Chapter Text
Life was like the skies during snow. Dull, no sun, not a zest of life behind the clouds. The sun mourns behind the thick curtain of depressing gray, not even the birds chirped today. Not even the crickets spared a croak. Mother sat on the side, curtly fanning herself with the off white, intricate lace fan, while father gruffly shook hands with the other man. The other man meant business, scolding his son occasionally while discussing my future with him.
If I spoke, I would be disowned. My family was rich, but considered a failure because we have all girls and only one. I’m an only child. And mother couldn’t have any more children after me because I took all the resources. Mother’s body wasn’t as nice as it used to be after me either. Father complained about her stretchmarks, her sunken face, her down tilted eyes that seemed to be graced by fatigue, her under eyes spoke the same, her face utterly devoid of what happiness came before Father met her. She used to softly whisper me stories when I was younger, about how she wanted to become a teacher.
She loved learning about the world, and she wanted to teach me too. She taught me about make-up, how to color-correct my imperfections, to make me desirable to men. But I felt no attraction to them. She tried to show me other boys my age, dressed dapper but their demeanors seemed quite disgusting. They didn’t have any mystery. They were simply there. Nothing of true zestful life. She seemed to look down on me as well, possibly worried about the life I’d have because I didn’t like the boys she arranged play dates for, or brought over for tea to delicately discuss her worries of the future for me with other noble mothers.
I couldn’t be bothered by them. I noticed women being free in the city through old newspapers, with the cover name “Vogue.” They posed extravagantly in clothes with many layers and bright colors. I was infatuated.
The desk rumbled softly as I opened the drawers in frenzy for a pen, the ink of it softly smudging against my fingers as I opened the lid and plucked out the crumpled paper under one of my notebooks. My thoughts swirled to mush as I could only think of one thing: The girls and their freedom.
I imagined their life stories, far from my own. They come from humble beginnings, coming from unknown cities, the coast, different countries. I imagined the slightly darker skinned model with many layers wanting to be an artist, drawing in the city and sitting pretty near her art. While a possible observer, another girl, possibly a scientist, clutched her bag, gazing not at the art, but at the artist. A love story to blossom. Life was meant to be romantic. (insert really crisp paper crunch).
This was my secret tryst. After school and after dinner, I would always secretly write, my dreams and ambitions tucked neatly under my silken sheets. And I continued this habit till my 17th birthday.Today. Mother called me down early, practically dragging me to her room. She pulled my hair into soft pink curlers, beating my face with powders and blushes. There was too much on my cheeks, and she spent so much time on my lips in a shape they weren’t; I have small lips, but she shaped them into a bee-sting pout. I don’t like the look of a pout. It has never failed to make me look utterly childish.
“Clementine, boys will not like a lady with such personality… You must’ve gotten it from your father.” Her words still sting, as petty as ever. As if she possesses the best life by being the shell of a glorified rag-doll.
I was thrown into an intricate gown as well, just like hers as she spun the curlers out with whimsy that clearly wasn’t present during the day. It was even raining outside, such awful weather, it was practically raining cats and dogs. Rumbling shook the ground, as if the gates of hell were urging me not to move on with my day. But mother rushed me out anyway, nagging me softly about how I’m ruining my curls simply by existing.
I don’t get a birthday breakfast anymore, but they stopped that since I’ve reached the pitiful age of ten, so what point is there in expecting it like a fool anyway? My gown nearly got snagged as I fell into a nearby chair in a corner, right next to a random boy. He seemed quite distracted, reading a book. Mother sat in her own chair, fanning herself quickly and curtly while the other mother took a micro-aggressive stare at me. I could tell she was judging, and I’d love to scowl back, but mother and father would humiliate me. And the last thing I’d want would be for my ego to drop.
But yet again, after a stare at myself on the cold glass not covered by the opulent lace curtains, I looked quite fabulous. I never thought I’d admire myself in the eyes of oppression, but at least oppression has good taste. But her gaze, I can’t help but feel the attempt at a hole being burned to access my soul. It wouldn’t hurt to stare back.
I settle my hands down back into the skirt of the dress, my head turning slowly to face her direction as I simply stared, my beaten face full of makeup appearing like a creepy doll to her direction. To further sell the effect, I didn’t blink. She finally dropped the stare after at least two minutes, following it with a pitiful scoff as she curtly fanned herself. The muffled gruffs between fathers continued, the son continuing to read while the mothers continued to play coquette in their over-the-top dresses, layered with lace and ruffles.
But I at least hid my papers and pen under my dress. The paper crunched briefly as I attempted to slide it out from under my skirt, the pen nearly clattering to the floor as I caught it right before the floor and it shared contact. My fingers gripped the pencil as I softly wrote in an area between excess fabric and the skirt, to hide my activity. Two women in love, the artist displaying her art, yet the observer not observing the art, but the artist with intent. It’s quite the sweet love story, as the two play coy and dress greatly yet still love deeply.
To contrast at least to what I have now, it’s a good start. But it’s not always good to have my guard down. My foot softly tapped against the floor constantly, as if tapping out my prayers to leave this uncomfortable situation adorned in lace and frills. The son of the other gruff French man seemed occupied, engulfed in his small book hooked between the thumb and pinky of his hand. Hands of a noble, obviously quite frail.
Nearly like a woman's. And he had quite long lashes, even I’d be envious. Yet all of that had to be ruined because he’s a man. Chartreuse eyes served as a quite ugly window to the soul, with darker longer lashes to serve as curtains to at least hide the horrendous color choice. And his hair didn’t do much to hide a slightly wider face than appreciated. His hair was quite red, not the typical orange-red you'd expect from a typical red head, closer to a ruby color would correctly describe his hair. And he has quite the skinny figure, with a slimmer waist than I do. I’m quite sure I spent most of my time staring at such a delicate figure that my train of thoughts were interrupted as father gruffly stated the deal loud enough to slice through the silent tension on a stormy morning. The sun was too depressed to show up to such a pitiful gathering.
“Clementine, your honor will be restored within this deal, as you will be arranged to marry this fine gentleman,” I watched as father gestured toward the redheaded boy, curiously looking up from his small book before going back to reading. He seemed to have no interest. And his father seemed to notice as well. His father sharply grumbled, bringing the young man to sit a bit straighter and take another look at me. He paused, quietly calculating before subtly rolling his snake-like eyes and going back to reading. This would be quite the rough ride I see.