My Story

Okay. So now, due to the ball's that's in 2 weeks time, I'm here in this stupid measuring shop doing my ballgown measurements.

Ugh. Stupid stupid balls. I can’t believe all those girls actually enjoy this. All the pricky needles and prickler needlewomen… How can they even stand all these stuff? And chatter excitedly at the same time? I now have a newfound respect for all those stuck-up noble ladies. Even Harriet is putting up with all this without a fuss. Not that it’s surprising or anything. She is one of the stuck-up little noble ladies I now have a respect for anyway.

Apart from the ‘stuck-up’ part, that is.

But still. It’s not exactly the easiest task imagining Harriet doing all the things all those girls do. Much less seeing it for myself–

“OWW! What the –– Oof THAT HURTS! Harriet! How can you even stand this torture?” I yelp as the grumpy dressmaker with a squished-up pug-like face yanks furiously on the laces. Harriet looks at me and shrugs lightly, turning her full attention back to the wispy little soft-spoken lady that’s her dressmaker. What the– Look at how her dressmaker pulls her laces! She’s using not even a third of the strength my puggy dressmaker is using.

Life is just not fair.

Why do I always get the scary big ones? Because you don’t even like being here in the first place, that’s why. Right.
Another full cycle of the clock to go. Another full cycle of torture. Oh god.

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FINALLY.

My dear dressmaker has completed the yanking of the laces. Now she’s rummaging in her black bag. Huh? What’s she taking– oh damn.

Needles.

If there’s anything I hate more than anything, that jerk included, its needles. I can handle knives and swords just fine– heck, I’m not even afraid of them, and I am the best sharpshooter in town, apart from Hazele’s dear daddy, but NEEDLES?

I. Am. So. Dead.

Wait.

She’s not going to stick them into the dress is she? If not I would –

“Yeow! That hurts!” Why in the world am I always right?

Stupid dressmaker and her super-sharp needles. I swear she purposely sharpens her needles every night for this purpose: poking me. How long till break? I glance at the clock on the wall. Another 2 quarts to go. Aw crud.

They said we would be ‘sewing or buying or borrowing’ our own gowns. Apparently they neglected to mention they were making us matching pre-ball gowns as well. Turns out we had to be presented to the royal court in that icky gown before we were allowed to change into our evening wear. Like, what the heck? MATCHING gowns. In BLACK. My worst colour. I bet the ACs suggested it. And in the ‘latest fashion’ as well. They say it as if it’s a privilege. Like it’s a good thing.

Ha.

AS IF. Apparently the ‘latest fashion’ is super-high collars and super-tight waistlines and super-itchy-and-puffy sleeves and this ridiculous puffed-up skirt with a stupid long train at the back.

Good.

Huh. Over my dead body.

Why do these people just love watching us suffer?

So here I am, in this stupid hot stuffy dressing room with all the other princess-wannabes being measure for our gowns like dolls. I swear if i ever become princess I'm going to ban all this kind of . Another quart to go. When is this torture going to end?

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I’m sitting at my new favourite spot, the thick branch of the old oak in the forest by the stream. Reading nothing. Saying nothing. Thinking nothing. Except enjoy the pure sweet taste of freedom. I thought this nightmare would never end.
Sure, we have to go back tomorrow for another round, but for now, I don’t give a damn. For now, there’s only one word that matters to me: Freedom.

I don’t think the wind has ever felt this good on my face. At least now there’s no one to bug me. No one to disturb me, to irritate me, to make my head throb. No stuck-up classmates, no stick-thin headmistresses, no shrilly vice-heads, no demanding teachers, no shrieky princesses-to-be, no pudgy dressmakers, no ignorant jerks, no nothing to bother me. Just the way I like it.

A magpie’s cawing.

A leaf’s falling from the tree.

The stream’s rippling from a fish swinging its tail underwater.

The sunlight’s streaming.

That cloud looks like a pig.

It smells like home.

A horse’s approaching. I can hear its steady hoof beats, hitting the ground in time with my heart.

There’s someone on the horse. I know it. I bend downwards to look, and somehow manage to lose my balance and fall ungracefully to the ground, landing hard on my behind.

Holy crud.

I scramble clumsily to my feet and turn swiftly to face the other party. I immediately wish I hadn’t. A black horse’s galloping towards me. I look at its foaming mouth, its panting tongue. I know it’ll never stop in time. Aw man. At this rate I’ll never make it out alive. It comes nearer and nearer, and I fling my arms over my face, bracing for myself for the imminent impact.

You know they say before you die your life flashes before your eyes? Well, they’re lying. The only thing I saw was those brilliant green eyes, the ones I had last seen the day before I left. The ones I would probably never see again. Well. I never said I was normal. The hoofbeats are getting closer and closer. I squeeze my eyes shut and prepared for the impact.

It never comes.

At the last minute, the horse slides to a halt, and I feel it’s horsey-apple-ish breath on my neck. It smells familiar, somehow. I almost remember it, then like a bubble, the memory goes ‘pop’. I cautiously open my eyes.
I don’t know what I was expecting, to say the truth. The horse’s eyes, staring down at me, perhaps, or maybe the neck of the horse or something. But I certainly didn’t expect that.

I saw a pair of brilliant green eyes.