Privilege

What really is a privilege and not a burden? Are golden chains not chains all the same.

She sits at the table. Her dress is made of the finest silk, and though her frame fits it perfectly, she wears it disdainfully as though it is worthless to her. She thinks nothing of clothing, and her favorite ensemble is her skin with the wind and rain upon it. Her hair and makeup are impeccable, and though any man would tell her she is beautiful, she acts as if it means nothing. Not because she takes it for granted, but because she barely notices. To her beauty is timeless, and dangerous, and beauty to her is the stark power of the lightning in the field, the running of the wolf, and compared to those things the soft contours of her face are boring and lifeless. Now she is transfixed by the crystal glass in front of her, clear except for the dregs of wine at the bottom, and as she rolls the stem of the glass between her fingers the light within the glass dances, flashing in front of her eyes and across the table. She runs her hands over the cup, looking for the secret within it, trying to find the source of the light.

“Marie, Marie dear? Oh good lord your impossible….Marie! Arthur is trying to say something to you.”

Her head snaps up and suddenly her concentration is broken as her mind floods with the sounds of the dinner table. The table is huge with guests stretching all the way down and they fill the great hall. To her right her mother is staring at her, the watery blue eyes she has come to hate pointed fixedly on her face. The worst part about her mother is not her anger, nor her coldness, not even her vanity. It is that whenever she looks at her, she can see herself in those cold remote features. They are so physically alike, as both strangers and family alike are fond of saying. The man next to her mother is Arthur. It would be forgivable if he were weak, it would be understandable if he was cruel, but he is both and that is intolerable. His whine is followed by his slap, and the cold gleam in his eye can be replaced by tears as long as he is obeyed. His face is soft as his hands are small, and she can feel the dirty brush of his eyes whenever she walks into a room.

“Ah yes, as I was saying, the tropics are beautiful this time of year and I would be delighted to take you and your mother to my private esta….”

Their voices fade as she once again focuses on the glass. Not for the first time she wonders how something like the shimmering light in the glass, and Arthur’s eyes could exist in the same world. The first course is served, and a light sense of dread passes over her. The meat on her plate is bloody, served with impeccable grace and it makes her sick. The sight of that redness against the white of the plate seems profane, like the offering of a soul. For the first time during the meal, she sees the servants. With a jolt she realizes they have been here the entire time, unseen and unheard hands, moving plates returning trays and feeling glasses. When she looks into their faces she does not see humans, but things robbed of souls and dancing on puppet strings. Her head goes light, and then she sees them eating. Their knives flashing, their teeth gnashing, they look like murderers. Though their plates and knives are red, their clothes are pristine, the shirts white and presses, and the dresses beautiful. To her it looks like hell, this bloody murder wrapped in linen sheets with a golden bow on top. And still she feels Arthurs eyes on her body and she feels unclean. Grabbing the glass she holds it up to the light searching for a way inside the prisms, where the light is free to dance and be as it is. But the glass offers no opening. It shatters against the wooden table like the crystal that it is. On her knee s she searches for a that light, hoping it had escaped and able to take her away from here. Away from the gilded cages where her wings are cut, and show her the lightning again. But the glass is dead and squeezing it until her hands bleed does not bring it back to life. And so she begins to weep.

Marie is taken away, and the diners continue with their meal. The second course is served, lobster stuffed ravioli lightly braised with juice from the lamb roast and parsley, which is coated with a special homemade tomato sauce, and bleu cheese. Across the table, at the other end of the great hall, a young man, beautiful and nervous in his fragility vomits on his father’s blazer. The man known for his temper backhands the boy with a hand kissed by popes and presidents alike. He signals for the boy to be taken away.

The third course is served.

A crash can be heard throughout the house.

Author's Note

I would really like to know what you think of this piece. I've been writing forever but have never actually had constructive criticism.

Reviews

[Lilly Negoi]

well, there isn't much criticism to bring to this, at least from my point of view. aside some typos that can be easily corrected, the flow of the description is very well conducted. i truly enjoyed the analytic eye you proved in this piece :). nicely done.