Reclaimed Royalty: A Journey of Discovery

CHAPTER 4

Braelyn's POV.

Ever since I was small, From my earliest memories, my mother confined me within the four walls of our home, shielding me from the outside world. I've never felt the earth beneath my feet, never witnessed the vastness of landscapes adorned with grass and rocks. The only faces I've ever seen besides my own are my mother's, reflected back at me in the mirror.

My existence feels like a stagnant river, flowing aimlessly towards an inevitable end without ever touching the shores of the outside world.

My mother insists that stepping outside is a perilous endeavor, a potential death wish. Yet, the world she describes contrasts sharply with the realms depicted in the books I've immersed myself in. Perhaps she's correct, and the world within those pages differs from the reality I inhabit – a world of celebration, camaraderie, assistance, love, and joyful gatherings. My deepest desire has always been a simple, normal life, free from the confines of my secluded existence.

Loneliness becomes my constant companion, and books serve as both my solace and my sanctuary. But even the most captivating stories can't fill the void of isolation. There are moments when I yearn for respite from the monotony, for a glimpse of a reality beyond these confining walls. I hold onto the hope that someday, all of this confusion will unravel and make sense.

I heave a sigh as I gaze into the mirror, watching my hair grow and my true ginger color emerge. My mother, disapproving of its uniqueness, dyes it brown to conform to societal norms. Yet, the fusion creates a captivating golden brown hue, a testament to the struggle between conformity and individuality. As I delicately comb my hair, I find solace in the constancy of my brown eyes, the only feature untouched by my mother's attempts to mold me into societal expectations.

"Braelyn darling, mother is home!"

The familiar voice of my mother echoes through the house, pulling me from my thoughts. With a quickened pace, I make my way to the door to greet her, a routine ingrained in me since childhood. However, To my surprise, she arrived without the usual accompaniment of bags with foods.

Curiosity tinged my voice as I inquired about her journey while trailing behind her towards the kitchen. "What happened during your outing, Mother?"

Her response was laden with weariness as she settled into a chair, exclaiming, "Ugh, too many people out there. But fret not, dear, we still have fresh vegetables from the trip."

I stood there like a statue, a mere statue in her presence. Her gaze swept over me, and then she noticed it – the subtle evidence of my hair's growth. "Your hair is growing. We need to dye them," she declared with a matter-of-fact tone.

As expected, she would say that, happens all the time. With a resigned yet subtle smile, I acknowledged her words. I led the way to my room, her presence trailing behind. In her hands, she carried an array of hair dyes, brushes, and other materials for hair dyeing at hand.

Seated before the mirror inside my chamber, I took a moment to examine my reflection. As she positioned herself behind me, the atmosphere transformed into a silent theater of transformation. Her hands, skilled and practiced, began the delicate dance of caressing my hair. The room filled with the scent of chemicals as the hues of dye mingled with my natural color.

"Why can't we leave it as it is? No one else will witness it, and I can't go out anyway." I reasoned, voicing the silent protest that echoed within me.

"It's not about whether someone will see your hair, dear. It's about the contour of it. Yours should resemble your mother's," she explained, her smile masking the firm resolve behind her words. Leaning closer, she gestured towards the mirror, where our reflections stood side by side, a testament to our shared features and the expectation of conformity.

Once more, I inquired, "What causes my hair to appear this way?"

"We're born with diverse appearances, darling. Even I can't explain it, but we always remedy that. You look more beautiful this way," she replied reassuringly.

I fell silent, observing as she meticulously applied chemicals throughout my hair. Her soft humming filled the room, the only sound enveloping our surroundings, prompting me to simply listen and absorb the moment.

Despite the stringent rules imposed by my mother, a source of both distress and sorrow, I find solace in the fact that she cares for me. Yet, the unspoken truth lingers – under her roof, my dreams seem unattainable. A constant internal struggle brews, contemplating the notion of escaping this confining existence. What if I were to run away? Would it be a decision filled with regret or liberation? The fear of her warnings echoing in my mind, cautioning about the cruelty and danger of the outside world, keeps me tethered to uncertainty. Still, the yearning to explore, to experience life beyond these walls, gnaws at my conscience.

Attempting to dismiss thoughts of escape, I tell myself, 'That's not who I am. I can't do it. I love my mother, and I wouldn't dare disobey her, even if it means sacrificing my entire life.' Yet, the sincerity of these thoughts remains in question. Uttered words and fleeting thoughts don't always align with our true desires. Perhaps, one day, I will summon the courage to feel the grass beneath my feet, breaking free from the shackles of this internal conflict.

"There we go," my mother's voice shattered the silence that lingered as she completed the task of tending to my hair. Exiting my room, she took with her the used materials, leaving me to wait a few moments before rinsing the chemicals from my hair.

An underlying concern nags at me, a persistent worry that subjecting my hair to monthly treatments might eventually lead to its ruin. Yet, it's a concern I carry alone; my mother, seemingly unconcerned, remains steadfast in her rituals and traditions.