I watch as she pins the little white and pink flowers in my blonde hair. To me, the flowers represent a new day, a new beginning. I stare at myself in the mirror when Mrs. Mary is finished decorating my hair, admiring the little yellow centers of the flowers. I hear a knock at my door and my mother walks in, her face red with rage,
“Get those stupid flowers out of her hair immediately!” She screams, staring me down with unforgiving eyes. Mrs. Mary sadly and slowly picks the flowers out of my hair and tossed them back in the basket we used to collect them from the royal garden. I watch as they fall into the basket, their petals overlapping each other’s yellow centers. I should have known mother would make Mrs. Mary pull them out of my hair, it represents the silliness of a child, and I am no child, I am only fifteen though. But my mother says I am practically an adult.
After all the flowers are picked out of my hair and burned in the fire place, my mother orders Mrs. Mary the get me dressed in my gown, it is my wedding day after all.
I grab the back of a chair to steady myself while Mrs. Mary tightens my corset, leaving no air to breath, let alone move. I have never met my to-be husband, the one I will marry and spend the rest of my life with. My mother says that he is a prince from somewhere in the northern region. He apparently likes to play chess, that’s what the letters that he sends me tell me. We are not allowed to see each other until the wedding day, it’s a tradition I am not very fond of. I deserve to see that man I will marry. My mother and father hate each other but they made me, didn’t they? So they must love each other at least a little bit. When Mrs. Mary is done with the corset or the torcher machine as I call it she helps me into my white dress for the wedding. She does my hair, and my makeup. My blush for my cheeks consists of crushed rose petals. She puts a veil in front of my face. The soft satin rubs against my legs making them itch. I think I may be allergic to satin, for every time I wear it I get red bumps wherever it had decided to rest. My mid-section is locked up tight in my corset, like this room I am in, a prison for me dwell in. My satin dress has a pretty lace that covers my arms and neck, letting my hands and face be the only things that show. My family is modest in all ways. Why are we so modest? You may want to ask my great grandmother for she is the one who invented to stupid tradition.
I run my hand over the leather seats of the carriage. My mother and father sit together across from me. We hit a rock and the carriage goes bump. The carriage stops and someone opens the door for me.
“Thank you.” I say under my breath. Only the richest kings and queens are allowed at the wedding, so I am surrounded by gifts of gold and silver. Every one fills into the chapel, leaving me and my father outside the doors. My father is the king; he can have someone excited with a wave of his hand. How do I know? I have seen him do it before.
“Chin up!” He says. At first I think he is asking me to not be so glum but then I realize he means it as a command. I do as he says and raise my chin, right as the doors open.
Rows of kings and queens are lined up along the side of the aisles. I step onto they rug which marks the straight line down the chapel that is the aisle. The chatter I heard is gone; it’s replaced by a deathly silence. Music fills the air as I take another step, a mixture of harps, flutes and pianos. I put on my best face, to mask my worry, even though no one can see me through the veil. Through the veil I can make out the shape of a plump man, as I come closer I see that he stands in a to-be husbands spot in front of the altar. He is my husband. When we reach the stage like platform my father drops my arm and goes to the right of the altar, along with my mother. The plump man is about the same age as I am. We say our vows. I can hear a hint of nervousness in his tone. He may as well be as afraid as I am. I lift up my veil slowly, savoring the last seconds I have as an independent woman, because after we kiss, we are bonded forever. I stare at him my veil gone. His green eyes stare back at me. He doesn’t lean in for the kiss, instead he starts to panic. I know I am not the most beautiful flower but I am still a flower.
Then I hear it. Gunfire mixed with screams of woman and men alike. The door to the chapel bursts open. Several men in ragged clothing stand in the entrance.The smell of smoke replaces the smell of red roses. My mother’s face is as pale as snow. My father’s face is red with rage, “How dare you enter this holy place during a wedding!’ he yells.
Multiple sounds of gun fire ring in my ears. Kings and queens lie dead on the floor, red blood escaping from their mortal wounds. Anyone who survived has backed up against the wall. My white dress is stained with my was-to-be husband’s blood. Two men grab my arms. I thrash and scream but they keep a rigid grip on me. They drag me outside. The buildings are burning, and people lie dead on the dirt streets. They take me to the docks. I have only been to the docks once. When I was a small child I happened to stumble into it. A man there showed me how to fish too. When I came back to mother with the fish I had caught it enraged her. She told me that fishing was too dirty of a sport for a princess. This time, Instead of fish I see a ship. Her sails remind me of dirtied white sheets. At the very top, a flag with a skull and bones on it flies. This is no regular ship like the ones I use to travel on, no, this is a pirate ship.