Please be advised that this story contains scenes of self-harm.
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Now I hang my head in shame.
It isn’t hard for me to do so,
considering all that has happened. With rotten fruit on my feet and vegetable
stains on my dress, it’s impossible for me to face a crowd who once adored me,
let alone the man who is now my husband.
Let me explain:
My name is Emily, and I was
chosen by a Gentlewoman of the State, from the many girls of the small settlement of Gladberry, to become
a Beautiful One: a girl whose place within the Glittering City is judged not by
the people, but the country. Our great Countess, Aa’eesha Dane, created this
Process in order to sustain the gene pool of the Great South, and create her
vision of a beautiful, perfect race.
The only problem with this? Her
plans for me backfired—and it was all because of one man who became obsessed
with me.
I can see him now, even from
behind the curtain that is shielding me from an angry crowd. The corner of his
lip is raised in a smirk, and his eyes are sparkling with delight over the
chaos that his words have sewn.
He is a journalist—a man who,
with pen and paper, can make or break a girl.
Just like he has done to me.
A sigh escapes my lips as the
gravity of the situation begins to take hold. Defeated, now, more than ever, I
slump my shoulders—and try, with little success, to keep from crying.
“Emily?” my advisor, a
Gentlewoman by the name of Revered Mother Terra, asks. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” I reply. “At least,
I think I will.”
She stares out the gap in the
curtain at the man I am staring at and says, “He will be punished.”
But how, I wonder? Is free speech
not a right the photojournalists enjoy? And if that’s the case, then just how
will he be punished, especially given that he did not directly tell the people
to do what they did?
I frown as I feel a hand upon my
shoulder, and immediately tense as I sense the man who is now my husband draw
forward. “Emily,” Arthur says.
“Yes?” I reply.
“It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry? I think.
I can’t help but laugh.
How can I not worry when the whole world now seems to be against me?
Rather than think about it, I
turn; and with sadness born of a time that should have been marvelous, follow
my husband and Revered Mother Terra away from the scene.
While we are flanked by members
of the Southern Alliance of Dames—female soldiers who stand at the ready to
protect us should anything go wrong—I can’t help but wonder if there is a gun
trained on me in the distance, and one madman or even woman waiting to fire.
Should I die, I think, on
this day, let it be known that I tried to be good.
I close my eyes.
Arthur sets a hand on my back and
begins to knead the tense muscles with his gentle fingers.
This should have been perfect.
This should have been wonderful. This should have been a fairytale come to
life.
But it wasn’t.
No.
This day—this day of reckoning—has been unlike any I
have ever experienced.
And I am now seen as a disgrace.
As we pile into the vehicle that will take us back to the Countess’ Spire, where all Beautiful Ones of my position are meant to live and wait, I wonder, just briefly, if everything will be all right.
Then I realize that will not likely be the case.
* * *
Our arrival is met with even more
photojournalists, even more cameras, even more disgrace. The SADs are the first
to exit; and though their shields are drawn, we can still be seen through the
glass insets that allow the Dames to look out at their potential aggressors.
“Whore!” I hear one cry.
“Wretch!” another calls.
“Witch!”
“Cretin!”
I keep my eyes lowered, and my
gaze set toward the ground, as we advance up the short walkway that leads to
the Spire’s glass doors. Here, the SADs guarding the doors part; and here, we
enter, only to be escorted through the sparkling front lobby and toward the
elevators that await us at the opposite side of it.
“We’re almost done,” Revered
Mother Terra says. “Then we won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Will we, though? Will we really? The truth of the matter is that she will not be burdened with this
colossal guilt, this immense shame, for it was not her that the man wrote
about, that he lied about. No. To
think that this will be over anytime soon is madness; and in that sense,
completely and utterly insane.
Though it seems to take ages to
make our way across the lobby, we are soon entering through the elevator, and
then rising up the Spire’s immense heights to a place where I am meant to live
with my husband for the next indeterminable while.
