by Lee Hayton
Yes, it was all a joke. Yes, I once stood trapped in a room full of drunken men. A beautiful white dress became streaked red with my virgin blood. Here we are, detour over. We’ve reached this same point again for real, and I’ve made my final decision. You don’t need the grisly details.
Instead, I’ll leave you for the moment with a silly, love-struck girl. A kiss, light as a butterfly’s landing, destined to linger on her lips for over a decade. A crimson stain about to bloom in tragic sorrow from her heart.
Chapter Three
Sorry about that. I didn’t mean for you to catch me weeping. At my age, it’s undignified. An ugly, old woman crying doesn’t have any redeeming features. Not like a blossoming young girl with pale cheeks that grow rose red with distress. Thick, creamy cataracts over gouged-out eyes don’t look any better when you apply moisture. Not like sparkling blue peepers expanding through the refractive lens of tears.
A short gap then, for you to skip or fill in with your imagination. Suffice it to say, pleasant thoughts were no longer the only things in my mind.
After what happened to me, the startling repercussion that shows me up as foolish is that I still believed in our engagement. For a week, Francois and I still met each day. Then it faded to once a week, then once a month.
It was his mother. It was his father. It was his commitment to learning foreign policy. It was visiting dignitaries and dull celebrations of cultures that no one could ever truly respect.
The knife inserted in my chest, slowly twisted. Its ragged edge cut deeper. Love and hate and contempt and fear melded together in scar tissue around my wounded heart.
Oh. I just got a chill running over my skin.
Sometimes recalling these memories is just the same as being there. It’s like my body stored a trace of my initial chemical reaction. Now and then, it will release the cocktail. Shots of adrenalin and dopamine will race and chase around my bloodstream. Perfectly timed, each spurt is delivered in tandem with my slide show memory. It makes my muscles bunch and jump, my pulse speeds up the same.
So, there I was, trying to ignore the downward trajectory of my situation. My stomach was always so tense, I began to throw up during the day. Skinny already, I melted down a dress size. Soon I resembled Cinderella much more than I did Anastasia or my mom.
Then my abdomen began to extend out, even though I still couldn’t hold down food. Despite the beatings my stepfather handed out for wasting resources, nourishment just wouldn’t stay inside my stomach long. The attempt to beat a sick child into being well completely failed.
Cinderella was the one who caught it first. Always hovering in the corner, always working, always sweeping. Her eyes hungrily traveled over every one of us as though we were stories to be read.
And boy, wasn’t this chapter of mine a doozy?
My mother hadn’t told me about the birds and bees. She might have been ignoring the tale altogether, or simply storing it up for later. Cinderella knew, though. Her own dear departed mommy hadn’t been so remiss.
One night, she snuck into my room and grabbed me by the hand. By that stage, I could only sleep in fits and starts, bad memories clogging my head instead of dreams.
Cinderella snuck me outside, past the privy and the chicken coop. In the shadow of the barn eaves, she whispered, “Are you pregnant?”
The query swept away my breath. Pregnant.
Once the word was out in the open air, it seemed both reasonable and perfectly devastating. A chill shiver worked its way over every inch of my skin. My hot blood dropped ten degrees down into cold.
“How could I be pregnant?” I countered. Partly to buy some time, mostly due to genuine ignorance. “How do you get pregnant?”
Cinderella tilted her head and looked at me through her sad, old-lady eyes. “You have sex with a man, dummy. How d’you think it happened?”
So, that was how I found out for certain that what had been done to me had been sexual. That was how I discovered that contrary to my belief, a child wasn’t deposited on your doorstep a year after you got married.
A frown creased Cindy’s face into a pattern of confusion. “Whose child is it?” she whispered.
My first retort was to say the child was mine, but then I faltered. I needed to talk to Francois, explain to him what was happening. We’d need to move up our engagement and be married before the child came.
“How long do pregnancies last?”
Oh, yes. You can snigger and laugh. You of the “informed” generation. Well in my day, no one took the time to teach a girl anything useful. Aside from instruction on how to cook, clean, and make ends meet, everybody knew that education was wasted on females. The Ivy Kingdom holds tightly to those beliefs, even in this day and age.
Now my feathers are so ruffled I’ve lost my place. Darkness and barns, Cinderella and whispered secrets, fear and confusion and the first buds of growing life.
Right. Once the situation was explained to me, I understood full well I needed to move fast. If the baby showed any more, then there’d be sniggers and smirks at the royal wedding, and that just wouldn’t do.
Two secrets now. Two secrets swelling up ready to burst inside me. I watched Anastasia grow into a faint figure, barely visible in the difference as my troubles carried me away.
It never even occurred to me to ask for help from my mother. Maybe that makes me a terrible daughter, who can tell? If I wanted to take the high road, I could explain I had no wish to dump my troubles upon her. From the sounds issuing from her room some nights, it seemed she had plenty of her own. But the thought never crossed my mind.
When Francois wanted to spend time with me, he’d been underfoot all day long. Now the shine of newness had faded into tarnish, I couldn’t hunt him out to spend one second talking.
