The Rosy Hours

Chapter One - Broken

My dear Nadir, here written down in my nearly illegible script you will find the painful story behind my early life. You were right, writing it down has helped me. Though I don't believe it has fully purged me of my bitterness.

I have gathered information from Marie about my earlier years, I do hope this will interest you. Perhaps you can add your point of view to it as well? It would make for a fine story. (Though if you decide under any circumstances to publish it, I will have you longing for the Rosy Hours of the Mazandaran.)

~ All my love, Kiera

I was born on an ordinary night. Under no extraordinary circumstances.

No lightning preceded my entrance into the world. No terrifying storm or cold night. Just the sun setting over France. A rosy glow. But as the sun turned red, and my mother's anguished cries decreased the nurse nearly dropped me on my head.

"Dear God!" She exclaimed.

-My mother, a vain and vapid woman, raised a weary head to see the nurse more clearly.-

A cloth was tossed unceremoniously over my face, as the nurse froze in fear.

"What is it?"

"It's a girl Madame..."

"Let me see her!" She commanded.

"No... miss... I-" the woman stammered.

"Now!"

I was brought over and my mother took me from her arms. With a glare she uncovered my face.

A gasp hung in the air, frozen in time.

"What IS THAT?!"

"It is your little girl, madame..."

"That is no little girl! That thing is a monster! A demon!!" My mother's face paled. "Get it away from me!"

"Well, what do you want me to do with it?" The nurse snapped back.

"Dispose of it!" My mother shrieked.

At this moment, I opened my mouth and God smiled upon me. As my tiny voice filled the room, some broken, slivered piece of my mother's heart started to beat.

"Call for a priest please...while I nurse it... her," Her voice softened slightly and she gently recovered my face.

God had cursed me with this face, yet blessed me with the voice of an angel,- that blessing was all it took for me to survive.

She made me a little white mask out of kid's skin.

My first unfeeling scrap of clothing.

As I grew, so did my mother's distaste for me.

I was stuffed unceremoniously into a cradle in the attic, where the only companionship I had was that of my mother's little dog.

Marie, my mother's dearest -and now only- friend had become our only link to the outside world. At some times it felt like it was Marie and I against the world. She was a plain woman, with a soft, kind face.

Her beauty was different to my mother's, which was sharp.

The way Madeline spoke, dressed, even her face was sharp. Like shards of glass.

The contrast between the two of them was great. Marie's words were always kind and uplifting, her homespun dresses soft and worn. And she was always doing something in her slow methodical way.

I remember one year for Christmas, she knitted me a soft red shawl. It felt rather like I imagine a hug would have.

I never will understand why that wonderful woman decided to take me under her wing.