Many would have expected me to
cry, I think—to break down in sobs over what most would have considered the
greatest shame. However, resilience born of a life of poverty before my grandiose rise has granted me a
stone exterior, a carapace of hard flesh underneath.
A sigh escapes me as the elevator
begins to move.
Arthur asks, “Are you all right?”
And I, who can say little in
light of everything that has happened, merely say, “Yes. I’m fine.”
Callous as it is, the lie serves
me well, and is enough to put Arthur at peace, at least for the time being. Who
knows what he’ll say come time we reach my room.
My room.
I shiver as I consider the
implications of what it will mean.
Will he want to consummate the
marriage? Will he leave me be?
I don’t know; and that’s what
unsettles me.
I know I can’t think about it,
though, and for that reason, keep my eyes lowered and my gaze set toward the
ground.
Come time the elevator door
opens, it feels like we’ve been traveling forever.
“Come,” Revered Mother Terra
says. “This way.”
I follow her slowly, glad for the
distraction and even more thankful for her presence. It is the one thing I know
is distracting Arthur from saying more. From asking me if I’m all right. From
him telling me everything will be okay.
I know it won’t. I know this for
a fact. And yet, I know he would try to assure me with false platitudes, if
only because of everything that has occurred on this horrible day.
I can’t think on it for long.
Soon, we are drawing up to my
apartment door, and Revered Mother Terra is drawing a keycard from her pocket.
“Revered Mother,” I say as she
swipes the card to unlock the door.
“Yes?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“About what, dear?”
“About… this.” I gesture to the stains on my dress, my person, my being.
“The dress can be cleaned, dear.”
“That’s… not what I mean.”
She considers me for several long
moments before she finally says, “Please, come inside.”
We enter—the Revered Mother
first, me second, my husband third.
When it comes time for the door
to be closed, Revered Mother Terra turns to face me and says, “You mean to
inquire about your public persona.”
“I—” I start, then pause before
swallowing and saying, “Yes. I… I do.”
“The Gentlewomen of the
Glittering City will do everything in their power to ensure that this… matter of utmost importance… is handled.
Until then, I would highly suggest you refrain from stepping out of this room.”
“But—my Purpose—”
“Can wait to be declared,” she
says. She clears her throat and turns her attention to my husband. “What I need
for you to do is control the damage as much as possible.”
“Me?” Arthur asks. “Why? I’m not
the one who wrote those things.”
“But you are the one the people
are looking toward to prove or disprove these malicious statements.” She turns
her attention back to me. “Will you do as I ask? Will you remain here and avoid
the scrutiny of the public?”
“Yes, Revered Mother. I will.”
“Good.” She turns toward the
doorway. “Until then.”
She departs without another word,
leaving me to consider everything that has occurred—from the words, to the
wedding, to the aftermath of it all.
Arthur sighs and sets his hands
on my shoulders. “Let’s get you out of this dress,” he says.
“Can you…” I swallow and lower my
eyes.
“Can I… what?” he asks.
“Wait here. While I clean up?”
“Of course. Anything to make you
more comfortable.”
With a nod, I go about gathering
my clothes from my dresser—first a simple shirt, then underwear, then finally a
simple pair of pants. My husband watches my every move, his eyes cautious, his
gaze alert. It’s as if he’s waiting for me to crumble, for me to shake.
Sweeping in, at this point, would make him seem heroic—or, at the very least,
like the man I want him to be.
But I know he can’t be that man.
No.
For him to be the man I want him
to be, he would have to be able to take all this pain, all this misery, all
this suffering, away.
And only the Great God has that power, I think.
Sighing, I remove my shoes, then
slip into the washroom and close the door behind me.
It is only when I am naked and
beneath the spouting faucet that I feel any sort of emotion.
Within moments, it all comes
rushing forth.
The agony—
The pain—
The cruelty of this game—
I close my eyes, take a deep
breath, then begin to sob.
This day was supposed to be perfect.
