT"

That was the headline the day I died, maybe you saw it? 10.27 am on a 
scorching Tuesday morning. I mean, god, it so wasn't the way I 
pictured my death. I expected glamour, well… as much glamour as you 
can expect from your body ceasing to function. Like… car crashes can 
be glamorous – all Jackio O' dark glasses and headscarf billowing 
behind you as you slam on the brakes and your sporty little coupe 
collides with a articulated truck. Other times I imagined a heroic 
death, forfeiting my life to save an innocent homeless person from 
some big ugly fanged demon of unknown origin. Or maybe with great 
poignancy, passing away all Jessica Tandy-like after winning my third 
Oscar, throwing Hollywood into frenzied mourning with celebrities and 
fans alike lining up to pay tribute to me, the beauty of my youth, my 
rare talent, the artistry of my performances, my influence over a 
whole generation of actresses… you get the picture, right? 

Well, at least I'll never have to deal with wrinkles or losing my 
figure.

But, no, I had to `go' in the lamest possible way. An unsecured 
lighting rig dropped on me on the way back to the make-up trailer. 
The trailer where I showed up at 7am day after day to dutifully apply 
my own make-up (`Sunsets of Our Lives' didn't have the budget to 
employ a professional make-up artist.) You always had to emphasise 
the eyes with elaborate shadow and layers and layers of mascara. And 
god, no one seemed to question the weirdness of having the characters 
wake up with perfect hair and make-up. Hello? Why did anyone never 
suffer from bed-head in the air-brushed world of soaps?

Anyway, so there I was, my limbs skewed at this inhuman angle, my 
face, my perfect face (it was all about the face… and maybe the 
breasts too if I was being totally honest) all burst and broken, and 
looking like a fucking panda with all that damn eye make-up. The 
lighting techs, runners, and ultra untalented extras all came 
rushing, gaping and crowding, their faces looming and orange above 
me – because in LA everyone has a George Hamilton perma-tan. And I 
swear I saw this tiny smirk on Saphron Steele's face. She was like my 
arch rival on the show for the love of Casey Ventura, the resident 
hunk. She was a bitch in real life too, and I couldn't help but 
wonder if she hadn't plotted my untimely demise just so she could get 
the Winnebago to herself…

So that two-faced bitch was the last thing I saw before Doyle, 
Principal Flutie and Miss Calendar came and oh! was that… Larry 
Blaisedale? Wow, he looked great in white. Slimmer. And I didn't have 
time to think about why he was holding Doyle's hand and smiling. This 
place is obviously an equal opportunities afterlife. I mean, is every 
man I've ever known a closet case? Because I was seriously beginning 
to wonder about Wesley and Angel... 

I guess you're wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, it's not 
like we get to just sit back and relax here, y'know. It may be all 
paradisey but you have to earn your wings. So my assignment is to 
look out for this girl that reminds me a lot of you. Yeah, she's 
similarly clueless about fashion and style. But she has potential 
which I'm sworn to secrecy about. According to The Powers That Are 
Annoyingly Cryptic, she has some kind of important destiny, yadda, 
yadda, yadda. Whatever. 

What I'm trying to say, and I know I've never been any good at this 
sincerity stuff, is that I never really blamed you for Xander. He 
loved you more than he loved me. End of story. What bugged was… I 
think I loved you a little too and you never acknowledged me. All I 
was to you was an inconvenience, a dealer of bitchy one liners, Queen 
C of shallowness.

So, this is closure. I'm so over you, Buffy Summers. Absolutely. 
Right.