King of Swords - Flash Fiction/Short story collection

Mary Bennet: Social Pariah

Here blows the icy winds in May, 

Turning cold the hours of the day.

Heavens blue is covered in a greyish white, 

Feathered guests escape the frozen plight.

June peeks out from around her corner, 

Waiting to catch the stragglers who avoid her. 

Dragons breath and crystal grasses, 

Summer's dawn seems a wanton farce.

Cold hands that touch upon her warm lips, 

Catch her breath between a curled fist. 

Listen to those who have stayed behind, 

Their voices bring deep anguish to those who mind.

No white flurries may settle down here,

Yet Winter's grip is tight, 

She whispers in your ear.

* * * * *

Mary tucked her legs under herself, attempting to warm her toes, as the first snow gently drifted down outside her window. The window seat was her own little nook where no one, not her sisters nor her overbearing mother, could or would disturb her. She watched the garden; noting the trimmed hedges, and the last of the autumn leaves dissolving into the earth, she sighed the deeply. The world was so much more than her limited view, but she'd never get to see it.

The other night had been a disaster. An embarrassment to her name. Her father, a silly sentimental man she thought, tried to reassure her that this was not her folly but that of the guests around her. They had been harsh on her youth and had not considered how early she was in her musical career, but she knew the truth. His kind words could only shield her from so much. The Bennet name may not be at stake, but her reputation as a failed songbird and a foolish girl now proceeded her.

Mary had lost all her chances at a life in society, a life as a respected artist, a life of conservative bliss that was admired by her contemporaries, all because of her own ego. That was her conclusion as to what had happened, but she had far too much pride to admit it to her sisters or anyone else. She knew they'd laugh. Especially Lydia.

She loathed Lydia.

Lydia, the scorn of her existence. As long as Lydia was there, Mary knew her presence could never truly be felt or appreciated. As long as Lydia was her mother's favourite, she would remain in the background; the forgotten middle child, a ghost in black. Not to mention her other sisters, with their heads constantly in the clouds; talking of love and men, and all the things she found to be inefficient.