With You

1

    "Yes, Mum. I understand completely," I replied to my mother who stood across the room, over my father's shoulder.
    "Good, the date is to be determined but it is official now. I know you are a good girl, but I insist that you remain on your tip-top behavior during these next few months," She answers, already beginning to lose interest.
    "May I be excused? I am still quite tired from last week's excursions."
    "You may, but be sure to be ready for tea at 6 tonight. Your fiancée will be arriving and good first impression are always vital."
     As I walked from the study into the hall, I wasn't surprised at my parent's announcement or upset, to tell the truth, just tired. I barely made it to my room before collapsing onto the floor unable to walk any farther. I willed myself not to cry, not to let it upset me, because it didn't. I wasn't upset, so why was I crying? As I climbed into bed, pulling the covers over me before pushing them away again, my mind was going a thousand miles an hour but not getting anywhere.
    I climbed out of bed again and pulled out my art set, just staring at it. The yellow paint which always won out for flowers and the black which had never been opened, never had a need for it before. But now I felt a pull towards it. This need to use it, to cover up my childish pastel paintings, to morph them into something older, more mature. I turned away, unable to trust myself. I walked just a few paces to my bookshelf and knelt down to the bottom shelf. I keep my most cherished books there, because I was never able to clean my room without stopping and reading several chapters, and chances were I was already sitting, organizing something into boxes and baskets, so it made sense.
   I pulled out a love story, one with a headstrong female and a courting gentleman. It was the perfect story, the heroine fighting for her freedom, and her future husband allowing it. I knew that it was just a story but growing up, it looked like a promise. A "you will be this girl one day" promise. As I got older and went through hardships and trials, I realized that I didn't want to be headstrong. If I was given freedom by my husband I would accept it but I wouldn't fight for it. Not again.
    The clock chimed once, before leaving me in silence again. I looked around my room at something to clean, something to organize or put away. All I saw was a spotless floor, closet and bathroom, result of arriving home after a week long excursion to the city, and the need to clean something, to be in control again, out of the city and the noise.
   I thought about going into the garden, before remembering that it was being decorated for our visitor's arrival. Visitors. My stomach lurched at the word, anxiety creeping into my heart. Strangers. The stranger I was supposed to marry, to support, to trust, to give everything to.  Everything. My heart, my soul, my body. I was barely able to hug my father, let alone consummate a marriage in front of everyone. Everyone. My marriage was being watched by everyone, from my providence and from his. Him. What was he like? Was he kind and patient like the men from my books? Would he think me a child, with only 16 years?
    I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for my legs to cramp and become numb. Eventually, I stood up
pulling my skirts up behind me. The fabric fell against my skin as I stood up, and the colors mixed together into a comforting simple swirl. The yellow background mixed with the blue and red mini flowers. It was my favorite dress, modest and comfortable. I decided not to change into a different dress for tea, but to fix my hair.
   Fixing my hair was a challenge itself. My hair was thick and wavy, never deciding if it was straight or curly. Blonde highlights ran through it making my hair look brighter in the sunlight. As I pulled it out of its current updo, it fell around my shoulders. I didn't even bother brushing it just running my fingers through it, keeping the waves simple and neat. I pulled half of it up, tied it with a string and braided it. Then pinned it into a bun, choosing a simple white and yellow flower to adorn the finished product with.
    My hair is the only thing I find pretty about myself. I think myself too short and too curvy, too quiet but too loud. My face still held a look at childhood in it, never becoming skinny and elegant like my older sisters. I wonder if my fiancée would find me attractive, or dull and flawed.
    The clocked chimed one, two, three, four times. I still had 2 hours before I had to greet him. I couldn't bring myself to read or paint. I wandered out of my room, down the hallway to our spare rooms. I saw that the beds were unmade and flowers were sitting ready to be placed in vases. I started there. This is what comforts me, the simple organizing of sheets and flowers, of making messing things neat, to restore order where it was lost. I finished those task fairly quickly, so I grabbed a broom and swept around the room, singing a gentle song to myself, twirling at times. By the time I had both rooms looking neat and presentable it was 5:45.
   I gasp and rushed to my room. Thankfully, my hair was neat still, my dress just needed a quick brush off and I pulled on a pair of plain white ballet flats. I knew my mother would have a fit at my simple appearance, but it was me. I will not lead this man on with thought of a girl who is not me.
    I walked down the stairs, holding my head high with a slight smile on my face. I heard voices of men coming from my father's study, voices I had never heard before, and I began to panic. "You are alright, you're alright," I repeated to myself until I knew I was in control again. I heard the study door opened and I stood up straight and fixed my dress. I looked first to my father, who looked pleased. Then I saw multiple men behind him. Which one was my fiancée?
"Kalila, please join me. I would like you to meet your future husband."

*Hello! This is my first story that I have written to share. This story does not have a time period or place, so imagine it as an almost alternate reality, where I make up a new culture, geography and time period. I will count this as historical fiction though because it will have many aspects of a historical fiction. Thank you for reading!*