Trapped

Chapter II : Caged Bird

I was reserved and distant since before I could talk. With a head full of adventurous notions, romantic ideas and philosophical beliefs  I had a greater affinity for books than conversation, for such conversation my mother would not permit nor my father indulge. It seemed better to be ignorant and simple, for it was easier to be controlled, or raised, but as far as I could tell they were synonymous words for describing the same concept. I remember the day my mother burnt all my books. I had a shelf in my bedroom, crammed and crowded by the thoughts of great minds such as  Lord Byron; Aristotle, the father of western philosophy; René Descartes; Georges Bataille and Lyall Watson; where I often went for companionship and solace. My mother had started a fire in the back yard, and with my precious books stacked in cardboard boxes, she set them ablaze, catapulting each one with a steadfast, unfaltering purpose, her objective was painfully engraved within me. As I watched them burn, my eyes became moist with salty unshed tears. I watched my life burn in a great bonfire that night - the life I had always dreamed of, the freedom of opinion I had always craved - it died within me, a smouldering hope.  From that eventful day I had never spoken out of turn, never shared my systems of reasoning or uttered a word of my values but rather built up my walls, hid my emotions in a chest with lock and key, and set forth, carefully moulding a mask. I journeyed along my destined route and silently suffered the morales and chores my new life provided me. With resigned attitude, dejected spirit, I became something I was not, something I could not sympathize with or recognize.

 This was the new Sienne Ainsley. I shall paint a picture so that my reader my might visual my reality. Over the diminished white-washed wall of our little backyard, would be a girl dutifully folding laundry between the cherry and peach trees. White sheet would blow in the wind, swaying like mournful ghosts in the late afternoon haze as she mechanically smoothed and folded them with precise exactement, placing them in straight towers in her basket. Her face would be void of feeling, a blank canvass. Serene in the tranquility and stillness of the hour and scene. Her movements would be governed by a solemn elegance,  her long limbs harnessed into to a soft grace and liquidity of movement. She was trained to such a degree of perfection that she could no longer be relaxed, or natural at any one moment, living her life as if it were a amusement for another and making everything as pleasing to the eye as it could possibly be made. But back to the picture, in the golden hour of dusk, her basket in her arms, she would linger beneath the shelter and beauty of the summer garden, the glittering lime canopies above her, the cheerful song of the birds she found herself incapable of sharing. Her attire would be sculptured according to her mother's strict dress code much like an art, a colour palate that would suit her complexion, a style that was modest yet pleasing and refined. She could never at any circumstance look just like her class mates, but should be dressed up like a doll in everything sophisticated, classical and practical even if sweatpants and sweaters might suit her preference better. You would hear a lyrical sigh of longsuffering and surrender before she quietly slipped back into the confines of the dainty little house with its fashionable furniture and trendy finishings. I was thus born into a family of good name and honour. My mother had aspirations for me that I couldn't bring myself to care for. Each day she prepared me for my future life, a life in which she saw me bound to Chris Stann. She  equipped me for the burdens of housekeeping.  

Chris Stann had been my partner for as long as I can remember. At primary school l I was allowed to hold hands and share my lunches with only him. At thirteen he collected my kisses on his cheek every day on the bus and by sixteen he was the only boy I had ever dated. Eighteen came and it was to him I was still so faithful. He was a charming boy, handsome, tall, sporty, your average jock of the school. The girls all vied for him but he was a Christian boy and had high expectations placed upon him, our family had always been united in the belief that we would be married. He was a good boyfriend. Kind, considerate, funny. But there was never any romance or passion between us, it had always seemed to be a sort of understanding and acceptance. He was a nice boy and I liked him. He would tell me all his goals and his dreams - for a boy was naturally allowed the luxury of such trifles - and I would encourage and support him through everything he did, and he took a proud sort of satisfaction in it.  He knew I would always be there, waiting patiently, but he was loyal and responsible in return. He liked to listen to my advice to things of little consequence and liked to think we were like-minded creatures. But Chris Stann could not have been more different in temperament than I, for he was the town's sweetheart, everyone was friends with him, everybody loved him, he was the pride and joy of his family, the only child, he wanted for nothing and he was  a firm believer in his church's simple sermons of male authority, marriage and good morale and dedicated to his family good name and convictions. He was easygoing, and good humoured, as quick to anger as to laughter, and once his judgement was formed it could not be affected or changed.