1915. Rochester, New York.
I was born as the countries on the other side of the ocean sought to destroy each other. I didn't know, of course. Even if I had been older, my parents would have never told me. They would have deemed it inappropriate for a young girl to know the affairs of the world. Besides, what would I have cared? My country was not involved for much of the war, and if it affected my life at all, I didn't learn that until I did my own research years later. For the most part, my parents really sheltered and pampered me.
My father was a banker and my mother was a housewife. We lived in a townhouse – me, my parents, and my two little brothers. (I don't know what became of them, I haven't even thought of them in years. I was always trying to draw others' attention to me – what did I care what my brothers thought? I guess that's why my memories of them are so much blurrier than my other memories.) We lived quite nicely off my father's income. He was rather high up in the bank's hierarchy and the manager and owner, Royce King, liked him. So we were probably better off than most of the workers there. I took this for granted, especially the fact that Mr King would visit frequently. I never really knew why. In fact, I didn't know much of anything. But I thought at the time that everyone's superior was friendly with their workers. It wasn't until I casually brought up the fact with my good friend Vera that I realised we were actually very well off. I didn't feel odd about the realisation. In fact, it really just fuelled my growing ego. We, the Hales, were quite on top of the world.
We really looked the part too. My father was not handsome, but he had a kind face. My mother was pretty. My brothers were growing to be good looking, and they would one day find themselves good brides. I hope they did. But at the time, I foolishly thought that no bride they could find would match me, in all my splendour and glory. After all, who could hope to match my features – my long, wavy, lustrous blonde hair; my deep blue, almost violet eyes; my pale, smooth skin; a very fine dusting of freckles across my nose – all in all, I thought I was fairer than the princesses in the fairy tales I'd heard.
Apparently, so did many of the men I saw. Whenever I went with my mother to buy whatever we needed around the house, I noticed how many men littered the streets. Working men, homeless men, young men, old men – it didn't matter. It seemed that wherever I went, I turned heads. I attracted many stares, both lecherous and admiring. Far from making me shy, they simply inflated my ever-growing ego. I was the most beautiful. I was the one they all wanted. And yet, they could only dream of having me by their sides. It gave me a feeling of power, that I was controlling these men's fantasies. I was sure I'd have my fairy tale ending with a handsome prince (the most handsome of all) would carry me away to some grand palace. Self-absorbed? Absolutely.
My mother and father did not do anything to squash my feelings of superiority. In fact, I doubt they even knew how good I felt inside. They were always pressing me to try on new things, from dresses to bows. I was like a collector's doll. Gorgeous, rare...my parents hoped that I would attract a good husband. So they dressed me up in as extravagant clothes as they could find. The smallest of tasks, like running down the bakery across the street to grab a loaf of bread, meant that I wore a beautiful dress, my prettiest shoes, and a bow in my thoroughly brushed hair. My parents certainly received many requests for my hand in marriage as I grew older. I'm sure they would have received more if the men on the streets were of higher class. Even so, my parents were constantly turning away men they felt weren't suitable matches. Sometimes I would feel a twinge of worry when a particularly handsome and rich man was turned away. Did my parents not care about me? Surely this man would provide well. But my fear was always dispelled when I heard another unfamiliar male voice at the door.
Then came the day my father said he would be having a very important day at the bank – the manager, Royce King, would be inspecting the bank. Though he knew us personally, Mr King only knew my father well outside of work. This was the day my father would be able to prove that he deserved a promotion, that he was better than everyone else. I wasn't worried, of course. Daddy would bring home more and more money for even better dresses. So self-centred...
My father left for work bright and early the next day. He seemed in such a rush that he left his lunch behind (maybe they planned this beforehand?). Mother called me down in an urgent voice. She handed me my best dress – white organza – told me to get changed and give my father his lunch at the bank. I was used to them dressing me up for the smallest of occasions, so wearing my prettiest dress didn't seem at all odd to me. When I'd finished making myself presentable, my mother put a small violet in my hair and sent me on my way. I walked down to the bank, head high, proudly acknowledging the stares once again. The staring didn't stop when I stepped inside the bank: they intensified. I found my father, handed him his lunch, kissed his cheek and walked home. The rest of the day proceeded normally. It wasn't until the next evening that Mr King visited again. This time, however, he brought his son, Royce King II.