She Only Knew Fairytales, by Crystal Rains

She only knew fairytales.

Her green eyes were cast down

as she plucked a four-leaf clover in the courtyard,

pressed it in her Shakespeare anthology,

and wished luck would bring her true love.

A chill in the crisp night air,

she fastened her cape around her shoulders,

looked high above the lamps that lit her path,

and wished upon a falling star for her prince.

More than gold chains and rubies,

she sought the innocent joys of romantic love.

More than orchids and Japanese silk,

more than lavish feasts and vintage wine.

She looked in the mirror as mother fastened her bodice.

The emerald green gown had shown curves that had not been there long.

In the mirror she’d become taller, no longer a child but a young woman.

Had her time come?

Despite years in school, books she’d read, awards she’d earned,

no one had taught her what makes a man noble,

even if not by birth.  Noble birth does not a nobleman make.

And that what’s on the outside does not reflect what is within.

She sat at her window, stared at the loving couples outside,

combed her hair, wrote down her observations in her journal.

Life happened out there, not in here, she thought.

The sky was losing its fire as the sun went down.

She was not permitted to be out there after dark.

The world is a dangerous place, she was told.

She could only imagine.  Would she be followed?

Kidnapped and held hostage for ransom?

Not able to find her way back home?

She had her boundaries made for her.  Walls unwavering.

She cinched her corset a bit tighter,

applied extra kohl to her eyelids

when she anticipated visits from the one who

accompanied her best friend.

No one noticed.  She had younger siblings to attend to.

His stature was tall and confident like nothing she’d ever seen.

She couldn’t help but give knowing glances as he told tales,

and giggled at his choice of words and his jokes.

He was more interesting to her than any book.

She plead with her parents.  “He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

“But he isn’t up to your stature,” they answered.

No one ever was.

And just so, she felt the pangs of loneliness day in and day out.

“I cannot offer you riches,” he admitted.  “But I will provide for you.”

She would never want.

Even if a servant-less, simple life, with a smaller home

he promised to fulfill her dream of becoming a mother.

It was love.  And she was of an age where she could choose.

There was nothing they could do.

Mother was aghast at her crimson wedding dress, not white,

and a candlelit ceremony in the woods, not the church,

still among family and friends.

His laughter was extra jovial, a glass of Meade ever to his lips.

Joyful, she looked to her ring finger at the gold and diamonds.

She was his.

This night would set the tone of every night thereafter.

It was late when they arrived at the hostel.

Her body was exhausted, but her mind anticipated certain possibilities.

What was a wedding night supposed to be like?

There were no words.  He slept, still as a boulder at her side.

The motions of love hadn’t happened that night.

She was confused.

When it happened, it wasn’t love like she thought.

It was gags and restraints at his will. His pleasure not hers.

She didn’t know she was in the arms, no, the hands of a stranger

who left marks on her body and crevices in her heart.

She thought she’d live in a world where her voice was celebrated.

People would gather and applaud at her sopranic arias,

standing after she’d delivered a story or poem, asking for more.

How proud he’d be.  And she would write more for them.

She hadn’t written in years.

She would say “I think….” or “look what I’ve come up with,”

only to be shown a decree of silence

with the wave of a hand, the command “stop,” or no response at all.

 Champagne, a filigreed silver bracelet for her wrist,

voyages on the finest ships…

To provide such things was enough for him.

But not a heart of love and caring.

She overheard political debates between him and friends.

If anyone disagreed with him, the bellows of his hatred

shook her whole world.  She had to look away.

She thought she might close her eyes forever.

“Are you all right?” he’d ask when she displayed unusual silence.

“Not really.”  She didn’t have the words he wanted to hear.

Her sadness was not real to him.  It was imaginary.

He would not help.

She’d aged more than her forty years,

in a prison without bars and restraints for the most part.

Again, staring out the window imagining a different life,

she didn’t expect her fairy tale to have a happily ever after to be like this.