Four in the Attic, One in the Kitchen

Cinerus Nupitalem

 I suddenly became a perfect child. Obedient, spoke only when spoken to, graduating with top marks. I appeared at social functions as a beaming, happy bride-to-be. As the days ticked down, my plan piecing itself together, every contingency assessed. It was only a matter of time. A small part of me naggingly wanted me to hesitate. Maybe, it said, life with Lawrence wouldn't be so horrible. Arranged marriages could go well, they seemed to be in history. Even if he was a little overbearing, or if he held me a little too tight, I reasoned, he was still okay. I could figure something out -- after all, the codicil only applied to Corinne. Not to myself.

Then again, his temper, well hidden in more polite settings, began to rear its ugly head behind closed doors. Lawrence became increasingly possessive. Despite not even being married, he began to dictate what I wore, specifically that it should coordinate with him, but to never, ever be flashy, revealing, or in any way upstage him. When with him, I was to walk slightly behind, only speak when spoken to, and to always agree with what he said. It was like my etiquette lessons multiplied by ten. It felt as if I were only his eye candy, just another trinket that he could show off at social functions. He was never concerned about how I felt. Only how I looked and acted as his little doll.

I had to get out.

Over the next few months, I withdrew cash, little by little. A few dollars here and there, all under the guise of shopping for myself. The change I would pocket, later stashing it inside books and underneath furniture. I was living a double life, during the day I was a blushing bride picking out flowers for her bouquet, the way the cake would be decorated, the honeymoon destination. At night, I was scheming, planning, researching. I figured out the perfect date to leave. The moon would be full, lighting my way, and there would be a train north leaving at dawn. It would even make sense, in a way, for me to disappear when I planned.

It was natural, I decided, for a bride with cold feet to go missing the night before the wedding.

The date approached quickly, not tiptoeing along, but roaring like a river. In the month leading up to it, I checked my supplies nightly. I couldn't let anything go wrong. I had money and a few valuables to pawn off if necessary, I had clothing ready to be packed at a moment's notice, and I had some legal looking papers just in case I was questioned. All I had to do was wait for the right moment.

Friday, June 10, 1960. Two in the morning. The time had arrived.

I was physically ready, but mentally, I was still hesitating on the threshold of unsteady freedom and immutable servitude. It had been so long since I was, well, me. I wasn't quite sure if I was ready to take off the mask.

I took a deep, hesitant breath, staring at my bedroom door, readying myself. In one hand, I clutched a small suitcase, in the other, an envelope of fifty dollars cash. It would be more than enough to get four train tickets far, far away, and for them to start a new life somewhere safe. On my nightstand lay a creamy envelope, detailing a false narrative that hid my true intentions, one of remorse and regret, detailing my intent to drown myself in the nearby lake. I poured my heart into it, lamenting for my dearest Lawrence and family, crying for forgiveness from God. Hopefully it would be enough.

The full moon poured through the open window, a light breeze ruffling the thin, gauzy curtains, beckoning me to stay, stay, stay. The white fabric reminded me too much of the wedding dress that hung in my closet a few feet away. Stay, stay, the room whispered. It's safe here. Just play along. You'll be alright. The hallway is dangerous, the world is dangerous. Ignoring the calls, however much they insisted, I opened the door.

The hallway was only a little darker, with the window at the far end letting light pour in. Sticking to the shadows, close to the wall as possible, I crept upwards to where I knew I had to go first. It was utterly silent besides the rhythmic tick tock of the grandfather clock and my own slow, deliberate breathing. It felt like ages before I got to my siblings' bedroom door and produced the false key, and I unlocked it slowly, deliberately, as not to make a sound. I slipped in and latched it behind me as quietly as I had opened it.