The not-so prosperous princess

I swim in oblivion. I’m in a vortex of sorts and I am falling, plunging through a vast whirlpool and yet my feet are planted firmly on the ground. I am everywhere and everything, but nothing at all. Bright colors swirl before my eyes. Though I don’t know what they mean, they seem to make perfect sense. My mind dances beyond the limestone walls of my bedroom, traveling amongst my own creations; it soars through divine flower fields, twirling through nothing and everything. Places beyond the limitless sky. I am shining, glittering, spiraling and swirling. I am radiant; luminous as the stars that paint the sky. Though I know that this world I have constructed is made to collapse, I want to hold on. I want to stay here forever.

Begrudgingly, my vision blurs into focus. My own dull green eyes stare back at me. My eyes aren’t the color of the seas that I fly across or the rich green of fresh forests and towering trees. In fact, the color resembles a particularly unflattering swamp.

Alas, I am once again surrounded by the suffocating walls of the Carnifex manor and faced with the atrocious sight of my own bruised figure. I attempt a smile, which turns out to be a lost cause anyway, and apply a gradient from a few small bottles of concealer onto my face. To my great annoyance, I have to apply multiple layers due to the ugly blue blotches that seem ever so persistent in taking the spotlight.

I paint my lips a faded pink, the color made to make me seem innocent and perhaps approachable.  Due to the inheritance of my mother’s sharp features and my father’s swampy eyes, it doesn’t work. It's a miracle I am entrusted with makeup in the first place, our family often boasting of their natural beauty. Franky, as I stare at my ever-so-tasteless eyes and down to my dress, I don’t know what beauty they see. My dress is the color of the evening sky, though missing the stars that make it so worthy of looking at. 

I string a necklace uncomfortably around my throat. It's golden, like all the jewelry worn in the ancient house of Carnifex. For some reason, I think the color strangles me more than the material. It's the color that my mother loves; she proudly displays it around her neck and wrists and never ceases mentioning it to anyone who will listen. I’m not very fond of the color.

Despite this, the heir to the ancient house of Carnifex mustn’t leave the prestigious household with a bare neck. It would be simply preposterous.

I place a jewel-adorned headpiece on my curled hair, bearing the same gold that adorned all of the jewelry in the household. The crown is old. It passes through generations of tiresome stories and probably incest. I want to puke at the mere thought. 

I look like a porcelain doll; carefully constructed and very fragile. I look exactly like my mother. My stomach churns at the thought. Though the Carnifex legacy is a delicacy, a trophy to be flaunted, I wish to return to the gardens and the star-filled skies. Every gemstone places a weight onto my shoulders, one that fails to disperse over my foolish imaginings. I am no longer floating in my sea, though made of darkness shine a light brighter than anything this noble house has to offer.

My bedroom is adorned with my least favorite color. It's colored in the gold that never seems to leave the house, staining the Manor like the legacy that comes with it. It laces my bedframe with swan-like curves and colors the jewels that adorn my mirror. It's as if we live in a castle, our title carrying the height of a throne. I suppose this was the purpose of the pompous color. The ancient house of Carnifex couldn’t be seen as anything but prosperous, after all.

“Miss Carnifex,” someone croaks from the doorway. A spike of panic rises in my chest. A woman stands at the doorway, fear glistening in her ice-blue eyes. Clearly she’s never met my mother. “Mrs. Carnifex requires your presence in the ballroom.” My heart pounds in my chest. “Immediately,” she says.

The gaze that I wear so well never falters as I nod. My heart constricts in my chest when the door closes. My serene expression has mastered the art of deceit; feigning composure. It does well in masking my pounding heart. Now, I wish more than anything to close my eyes. To feel the breeze of the meadows I so shamelessly dream of brushing against my cheeks. I want to get lost in wanderings, never to be found again.

Instead, I depart from my room, because Aspen Butcher is no coward. My black heels click on the marble floors and I enjoy the sound. I revel in the melody of the maids scurrying into the distance like mice, waiting to be crushed with the tip of my heel. The sight never fails to amuse me.

After all, the servants that hurriedly dash past me are nameless. They have no names, and no faces. I don’t bother to remember them. They pass in blurs, simply pawns. They wear the same plain black skirts or pants and bear the same wrath of the woman for whom they work for. I know I’m not supposed to think about them, but sometimes I wonder if they want to disappear too. I don’t dare ask.

The hallway is decked with portraits of former family members. My face appears in quite a few of them. They are painted in dull colors, dark shades of faded gray and purple swirling in the background. Various members of the Carnifex line are drawn onto the canvas. Of course, their canvas is framed gold.

My gaze lands on a particular photo, located above a small wooden desk, holding different types of cleaning materials and a small broom cupboard nearby. The frame shines as if it was freshly scrubbed. Our faces are stoic, except for my mother. She wears a charming smile. It's the type of smile that would surely knock any man in the ballroom off their feet when need be. It’s a beautiful smile that reeks of charm though equally dangerous to those who know her well enough.

I vividly remember the bright pink dress my sister wore that day. It starkly contrasted the dark colors in the background. Her smile almost rivals my mothers; she inherited her smile from the woman, unlike me and my younger brother. We don’t smile. 

Now, as I stare at the painting, my family seeming almost life-like through the depths of the canvas, all I see is gray. Krishna Butcher has long been removed from the family portraits. I don’t like thinking about her much.

My gaze lingers on the photo, though I can’t see it quite clearly. I stare blankly at the canvas, as if to delay the moment I arrive at the ballroom for a little longer. 

Gods, I’m a coward.

My pace is brisk as I force myself along the corridor. Maids scamper around the hall as I reach the ballroom. A chandelier illuminates the shining silverware, the marble floors shining an orange color with the light. The tables are scattered across the ballroom. They’re covered in table-cloths, a regal white laced with gold.

“Aspen!” The booming voice of Thyra Carnifex echoes through the room. My stomach jolts. I’m not proud of the panic spiking in my chest. The clicking of heels that aren’t mine approaches me. My heart hammers against my ribs.

A cold hand is placed on my shoulder. I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding as hard as I can. Foolish cowardice.

Sharp nails dig into bruised skin. A sting erupts on my shoulder.