As the days passed by with me failing to make any contact, my frustration grew into desperation. Time wasn’t something I could afford to squander, but I still spent my days polishing cutlery and creamer jugs while my baby grew inside me.
At last, my fear of the baby showing overrode my fear of forcing my presence upon Francois. I cornered the footman and demanded that he take me to the prince, at once.
Whether it was my tone of voice or just casual curiosity that made him follow my directions, I don’t know. Soon I was ensconced in the same servant room to wait. The one I’d been dragged into on that first occasion, not knowing what lay ahead.
Francois’ face was stern when he joined me many long minutes later. He only dismissed his footman from the room when my insistent tone turned strident. His expression was one of boredom, and fear crept up the back of my throat.
All finesse gone, I whispered, “I’m pregnant.” Then dissolved into a flood of tears. His shocked stance blurred in my weeping eyes. I gasped with horror as I thought he would reject me.
But after a moment, Francois swept me into his arms. They were gentle and loving, the way they’d been the first weeks of our courtship. When I closed my eyes with gratitude, I could almost wipe out all the rest.
“We’ll have to get married,” he said, saving me the bother of explaining. I nodded vigorously, my hair tumbling out of its restraints to fall around my shoulders. Francois plunged his fingers deep into it, as other fingers thrust deep elsewhere.
The relief of sharing my secret and knowing that soon things would be alright, gave me the energy to fight back against my nausea. While Francois planned our wedding, I began to put back on my weight. Not just my belly this time, my cheeks plumped back out, and my bosom once again filled up my dress.
When the waistband of my old cleaning dress began to strain under the constant stretching of my midriff, anxiety once more began to clog up the back of my throat. A dozen times a day, I’d have so much trouble breathing that stars would dance across my vision. The slightest noise would propel me a good foot into the air.
And still, the cleaning. Always cleaning silver. I began to pretend I was polishing it up for my impending nuptials. Then another day would pa
ss with no word, and I’d lie awake at night my pupils bulging out in fear.
In the mornings, I would press hard against my belly. Squeeze it into clothing that no longer fitted, a mix of determination and hope.
Now, not only could I not catch sight of Francois around the castle. His faithful footman had always made himself scarce. I began to lose all my belief that anything was happening.
And then one night, we arrived home to find my stepfather joyously waving an invitation. Delicate golden calligraphy was written upon a thick cream card. My heart jolted up into my throat.
“We’re invited to a ball,” he shouted with excitement. His movements were more animated than I’d seen in months. “Not me, but you,” he kissed my mother, “you,” he kissed Anastasia, “you,” his fermented breath teased my cheek, “and you, my darling,” he said. We looked on in astonished puzzlement, as he pulled Cinderella towards him and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re going to be the belle of the ball,” he said. For once, the hand he placed upon her cheek was gentle.
A sickening spin of confusion ran up my body as I realized that something had gone terribly wrong.
“The Prince is throwing a party,” my stepfather yelled. He swung Cinderella around in a circle. “The Prince is throwing a party to find a wife, and my sweet angel will be just the ticket he’s looking for!”
Nausea and rising panic clenched my stomach in equal measure as I looked at my stepsister. I looked at Cinderella’s blond hair, slender frame, and ample bosom. I looked at the rose red apples of color in her cheeks and realized that he might well be right.
Chapter Four
This is the part you know, isn’t it? This is the part that’s legendary. Two ugly stepsisters and their evil mother trying to stop the belle from lighting up her destiny ball.
Ugly, huh. Sure, I’m ugly now, and I know the difference. But Anastasia always shone like her skin had been dipped in opalescence. Her curves would break the heart of a tin soldier, clutched in the sweaty fist of a young boy. Her eyes would hold a man’s gaze, decades after he’d last seen her. Her lips would…
Well. Do I really need to continue? She was fucking hot, and we’ll leave it there. Ugly was only ever on the evil lips of catty beholders. Beauty is what beauty does, and they think that we did wrong.
Anyway. Back to the invitation. There was I, pregnant to the Prince or one of his evil minions. Meanwhile, my stepfather’s swinging his daughter around. Overjoyed at the prospect of using her for bait to catch a future king.
And Cinderella?
Well, I’d never let her know who it was that got me into trouble. Never told Anastasia neither, though from the worried frown she cast my way I think she was beginning to guess. And do you know what the worst thing was?
Hope.
In my dimwitted innocent head, so open-minded my brain was in danger of falling out, I still thought there was a possibility that this was an elaborate plot from the prince. After all, it wasn’t as though he was bringing home a neighboring princess to meet his parents. If I dressed up well and looked divine, he may pretend to fall in love all over again.
Our stepfather went shopping for the finest clothes, while we huddled in a puzzled group at home, wondering what it all meant. Despite the weekly payments my mother, my sister, and I handed over to him, my stepfather returned with nothing for us.
Cinderella was to be the belle of the ball. Cinderella got the fancy dress. When Anastasia mentioned she’d like to go as well, she was told to make do with her cleaning dress.
But no, the tale isn’t that twisted. Things haven’t turned completely back to front. There’s more to come, just hold onto your patience for a while longer. This isn’t a simple thing to distil. It’s full of layers—lovely, dark, and deep.