Now, I know, it was never meant to be.
* * *
Arthur is gone by the time I exit
the washroom. Where he’s disappeared to I cannot be for certain, but truth be
told, I am thankful for his absence. It will allow me the peace of mind
necessary to process everything that has happened, and what may occur now that
the wedding is over.
The wedding.
I shiver as I consider its
implications, as I think on what the events that transpired could cause.
Regional news will be made, if it hasn’t already been broadcast. People will
form their opinions, if what they’ve read from the journalists hasn’t already.
And me…
Me…
I will sit and toil, for in this
horrible yet monumental moment, I will either rise like the phoenix reborn, or
dwell in the mud as if I am some lowly swamp creature.
Frowning, I wrap my arms around
myself and slowly make my way toward the window at the edge of the apartment.
From this vantage point, so high
within the sky, I can see all the way across the city—from the heights of the
nearby hills, to the sloping lowlands that brush alongside the city before the
metropolis rises like jagged needles from cold asphalt. It is a stupendous
view—has been since I’ve first arrived—and yet, a part of me feels like I do
not belong.
But is it because of you, my conscience offers, or him?
Him.
The man with the pen. Who wrote such horrible things.
A shiver crosses my body as I
consider everything that has been said, everything that could be said. That will
be said.
All those names, all those
declarations—
And from my own people, no less.
The people who once loved and
adored me.
Who lifted you up, I think, and
then tore you down.
I turn my head to view my
reflection in the nearby mirror, only to find that my normally-bright exterior
has been tainted by the events of the day. My black hair is lackluster, my
bright eyes are dull. Even my face—which I was careful to wash with the hottest
of waters—resembles something completely unlike me.
“I’m not myself,” I whisper, in a
voice so slow that I can barely hear it. “In body, voice, or mind.”
A knock comes at the door.
I turn.
A voice asks, “Mrs. London?”
“Yes?” I ask, but blink as the
reality of the new name begins to set in.
“There’s been a package sent for
you. Would you like me to—”
A package? I think. From who?
Where?
I am at the door almost
instantly, and opening it before I can process what it could mean fully.
The man outside—dressed in a
simple red-and-black butler outfit—holds in his hands a simple brown envelope.
I lift my eyes. Swallow. Stare.
“Mrs. London?” he asks. “Are you
all right?”
“Fine,” I lie, taking hold of the
package. “Thank you.”
“The Revered Mother has advised—”
I close the door before he can
finish.
In my haste to face the sudden
interruption, I do not bother to recognize what could be an unfortunate truth.
The package is opened before I
can stop myself.
I regret it almost instantly.
Plastered on the front page of
the newspaper is a picture of me—aghast, bewildered, and covered in rotten
food. The words London wedding in
shambles! rest directly above the image…
Below which is a note.
Just deserts, it says. You
can’t have your cake and eat it, too.
I drop the package.
It falls to the floor.
I cry out. Feel tears bud at my
eyes.
Why? I think. Why are you
doing this to me?
But I already know why.
It’s because I didn’t choose him.
Him.
A person who was never a part of
the Process to begin with.
It’s almost impossible to believe
that he would have been so brazen enough to send this to me. But Marcus Wright
is obsessed with me, and he’ll do anything in his power to make sure that I
suffer.
Anything, I think.
I try not to think about what
else could be in the package—that could be waiting to haunt me—but realize
that, if I leave it here, and if Arthur comes back—
A frown crosses my lips.
No.
Arthur can’t come back. Not to this—this thing, this menace.
After crouching down and taking
the contents into my hands, I stuff the note back into the package, then carry
it into the kitchen, where I stuff it into a plastic bag and ferry it into the
trash chute underneath the sink.
I listen to it bounce down the
tunnel until I can hear it no more.
Then, slowly, I try to piece
together what it is I will do.
He’s already ruined me.
What more can he do?
* * *
I realize, soon after, that he
will do whatever it takes to get my attention.
