Above Ground: A woman kept hidden, bred for perfection, everything she once was had been shattered and taken away from her.
Underground: A man a shell of his former self, a life of darkness shrouds him, his authority now mind-numbing.
A world that...
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I sat perched on my bed surrounded by plush pillows and silk sheets, a delicate pink silk robe adorning my body, soft against my skin. Around me, the house was alive, my maids bustling around my room, attempting to get everything prepared for tonight. At this moment, my only job was to be seen and not heard until I was beckoned to my seat at the desk stationed within my room, surrounded by bright lights, allowing the makeup artists to complete their job perfectly.
Everything they desired was supplied for them, mostly makeup too expensive to be completely necessary. I didn't get a say in what I liked or preferred to see on myself. Not that it really mattered. Every time I looked at my reflection, I was met with someone who never looked quite right. My appearance always appeared distorted to me, a stark dissonance between what I thought I looked like and what was reflected back to me. So, perhaps it was best that what the makeup artists requested was for the best.
My eyes flickered from staring at my ivory walls to the desk that was currently being set up, the makeup stacked in neat rows based on the order of use. It was a desk that had never been used for my studies, writing, or reading, but instead merely a prop. A childhood just out of reach locked away in the barren vastness of my consciousness. I was left with sequestered memories of insignificant moments within my life when I think I had been able to make decisions autonomously.
I was expected to sit still for hours and let everyone work around me, poking and prodding me so that I could look perfect. After all, I did have a reputation to live up to. Not the reputation that I had earned based on my own merit, but rather the reputation of my family. A reputation I'm sure my Father had not earnt honestly or morally.
As I sat atop my comforter, not wholly comfortable even in my room, I looked around the colorless walls that never seemed to bring me comfort. Even as a child, I never had the creative freedom to decorate as I pleased. The only thing that never changed was my stark white walls, drawing parallels to the desolate institution my mind seemed to be trapped within. Everything else was modified by interior decorators under the orders of my Father. I was given what they deemed appropriate for my age, with the expectation of gleeful appreciation every time a renovation was revealed to me.
At the sound of my name being called, my head automatically lifted in obedience to find the source. Maria, my longest-lasting maid, was directing me to sit in my chair placed in front of the illuminated mirror perched on top of my desk. Her head was cocked as she watched me, her hand gesturing with a sense of restlessness.
Standing up, I made my way over to the chair, secretly loving the feeling of the silk draped across my body as it swished with each step I took. Although internally I always wanted to scream, my inner child calling to escape the confines it was forced into, there were certain luxuries I did allow myself to enjoy. Because if not, I feared insanity would overtake every fiber of my being, and then I would truly be a prisoner.
