Lilac Dress

Lilac Dress

A soft breeze brings in sandalwood, black tea,

sweet vanilla into the room.

The soft flame of the candle falls to the side,

beckoning to the cool spring,

to the pink and blue and purple,

and saluting the falling sun.

I glance towards the dress, straps on a hanger,

as the ends flutter gently with the wind.

I'd dreamt of wearing that dress,

feel the soft lilac on my skin and flowers entangled in my hair.

I'd dreamt of it trailing round my feet,

fingers grasping the cabbage hems.

I'd even imagined myself living in a large cottage,

light birch walls, a bright lit bathroom,

where I'd stand in a large tin tub

and allow warm water to flow down bare skin from a chipped, floral china jug.

I'd look out the window in the morning,

with the first song of birds trickling through the cracks,

and smile at the glistening sun as I glimpsed it far off in the horizon.

Maybe a wisteria tree sprouting from the bottom,

branches curling upwards,

grasping onto loose planks,

and bringing green buds and periwinkle blossoms

up to my bedroom window.

Warm smells of cinnamon, rosy apple,

the crisp scent of freshly cut coriander and rapunzel,

and humid steam that would rise up from the pot,

that held the evening's dinner.

There'd be a stable nearby, a few paces away from the cottage,

home to my only horse - Phillipe.

A large, stocky male in a chestnut brown,

large swipes of white coming down his nose,

and great clutches of white hair round his hooves.

Then in early summer, the garden would be in full bloom:

patches of sweet watercress, the plumping produce of the tangerine tree,

rows of ivy and sage and fern and olive,

scents of parsnip and cabbage and rosemary,

and the moist patch of ground reserved only

for the voluptuous orange fruit:

flesh stretched across it's earthen body,

large chunks almost popping out, shielded by curling vines of emerald hair. The pumpkins -

my prized possessions, that little mice would sit around,

scrambling up the narrow, twisting steps,

nibbling the large flat seeds and whispering among themselves.

I'd see myself dancing in the dress,

while the moon shone above me,

casting it's glance towards me as the dress shifted from blue to pink.

I'd settled for lilac in the end - it was hard to choose.

And now I sit, as nimble fingers push protruding keys,

a and k and f and c and g,

and think of how foolish I was when young,

how much power I had put into a simple collection of fabric,

how much power I had put into paper and writing and words.

Evening - the sun just set - and cold outside,

mother would come in

smelling of red wine and sweet jasmine tea

and, after picking a thick, bright coloured spine from the shelves,

would settle on the end of my bed,

prop it open,

and read.

How wonderful the words sounded,

how vivid the descriptions,

how beautiful the characters and magical the worlds.

They were the only thing I'd read:

Cinderella, Snow White,The Princess and the Frog,

The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Hanzel and Gretel,

The Swan Princess, Little Red Riding Hood,

Originals and retellings,

covers of every shade of green and blue and purple,

the corners of each page stained and colour rubbed off by my mother's fingers.

Most of the time, these tales are some of the first things we hear, we read,

and they become a part of us

a part of our world -

so much so that we begin to believe that these are real,

that these writers didn't just create beautiful people

and plant them inside towers and castles,

that things like these can't just be made up.

We begin to believe that in the end we will all have a prince or princess charming,

we will all be saved and protected after we suffer.

We grow to accept that suffering,

is something that we must all face to be happy -

without hate first, there won't be love after.

Things like being kidnapped and captured,

being rendered powerless and held under control

are things all the main characters have.

Stepmothers become evil,

Seemingly charming strangers

that appear on our doorstep one day

will become our saviours.

I'd say it's rare for a little child to grow up,

not dreaming of meeting a fairy or suddenly growing a glittering green tail,

not dreaming of someone coming and slinging them over a shining steed and riding off towards a gleaming golden castle, glistening before pastel clouds as the sun falls in glowing shades behind it.

I know I did.

I'd waited for it too.

Even when things didn't seem that way,

I was waiting for it to come,

for love to knock on my door someday,

or appear as I would be leaving the coffee shop,

or better yet - sweep me up when I least expected it.

Dug out the antique copies from every store,

and they sat on my shelves day after day,

dark spines shining in the dim light of the room.

I'd run my fingers up and down across the spines,

sometimes flick through a couple of the pages -

the last ones - the ones with the happy end.

Over time, however, I stopped.

It all started to fade out for me at some point.

Love hadn't spontaneously accosted me

and no one had come along to save me.

I'd made myself believe that someone would,

when in reality, it's every man for himself.

It greyed out after that.

The books sat on the shelves,

colours slowly fading due to the dust that filtered down upon them.

I suppose that's when I decided to start rewriting them -

another way to give them a new life,

and bring them to life for myself.

After all, there's so much in those tales

so much that was hazed across and blurred over

so many things that were made pretty and perfect and neat.

It seemed to wonderful to me -

love at first sight, they say.

But what do we know?

After all, their lives were just written down,

created by ink, imagination and paper.

The very curls of their hair formed only by the swift movements of a pen,

the swishes of their dresses and golden buttons of their crisp white suits seen clearly only in the minds of their creator.

But when they lived the lives of these people,

did they see how twisted and unnatural it all was?

Did they realise that love at first sight couldn't possibly thrive long enough to bond two people forever?

Cinderella? Wed to a man she'd danced one night with.

Little mermaid? Wed to a man she'd never spoken to.

Snow White? Wed to a man she'd seen twice.

Sleeping Beauty? Wed to a man she'd spent a couple hours with.

They call it love at first sight.

I used to believe that.

Now I call it bullshit.

Maybe that's why people prefer horror now,

it doesn't give you false hope -

some screams, possible nightmares,

a couple casualties and phantoms in-film,

and the lingering hope of a happy-end that may or may not have been shown.

Tales used to be the 'giving of hope',

people loved them.

Now people laugh. Call them ridiculous.

So they prefer my endings, believe in them more.

Maybe that's why I chose lilac.

They say it's associated with romance and affection.

I wanted that.

I decided to wear it when the day came without even realising.

I knew I'd never feel any real feelings:

I'd never gotten those butterflies that flap around in your stomach amidst the last meal you ate.

I'd never felt that searing pink blush rise up on my cheeks nor the anxious, twitchy feeling pulsing through my hands.

Maybe, in some strange part of my mind,

my subconscious,

I thought the lilac would make up for it somehow,

that people would see it and believe.

Or maybe it was the tales again.

Lilac dress.

The design similar to the one Belle wore when she went playing in the snow with the Beast.

Colour like the shells that littered the glittering ocean floor of Atlantica

or the combination of the two colours of dress that Flora and Merryweather kept going between.

Flowing skirt like that of Cinderella's ballgown.

And the power of every happy ending every lived by the characters of fairytales.

At least when I wear it.

But a dress can't give me the happily ever after that I so strongly desire,

and neither can the stories that are so prominently engraved in my brain.

It's strange to think

where this concept of fairytales came from.

Surely the human mind on it's own cannot dream up such things.

Maybe loneliness.

Or desparation.

Or the simple placement of a hand in front of your eyes,

shielding you from everyone's greatest fear -

life.

Life won't be solved by waiting around in a castle,

or riding on a snowy steed,

or throwing down your hair and singing some sweet, blissfully ignorant song about how you want to experience the real world.

Maybe she was better off just staying in that tower.

Maybe mother did know best.

Maybe there's a reason each fairytale cuts off just after the two characters get married.

After all,

the glass slipper can't stop you from falling,

just as your hair won't be able to heal every wound.

Retelling stories for the rest of your life,

won't make yours get any better,

and a lilac dress

definitely can't promise you a happily ever after.

-Fin