Even if it means sending more
packages.
I am lying in bed the following
day when a knock comes at the door—and Arthur, who still hasn’t left for his
work in the business offices downtown, answers the door. A brief exchange with
the butler is all it takes for him to accept whatever it is the man has.
As he closes the door, he says, “Emily.
A package has come for you.”
“Don’t open it,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I said: don’t open it.”
“Don’t you want to see what it
is?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Why are you—”
I roll over to face him and say, “Do. Not. Open. It.”
He considers me for several long
moments, obviously unsure of my proclamation, of my command.
Then, a moment later, he rips the
top of the package open.
“I said—”
“Someone took the time to send
it,” he replies. “We should at least take a moment to see what it—”
He stops before he can finish.
I lift my eyes.
He lowers the package.
I ask, “What?”
And he says, “It’s from… him.”
“Throw it away. I don’t want to
see it.”
“Emily—”
“Arthur, if you know what’s good
for you, you’ll throw the damn package away.”
“We should report this to the
authorities.”
“I don’t want to see it!” I say, my voice bordering on a scream. “Throw it away!”
All he can do is stare.
“Arthur,” I say, throwing my legs
over the side of the bed. “Do as I say.”
“Em—”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. But this…
this is…”
I reach forward and rip the
package from his hand, then turn and begin to stomp into the kitchen, fully
intent on doing the one thing my husband refuses to do.
Halfway there, the package rips
open—
And deposits its contents onto
the floor.
Whether or not it was designed to
break open or it did so simply because of flimsy paper I cannot be sure.
Regardless, my eyes are immediately drawn to everything—from one paper, to the
next, to the one afterward, to the one after that.
I can’t close my eyes fast
enough.
I see the images for what they
truly are.
You’re fat, one says.
You’re horrible, another intones.
Why did they choose such an ugly girl? a third asks.
Her nose is too big.
Her lips are swollen.
Her eyes look like saucers.
And the worst—the one that I don’t
want to remember, but as seared itself into my brain like a brand on a cattle’s
backside—is the one that haunts me.
It states, very clearly, Kill yourself.
I let out a long, low sob, then
sway and collapse against the nearby wall.
Arthur is the one who steps
forward and says, “Why is he—”
“I TOLD YOU!” I scream. “I
TOLD YOU NOT TO LOOK AT IT!”
“Em—”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN TO ME?”
“I thought—I thought that he—”
“You thought what?” I ask. “That he’d leave
me alone? That he’d stop this whole
ordeal?” I shake my head. “No, Arthur. He won’t stop. He can’t stop.”
“But why?”
“Because he hates that I didn’t
choose him.”
Arthur can only stare.
I shake my head as he considers
me for the next several moments, then ask, “What?”
“He… wasn’t even part of the
Process. Surely he can’t be that
delusional.”
“There’s something wrong with
him,” I say. “Something horribly, horribly wrong with him.”
“We need to turn this into the
authorities, Em.”
“What good will it do?” I reply.
“The damage has already been done.”
“I… you… we…”
Arthur pauses before he can say
anything more.
I look at him. He looks at me.
But rather than speak, or try and
say anything further, he gathers the papers from the floor, taking extra care
to turn them upside down so I cannot see the ugly words written upon their
faces.
Then he rises and exits the room, all without saying goodbye.
All I can do is cry.
* * *
“There is something I’d like to
discuss with you,” Revered Mother Terra says.
I lift my eyes to face the woman
and consider her for everything she is worth. Her bright blue eyes. Her pure
white dress. The blood red fabric that lines its underside. She is a woman of
the state, and to know that she has a reason for being here is enough to make
me feel small.
Not once since I’ve arrived in
the Glittering City have I felt so hopeless.
Now, I realize, there is nothing
I can do but wait.
Standing here, before the
Gentlewoman, I offer a small nod and take a short breath before saying, “Yes,
Revered Mother. I’m listening.”