For a start, the invitation wasn’t one. It was a demand, straightforward and without room for negotiation. It wasn’t, “Here’s a fancy ball we’re throwing, come along if you’d like a chance to dance with the future King.” No. It was, “By Royal decree, all available single females in the county are to attend a dance. The prince will select a wife from the assembled guests. His choice is final.”
Do you understand why that tiny glimmer of hope still twinkled in my chest? His choice is final. The invitation made it crystal clear that even a royal parent couldn’t overthrow the decision. Maybe they’d weigh-in, surely they would, but in the end, it would come down to the prince. If Francois picked my hand that night, he would have the final say.
That was why I desperately needed a gown. It didn’t need to be the finest in the land, but it needed to be good enough for me to blend in. There’d be no believing that the prince would choose an unkempt woman clothed in a dress of well-washed gray. I needed some finery. And if my stepfather wouldn’t provide it to me, I had to think of another way to get it.
###
If men had the same imposed standards for attractiveness, do you think they’d ever get anything done? If they had to primp and preen and pamper to meet the ideal image of a grown man, would wars cease to be fought, money cease to be earned? Would the Kingdom crumble into idleness while they curled their hair and weaved tiny pearls into their beards?
And that’s all without even taking the money into consideration. I mean, what a waste. Goop for your eyelashes, goop for your cheeks. Spread some more on your lips until what you look like is hidden deep under cover. I’m not a feminist or anything, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to drop so much money on just walking out the front door.
Well, that’s a lie. I don’t anymore. If I’m not able to see it, why on earth should I care?
It didn’t help that as soon as the invitation was dropped into every household, the merchants decided to raise their prices and gouge out a little more. The dressmaker wanted double—DOUBLE—the price to sew up a garment and that was on top of the cost of fabric. The gown also needed to be full-length because you don’t want me to get started on the cost of shoes.
My mother pulled some old dresses out of her wardrobe. Leftovers from two wedding days and a short stint as a debutante back before she met my dad. They’d already had a going over, being cut up for doll’s dresses for Anastasia and me to play with. Despite the prohibitive cost she’d initially paid, there wasn’t enough left for two of us to dress in finery.
Especially not when one of us was pregnant. My waist had chosen the wrong time to suddenly expand. Each inch cost another few dollars’ worth of fabric. Each extra stitch was another minute’s worth of labor on the tab.
If I wanted to go to that event and go dressed up to the nines so I could see if my hopeful heart was hitting the mark, then I needed to find another way. Anastasia and Cinderella were set. Now the pregnant bride-to-be just needed a dress as well.
###
I haven’t mentioned the footman for a while, now have I? Just one demand to see the prince, and then he faded away from sight. It’s not because he no longer features in my story, though. Just that being thinking of him this close to night, reminds me of how much I’ve lost and how much I have to fear.
What? Can’t a blind woman still be afraid of the night time?
I tell you, there are more scrabbling little creatures, more sweeping prey with talons long enough to take your eyes out than there is during the day. Whether you can see or not is entirely irrelevant. It’s the creatures that need the cover of darkness that should have you worried at night. If it’s the dark itself, bring a flashlight, stupid.
The footman was called Gerald, or maybe he wasn’t, and I’m just not in the right frame of mind to recall. Innocuous, once I’d been elevated by close courtship above his station. But I never lauded anything over him, even for the brief time that I could.
There’s an advantage to believing that any moment the whole shebang might be taken away from you. There’s an advantage in being skeptical that what’s happening is real.
It’s that you don’t treat the people around you like shit, just because you can. Others had done that
to poor Gerald, I could see it on his face.
Already, it had paid off for me once, when I had to ask him to let me see Francois again. Now, it paid off once more as I crept away from my assigned position in the castle to track him down and ask him a favor almost too large to understand.
Disingenuous is my name. A sincere desire for truth is my undoing. See, I could let you read that and believe what was to come and you’d have been perfectly content.
But my morality is weird and complicated and often doesn’t care for me the way it should. Even though it let me lie to you, now it’s demanding I tell the truth.
Gerald didn’t help me out because I treated him well. Gerald probably wouldn’t have known the difference even if I hadn’t. The man was born with the servant’s code practically tattooed on his forehead. Serve your master well, and that’s the best thing you can ever do.
The one thing Gerald noticed wasn’t cruelty directed at him, it was cruelty directed towards others. Particularly those who looked so much like the wife he’d lost at such an early age.
And don’t let your mind go there. The woman drowned, okay? Nothing to do with back rooms and lost innocence. More to do with the play of sunshine on sparkling water. More to do with a sweltering day, a desperate longing to be cool, and an unfortunate overconfidence in her abilities.
Unfortunate thing. When Gerald told me of his first wife, years later, I could visualize the tangled draggle of her blond hair as they pulled her from the water. The cloudy film growing on the surface of her blue eyes, never to twinkle with joy again. I could smell the dank scent of the lake mud clinging stubbornly to her dress. The odor of rotting weeds that grew stronger as the water evaporated in the harsh glare of the sun.
