Doves and Lovelies

The Wall

(POV: Clara)

I wearily stepped out from the back entrance of the dressmaking shop that I worked at. Lights blinded me the moment my feet left the shadowed doorway. The bright reflection of light, which glared down from the twenty-foot spotlights, never failed to obscure my vision. A society without sunlight had its downsides, and eye sensitivity was one of them. I slowly squinted to let my eyes adjust. Tired as I was, it relieved me. I had finally finished fitting the last few dresses from a bulk order for the Talent Trials. The judges based the Trials on superficial views on beauty and talent. The contestant had a higher chance of survival if they wore an elegant dress.

That wretched old bat, Susie Darla, worked me way past the time I normally clocked out despite my complaints. She became nastier than usual after the orders came flooding in at the last minute. The Trials were in two weeks, so we had plenty of time to work. Instead of listening to reason, she locked me in the sewing room until ten. Because of a nine o'clock curfew, I had to wait until six in the morning before I could go home. A hundred years ago, this abuse was illegal. Today, our government stated if our employers paid us, we didn't have any right to object against our treatment.

I circled the two-story run down, brick building with a fake plastic garden displayed in front. A faded, cracked sign with the shop's name, Darla's Dresses, hung above the large brown door. I trudged up to the window and looked past the extravagantly dressed mannequins to see that some lights were still on. Ms. Darla stayed behind to re-open at eight. Thankfully, she gave me the day off, but I briefly felt guilty at being the only one who would get to sleep. I peered closely at my reflection and moved my body to where I overlapped a mannequin. I wore a sleek and formal, red ankle-length dress. I smiled at myself in the window but then laughed at my foolishness because I could afford nothing so expensive.

I stared harder at the grand image of myself and immediately saw my imperfections. My black, curly hair was frizzy and oily because of the hot, sauna-like sewing room that I had been in for nearly twenty-one hours. I took the hair tie that I kept on my wrist and pulled my hair back into a high ponytail. I ignored the hideous dark circles that swallowed my severe, dark brown eyes, which always reminded me of cream-less, extra-dark coffee. I stepped out of my fantasy dress and returned to the reality of a dye-stained, plain gray top, and faded jeans.

Society cared only about outward beauty and flawlessness, for confidence was non-existence in our world. I wanted to love and accept myself for who I was, yet they constantly forced me to analyze and compare myself to others. I already knew that I wasn't the first choice for marriage prospects. Men wanted tall, slim females with light-colored hair and eyes. I glanced over my body and wished I was at least five-four, but I was lucky that I barely made it past five-one. I couldn't help that I was big-boned and curvy or that my breasts were fuller and heavier than most women. My dad, the mayor, believed that I would lose with my dark hair and eyes. When the time came for me to marry, he told me he would find me a husband, but I had plenty of time before I had to wed. All women must marry at thirty-seven, and they allowed men to remain unwed until they were forty-five.

To take part in the Talent Trials, the contestant must be single, virginal, and between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. Occasionally, a Viewer selected a participant for marriage. Viewers watched the Trials and voted on whom they thought should be winners. If they chose a contestant for marriage, they had the right to decline. If over one suitor selected them, the Viewer that offered to pay the most had the right to propose. If they accepted their suit, they would then pay a lump sum to purchase their intended from the government. Ten percent of that money went to their families, who remained behind.

The strap from my work bag dug into the side of my neck. I rolled my shoulder to shift the bag, but it remained in place. I bit back a curse and fixed the strap. I had five notebooks, three sketchpads, and two reference books that felt more like rocks in my bag. I still had to design four more dresses and three suites, all due in a week. Ms. Darla insisted that I took my sketches home and worked there. I kneaded my temples and willed my headache to cease. She expected me to have the drafts completed by tomorrow morning.