“It has come to my attention that
the journalist Marcus Wright has been working to both demonize and terrorize
you.”
“How do you—”
She lifts a hand to stop me. “I
know,” she continues, “based on documents that have been submitted, that he has
worked to undermine everything the Process has done for you—and, I’m sad to
say, that it is working.”
“What’re you—” I start.
The Revered Mother sighs, then,
and turns her head to the nearby window. She then says, in a short and
declarative tone: “The people are beginning to turn against you. Marcus
Wright’s words have sewn discord between you and the people of the Glittering
City. They believe many things, Emily—things that I would never in my life ever
say of another woman without ample cause or reason—and they believe these
things all because of the stories he has fabricated.”
“Why are they so gullible?” I
ask. “How could they believe without proof?”
“You have not been allowed to
view the papers because of the so-called ‘proof’
that has been doctored.”
“What do you—”
The Revered Mother lifts a hand
to stop me once more. “There are ways they can fake pictures in this day and
age, Mrs. London. Some would call them artists. Me? I call them charlatans.
Regardless, they have been able to place your face on pictures of women in
scandalous situations, and therefor, have made it appear that these rumors are
true.”
“How—why—”
“This is what I am here to
discuss with you.”
“Wait. What?”
Sighing, the Revered Mother
closes her eyes, then opens them again to look at me. “Never have we in the
Glittering City faced this sort of predicament. Sadly, there is little we can
do to course correct. Which is why I must inform you of the next steps we are
going to take.”
I wait in silent apprehension for
her to continue.
With a short nod, Revered Mother
Terra clears her throat and says, “Effective tomorrow, we will disbar you from
your position as a Beautiful One of the Glittering City. You will be offered a
divorce, a small sum of currency, and provisions for you and your family before
you are sent back to Gladberry.”
What?
I think I speak the word, but I
realize, soon after, that I haven’t. My mouth is open, my heart is broken, my
lungs are empty. I gasp—foolishly at that—and feel the disbelief course through
me like a wicked illness meant only to infect those who have done wrong.
Me? Leave the Glittering City?
After everything that has happened? After how far I’ve come? After all these
years of waiting, of longing, of finally being?
I try not to cry. I really do.
And yet, I can’t help but do so. The tears, as they come spilling from my eyes,
resemble waves, and over my face they cascade until finally they fall to the
dress I am wearing.
The Revered Mother sighs and
says, “I’m sorry.”
“But—my Purpose—”
“Will be terminated as we speak.”
“And... my family. Do… do they—”
“Know?” she asks. “No. They
don’t.”
“I… I—”
I cannot speak any more.
Instead, a darkness consumes my
heart, my mind, my body.
Surely I cannot go home, not
after everything I have been through.
“There’s really nothing you can
do,” I say, “is there?”
“Unfortunately, the damage has
already been done. I’m sorry, Miss Perkins. I wish I could say more.”
The Revered Mother turns and
makes her way to the door.
In moments, she is letting herself out into the hall.
And I, left to my own devices, can only think of one thing.
* * *
There is only thing I can do now
that I will face the inevitable.
As I wander through the
apartment, gathering the things I know will carry me through the next few
moments of my life, I consider all the shame I will bring to my family if I
return—and realize, wholeheartedly, that I cannot go any further.
No.
I must take matters into my own
hands.
It is a course of action that I
know will be painful, if only for a moment. But the release—it will take me
from the hands of evil, and deliver me into the arms of mercy.
In moments, I begin my plan.
The fan is turned off.
The chair is arranged.
The rope is tightened around the
stalk just above the ceiling fan’s blades.
Then, it is ready.
In less than a moment, I slip the
noose over my neck with care I knew I would not have in a previous life, then
prepare myself for what is to come.
For everything I have wanted—
For everything I have gained—
For everything I once had and wish I could have once more—
“Great God,” I whisper, in as quiet a voice as possible. “Please, hear my plea: keep me steady, and
make it swift.”
Then, with one last breath, I step off the chair.