OBSIDIAN

Chapter One: The Beginning of the End Part One

It happened quickly.

All you could do was stare as the cold metal revolver weighed down your right hand at your side, your left dripping in sticky blood, a smudge on your cheek. For a moment you thought you had gone deaf. You pulled the trigger, hit your target, and all sound rushed from your head to your feet. It was as if you stood beneath a waterfall. All outer noise now muted, except not from the crushing water, but from the rush of your own blood. The waterfall held you in your place, the pressure of it all too heavy to lift your feet, nevertheless breathe.

That morning had started out the same it always does. Joan throwing your curtains open while you shimmied beneath your blankets in attempt to shield your eyes from the blaring sun light outside. Her thick Scottish accent greeting you with a pleasant "Good morning", and a pillow being jokingly smacked upon your head. Sometimes she would rip the blankets right off of you and you would moan at the sudden coldness of the crisp morning air. Other times she would dip her fingers in the glass of water on your nightstand and flick her fingers so droplets would splatter over your face causing your nose to scrunch up.

Joan was the house's maid. She was stout, stubborn, and had a laugh you could hear from across the room. Your mother passed at your birth, so she was all you had as a female figure throughout your life, and you were eternally grateful. She would help you dress, lace up your corset, fasten your bodice, and tuck in the loose strands of your braid that fell right back out of place no matter how many times she tried to plaster or pin them down.

You confided in her when you were not expressing your troubles in your diary and trusted her fully. Joan was caring and kind. She would sooth your pains and hold you when you cried. She congratulated you on your successes and would sneak apple cinnamon pastries to you after dinner. She would lull you to sleep with Scottish folk songs and blow out the candle on your bedside table when she knew you were completely at ease. When your breaths were even and your lips slightly parted. She was the closest thing you had to a mother, and you loved her as you would've your own.

Every day was the same. Wake up and get dressed in too many layers. Attend meetings alongside your father to discuss documents and bills you were not allowed to comment on. Present yourself at hangings in your prettiest dress, greet your soon-to-be husband, Admiral Thomas Adkins, and act as if your suffocating life was not pulling all breath from your lungs more than the stiff corset you always wore.

At sixteen you were set to marry Admiral Adkins but were able to convince your father to hold off the wedding until you had finished you academics. You were smart and your father knew it. He feared your overactive imagination and strong intuition would cause trouble, so he never gave you the chance. Contained in a stuffy room, most of your childhood was consumed by reading, writing, practicing, and memorizing everything a woman was allowed to know as far as education goes.  And now, six years later it was all coming to a close. You wouldn't be able to put your fate to the side for any longer. So, six years older, the admiral another fifteen above you, your wish to escape the perennial continuity of your future was never stronger.

As scheduled, after the morning's activities, you reclused to your studies. You were tutored in law, astronomy, physics, reading, writing, and mathematics. Although you rarely paid attention today. Every so often you'd gaze out the window. Atop the hill your where father's estate sat, you were able to see beyond the village below and past the docks. The distant shore was hypnotic and serene as waves melodically lapped onto it. You daydreamed of what it would be like to be them. Able to take on whatever form you pleased, to do as you wanted unapologetically, and to be something of your own. Not your father's, not your husband's, or anyone's for that matter.

You had never wished to come here, Port Royal, but your father was one of status and wealth, therefore he was needed in Jamaica to aid the colony in economic and administrative positions. As much as you despised the insects, heat, and corsets you had to wear every damn day, you were one of the lucky ones. Yes, you wished you could be back in England cozied up in your favorite arabesque, carved chaise reading anything but bills, trusts, and contracts, but you were healthy and taken care of.