Glass Heart

All she wants is love, not the presents piling in her room. Unedited. [I wrote this a year ago, but I noticed that most of my writing on this site is over four years old.]

In the center of her room, sitting prettily in all of her pink and white skirts, ribbons in her golden hair and flowers adorning the frills of her dress, Marie was alone on a satin cushion in a single Cherrywood chair. Her gloved hands fold neatly in her lap. She glanced around with disappointment and sighed under her breath.

She flinched, surprised, hearing an attendant whisper “Come now, Miss Marie.” When she glanced up, an attendant smiled at her, hoping for her to cheer up. She nodded, mustering a petty smile. In his gloved hands, he held a box and kneeled down, setting it down at the feet of her chair. He glanced up at her with sympathy, uttering a quiet “Do not be so disheartened, Miss Marie. Maybe you will like what you see.”

She nodded, but she turned her head away and missed his worried glance, and all the others gazing at her as he stood and left to carry in more presents.

Marie peered around the room, saddened by its lack of any other furniture. But from corner to corner, wall to wall, her presents stacked up, building their way to the heavens painted on her ceiling. Men in tailed coats and women in hooped skirts walked in through cleared paths and rested the decorative gifts on the sprawling mounds forming around young Miss Marie. The gifts were wrapped with blue papers and green papers, white papers and pink papers, white ribbons and blue ribbons, polka dots and stripes, plain and patterned, expensive and cheap, pristine sweet and sullied attempts, every box was different, their cards written in stranger cursives, but inside, she knew what they all held. Every present was the same as the next. No matter that she received gifts from commoner and noble alike, everyone gave her the same thing. They gave her�".

A young man peaked in around the door. Marie smiled once he stepped in. One of his hands was hidden behind his back. He grinned, strutting over to Marie. “Good morning, Marie,” he whispered.

“Good morning, dear brother.”

She tried to glance behind him, but her brother backed a step and wagged a finger at her. “Come now, dear Marie, patience makes you all the sweeter.”

She pouted. “ I do not wish to be sweet,” she whined.

“But sweet is how you should be, angel dear,” and with a flourish, he brought forth a present.

Marie was awash with disappointment, but she smiled. She took a deep breath and drew up her chest, exclaiming “Dear brother, thank you!” Her gloved hands reached out and eased the present out of his hands. As she embraced the gift, she peered up at her brother through her lashes and mustered a sweet smile. “I will hold onto it and open it later.”

“Oh come now,” her brother exclaimed, “Open it now. I insist, dear Marie.”

Marie swallowed, flashing a grin at her brother. She lowered her head, hiding her reluctance from her brother. Her brother urged her on. As she gently pulled apart his ribbon and lifted the lid of the box, she mustered pretty smiles and assuring glances at her excited brother. And as the lid fell out of her hand, she peered in to find a red satin pillow holding a heart of glass. “Are you not happy, my dear Marie?”

She shook her head and beamed at him. “I love it, dear brother!” Even as her smile dropped in his quick hug, she held him back, thinking of how many other glass hearts were laid unopened around her. Thank you, she whispered.

“Marie! Have you seen�"?” Her brother drew away from her as they looked up, finding their mother standing at the door with a gentle smile and folded hands. “Now, come on you, your father desires some bonding.”

“Again,” her brother drawled, glancing at her and shrugging with an apologetic sigh. He kissed her on the forehead and followed after their mother who called “Happy birthday, my darling, I will see you at lunch.”

As soon as they disappeared, Marie hung her head and shivered. “This is not what I want,” she whispered. She lifted her hand and glanced around. The mounds were higher, feet above her head and the attendants still bustled in and out with presents in their arms. She shook her head.

“Stop,” she cried. All of the attendants froze and turned to her. Their eyes, full of concern, gazed at their beloved young mistress, restraining their next breath.

“Stop,” she pleaded, “Continue later.”

They glanced at each other and then at their young mistress. All of them were reluctant to comply. One stepped forward, but before the man could speak, Marie held up her hand and pleaded again. Together, their concern was swallowed, restrained amongst other endearing sentiments, and lodged into the crevices between heart and lung. “Yes, Miss Marie.” Each one bowed, glancing at the sorrow wallowing in Marie’s eyes, and filed out.

Marie sighed, gazing at all the gifts around her. She stood, setting aside her brother’s heart. Her gloved hands picked up present after present, tearing off ribbons and paper, and pulling off lids. In the cavity of every box, she found a glass heart lying on a pillow of some fabric or another: from a countess, from a prince, from a baker, from a servant of the west wing, from a stable boy, from everyone everywhere that knew of the young Miss Marie.

Marie fell to her knees and her head fell into her hands. “This is not what I want,” she cried. She wanted hugs and kisses, smiles and clasped hands. But her yearning was never satisfied. She shook her head. “No.” The tears streamed down her cheeks. “No.” She trembled and held herself. “This is not what I want!”

She seized a glass heart and threw it at a wall. The heart clashed into the face of an angel, shattering against the silver eyes. And Marie saw the heart bleed on the wall as it fell to pieces. “I want love,” she whispered as she spun around and averted her gaze, “I want to be loved.” And on the floor, the heart lay shattered.