Symbols of Sorrow

Chapter 1: Wilted Roses

They say the greatest stories are born of pain, but my story was one of greatness, but now is only pain. 

It was early August, around three years ago, and my parents were preparing for another somewhat busy day. In the early morning, as I lie in my heavily insolated bed, covered in dense layers of snow-white blankets, I could hear them rushing through the house, fetching items, making breakfast, and searching for the morning paper, as usual. Both of them preferred to rise early, making the initial span of the day longer.

 "Normal people," or those who were considered poor, would rise at these hours of the morning to get ready for some form of work, like clerking, shoemaking, chimney sweeping, or smithing. My parents, on the other hand, didn't have a need to work. All of the money our family lived off of was inherited from my great grandfather, and our lives consisted of tea parties and operas. 

My brother, who was two years younger than I, had the luxury of going to school. Unlike my brother, I was taught how to write, sew, and play various forms of music at home. This was entertaining at first, but after a while, it became tiresome. Repeating the same practices every day tends to bore you. I mean, I guess living among the upper class of London should've made me content enough, but it didn't.  The massive, luxurious house, cleaned so often that it seemed to glow inside and out, should've made me happy, but it didn't. In the months following, any of it would have made me happy, but by then, I had already lost it all.

This particular morning, I rose slightly earlier than I normally did, mainly because of the sound of horses and carriages making their way down the busy streets outside my upstairs bedroom window. I tossed my bed covers aside, pulled a decorative blue dress over my nightgown, and hurried to the window, which was already open. I watched as people exited shops nearby and walk down the crowded sidewalks. 

 I could see chimney sweeps on the rooftops, faces covered in soot and dirt, and wondered what it would be like to have a job like theirs. It was certainly messy, but it seemed elegant in some way, as if the chimney sweeps were performing in some sort of show every day of their lives.

Suddenly, I heard a knock at my bedroom door, and I hurried over to it. As I opened it, I could smell the fresh aroma of freshly brewed tea. 

My mother stood on the other side of the door, her blonde hair tied in a tight bun behind her head. Unlike her, I preferred to let my long, silky brown hair hang down to my shoulders. She wore a white dress, embroidered with elaborate designs stitched in pink thread. She smiled gracefully at me as I opened the door.

"Good morning, Alyss. Breakfast is waiting downstairs," she said, her bright-spirited voice lightening my mood even more.

"Thank you, mother. I hear there is an opera today!" I said excitedly. The one thing that I had never tired of as a member of a wealthy family was operas. They were so well thought through, and the singing is even more astonishing. Whenever one was upcoming, I would immediately as my parents if I could go. Naturally, they almost always said yes.

My mother chuckled. "Yes, there is dear, no go and eat your breakfast!" she said, gesturing toward the staircase nearby.

I hurried down the staircase and sat at the large, furnished dining room table, plates of food already prepared. I spooned a couple of items onto my plate and poured myself a cup of tea. My father sat down beside me and helped himself to a plate as well. He wore a green waistcoat, knee-high breeches, and a linen shirt. His short, hazel hair was slicked back, and it was so smooth it seemed to shine. He smiled at me, and I replied in kind.

"Where's Noah?" I asked, curious to see if my little brother had committed to his education.

"School," he said, then added as an afterthought, "I hope."