Labyrinth

First Impressions

For special occasions I join in the ritual of dressing up; a corset, a petticoat, layers upon layers of skirt, the tying of ribbons, and last of all the perfected mask of a doll-faced beauty. This is all I've ever known. The strict barriers in our society are regulated, never crossed, never questioned. I talk when spoken to, and I mask all parts of my personality to uphold my parent’s reputation. I am the daughter they never wanted. 

A ray of sunlight beams through the windows above me. Warmth surrounds me, and with the drowsiness of sleep, I slowly get  out of bed.

I call Bessie to assist with my corset.

"Good morning Amelia, dear. Sleep well?"

With a hastened breath before I slip on the corset I reply. 

"Yes Bessie, thank you. I trust you slept well?"

"Of course Miss, who wouldn't sleep well in a place like this?"

I laugh at her sarcasm. Reluctantly, I hold my breath for the awaited constriction of my waist. The soft cream fabric is such an illusion. Who would think it had the capability of crushing your waistline to the size of a small child's? I hate it. Bessie understands my hatred for it, unlike my own mother who worships them.

"Hang in there, we're almost finished"

Bessie ties the ribbons of the corset together, then helps me step into a matching cream petticoat. Once she ties the petticoat around my hips she helps me into a violet coloured gown. The capped sleeves at the end of my shoulders have always been perfect for when I paint. It’s the only dress I can stand to wear.

"I'll leave the rest to you dear"

"Thank you Bessie"

I turn to my dressing table and tie my painting apron around my waist. Mother always gives me trouble for not wearing any makeup, and for not appreciating the jewellery she and father have "so graciously" given me. 

******

I grudgingly walk down to the dining room to meet my parents for breakfast. Their stern and questioning faces really brighten up my morning..

“Amelia, how many times do you have to be told to dress appropriately when you’re around us?”

My father returns her comment as he gazes up and down at my appearance.

“Amelia Rose you should not walk around my household looking like a poor and lowly girl in that attire!”

I dread his use of my middle name. It’s not something I like to hear. A rose is beautiful, faultless and irreplaceable. I am easily replaceable, my parents would probably not mind at all if I ran away. The only thing that would injure them as a result is their reputation.

Their ability to boost my self- confidence astounds me.

If my parents could fully control what I do, I’d be joining every other girl in this town for their dim-witted high tea. Instead I sit on my balcony and paint. I have no interest in gossip or social interaction. I only ever come face to face with these women when I attend dances and balls. These dances unfortunately occur every weekend, so I have to act as the perfectly upper class daughter I am expected to be.

This depressing thought makes me want to run away and never have to deal with this any longer.

Painting always seems to take me to a place far from this existence, a place without expectation, without judgement.

I create a black and grey painting, swirling and manoeuvring the paintbrush to create a single rose. The petals are wilted, and the stem is irregular and dead. An imperfect dark rose, with spikes on its stem. My anger and resentment has channelled this painting, I feel satisfied. However I have tainted the perfect image of a rose.