So, there I was, ready to pull off my great escape from an unwanted marriage, using bedsheets as my escape rope dangling from my bedroom window.
Just when I thought I was pulling off the greatest disappearing act after Zayn Malik from One Direction:...
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Come on....come on.
Hold tightly.
Don't look down. I repeat don't look down.
One foot after another.
You can do this Periwinkle Periwinkleton.
The crisp night air whipped around my white petticoats as I shimmied down the ivy-covered wall. My makeshift rope of white bedsheets held tightly in my grip dangling from my second-floor bedroom window tied to the foot of my bed, the only thing saving me from an unceremonious face-plant in the rosebushes below. Just then, a strangled yelp echoed from the window next door. Me, ever the curious soul (and perhaps a tad nosy), peeked over.
There, clinging desperately to the same leafy escape route, was Theodore Bartholomew Bartholomew Bartholomew the Third (also, don't judge) (affectionately known as "Barty-Barty-Barty" by everyone except his therapist), my husband-to-be (emphasis on the "to-be"), the unfortunate soul I was supposed to marry in the morning. And, until a few seconds ago, a stranger. Heir to the HarryMyPotter International Corporation. His figure mirrored my descent, a blur of his white tux on his perfect body and flailing limbs and a black bag pack on his back, and his handsome expression somewhere between panic and mild surprise. But unlike my rope of bedsheet, he had a really strong rope dangling from his window in his grip. Oh, he must have been prepared for this for quite some time then. Our eyes locked, they expressed a hilarious mix of terror and disbelief.
"Well, well, well," I drawled, my voice surprisingly steady, "looks like we're both in the same pickle, Theo." I refuse to call him anything other than Theo because his original name is really stupid and don't even get me started on the nickname.
Barty-Barty-Barty (Theo) blinked. "Pickle? I thought you were a Periwinkleton?"
I snorted. "Figure of speech, Einstein. Now, let's get out of here before others capture us and unleash their secret weapon - the guilt with craziness being an add-on."
With a shared look of determination, we scrambled down, our garments snagging on rose thorns and window ledges. Fueled by sheer terror and a lifetime of pent-up rebellion, I took the lead. I had to do anything to get out of this unwanted marriage arranged by my father.
"Periwinkle Periwinkleton, return this instant! Stop this. Or your inheritance goes to NoMoney The Cat!" screeched my father Sir Porowonkle Periwinkleton Sr. (again, don't judge).
He was my daddy-dearest for the whole 23 years of my life until he dropped the marriage bomb on me, babbling something about my perfectly settled future and being the luxury queen for life. Well, I stopped listening after somewhere between "I found my son-in-law" and "You are getting married".This ranks right up there as the grand champion of betrayals, like that time my dad left me hanging at the gas station, driving off solo, blissfully unaware while driving off into the sunset without a clue I wasn't in the car.
