For as long as I could remember, I had been alone in the large house on Newberry Street, though five others inhabited the rooms with me. My mother, father, two younger sisters, and baby brother. Every m morning, I woke to the sound of his crying and the twins' bickering. I came downstairs, where my mother handed me a slice of bread and piece of fruit without saying good morning. My father brushed through eventually, on his way to the bank, only slowing for a feelingless kiss on my mother's cheek, and a matching pair of well-rehearsed hugs for my sisters. He didn't speak as he brushed by me in my usual place on the stool by the window. He never did.
When sufficient "family time" had passed, I would go upstairs to my room, tie my hair back in a pink ribbon which stood out against my dark hair, and write. Or read. Music, books, sketches, scattered pieces of ink-covered pages covered the floor of my chamber, my tower, my sanctuary.
And I was alone again, until hunger or natural reasons forced me from my room.
But you see, I could not count the times I was with my family, they were as swift and as forced as a speech in front of a crowd. I had the feeling that even if I was able to talk to them, I wouldn't. And even if I did, they wouldn't answer.
And that is why I was alone.
When I'd made this mess, I'd had no clue it would be so difficult to pick up, nor so important that I did it quickly.
I'd had enough. Enough of being the martyr, the oppressed, their tool, their inside trick for a better life.
Use me. Marry me off. How dare they?
I'd been informed at breakfast that morning that there was a wealthy man I'd been betrothed to since birth, now returning to London to "claim" me.
How is that fair?! I raged within my mind. I don't even know him…he doesn't even know me… I threw a pile of poetry I'd written back when the world made a little more sense into my bag. It would have to be sold, almost everything would have to be sold…and that would only be enough for a small chamber on Market Street.
I don't care. I thought. At least I won't be here.
I drew my bag shut, the clasps only barely meeting over all the bulk of my life's work so far, the other bag was smaller, it held a few of my skirts, blouses, and dressed, and a few hair ribbons among other essentials. I threw it over my shoulder carelessly, and clutched the larger satchel to my chest, taking many deep and measured breaths before I opened my door.
My bare feet made little sound as I descended the stairs, scarcely daring to breathe lest it caused someone to wake up. With my luck, tonight would be the night my parents woke at a sound so small and usually innocent.
The house was looking old, everything dust-covered and creaky with age and lack of polish. At one time, I would have been sure to meet a lone servant or two, even at this hour, polishing something or other by the weak and fading light of a candle. Since we'd begun losing money though, there was no room for servants in the house, for there was no money to pay them.
I wish I'd been born like this… I thought bitterly, passing through a long-since closed off parlor to our front door. If I had been, no wealthy man would have promised himself to me, expecting to align himself to receive more money once we married.
A tear rolled down my cheek, not in sadness of leaving my home, or even my family, but in desire. Desire raced through my heart and head, desire to be normal, to be myself, to be free.
At the time, I did not realize that I would never be normal, nor that I would be faced with more than a few challenges that were far from being mediocre. And as I slipped my feet onto the shoes by the oak door, I stopped crying. I rarely cried anyway, even alone.
I opened the door and ignored its creaking, sure that even if someone heard me now, I'd have plenty of time to get away. I didn't even find it hard, not looking back as I walked away.
They didn't believe in me, no one did. I only had myself, and my writing and music.
But somehow, that thought made me happier than anything ever had, and as I ran into the night, I knew I was running away from more than my fiancée, but did not suspect that I was running toward anything more than a new home and a new life.
There was so much more waiting, so much more than I ever thought I'd deserve.
Ah well, surprises are more interesting anyway.