I had now been 16 for three months and that meant I was the proper age to be married. When I was younger I was in love with the idea of marriage. But as I grew older I started to want to have my own adventures, like the ones I read in my books.
"I don't understand why I have to go through with this. I should be allowed to make my own decisions. If I were a boy, you would let me choose who I want to marry." I argue about this topic with my father most days. "Young lady. You are getting married." He carried the "are" out for a while. "Anyways, it would be a shame to have to send home your husband to be, now wouldn't it." He said.
My annoyance soon turned to pure anger and frustration, yet curiosity lurked in my veins for I wanted to see who my father had picked, wether it be an old man with no hair on his wrinkled little head of his, or the opposite. A young attractive man who is actually eligible to be my husband. A man walked in. He still had hair, he was tall but looked strong. He looked like an okay person. He looked like you had to know him to be able to determine if he was good or bad. I did not need to know him to tell if he was good or bad. He was bad. He looked as if he killed or wanted to.
