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Chapter One
I have fragmented memories of my childhood. Memories that reveal a girl who is competitive, energetic, smart; a girl who expresses all her cravings without shame. An independent mind who shows no acknowledgment for rules but will create her own path while recklessly inspiring disciples. Then, mine was the curious mind. A young voyeur, perhaps a pervert, who wishes to understand the world of passion and desire. A girl with keen attention on her body and unrestrained quizzing on the topic, but her open-minded curiosity about her sexuality is shunned by a single woman.
Her name?
Mrs. Fox.
She is a part of each episode that replays in mind. She revealed to me that my character drew her to me like a magnet, and I posed a challenge for her the moment I was put under her care from birth.
I remember making her worry and fret so much. The constant headache that she claimed developed only because, 'Emily Smithson needs to be tamed for the sake of the other girls in the foster care home.’. These memories are all slightly distressing because with them came the reminder of dire punishment that left scars not just in the physical body but in my subconscious mind as well. However, these memories are fragmented as I said, and they merge to reveala more tranquil character, a girl who battled to become the epitome of obedience. She became normal.
A successful experiment.
There were less disastrous acts, but subtle hints of recklessness were still present. Nevertheless, I had been altered to become a decent and high moral woman that would survive the world beyond the foster care home.
I was constantly in a fog, seeming far away from the room. A rectangular room with several bunks, children teetering around oblivious of the storm that brewed inside of me. I could have been insensitive to their emotions too. Even worse than the least attention they paid to my changing interests. Eventually, this girl would leave the rectangular room to continue this path, while constantly revisiting these memories.
Emily
Meet me by the lake, at 7 0 o'clock. I'll sit underneath the stars, wearing your favorite apron.
I have it in my hands.
A single piece of information that warms my heart.
Color creeps to my cheeks when a feminine voice reads the note out loud behind me. I quickly crumple the note and tuck it into my apron, then I pretend to be busy cutting carrots. There comes a cackle which fades away as footsteps recede. My vision blurs, and I imagine a high-pitched sound coming in slow motion. The room disappears, and I think only of him. I think about the man who sent me the note: a man who claims to love me without restrictions orconditions. A man who has given me my very first experience of romance.
The first time I noticed him shuffling awkwardly in the kitchen, he had given me a single rose and a dashing smile. I stared at his hands for several seconds, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in my day. It took a nudge from a friend to return his smile and accept the rose.
Love at first sight,I thought.Good for him,I thought, but I never felt electrified when my eyes clashed with his. I didn't feel the flutter they describe in books. I was not muddle-headed. I had been eager to resume my work, and only his pleasant smile had made me pay more attention than I intended.
My sense of independence made me imagine having a partner at the age of 18 as a distraction. Coupled with the fact that I am a chef made my wish to stay away more understandable. However, with time, I found myself surrendering to his interests, accepting more roses as they came whilst falling prey to the illusion that I wanted to experiencefirst lovewith him.
After all, I always went forsafe. I chose to stick to the sidelines and watch other people dive into risks and endless hunts until they agreed they had achieved whatever it was they were searching for.
I didn't put in extra effort. Even the process of discovering my true desires frightened me.
So do I really want these roses?I'd ask myself and then provide a response,Yes, you don't.
Who am I fooling? The structuring made no difference.
At the end of the day, I accepted not just the roses but him. The theory is to treat people as you want to be treated. No doubt, I reciprocate the feeling of love he has for me. I mean,it is the right thing to do.Love someone as much as he loves you.
Our relationship has been platonic, but I know that locked away is the yearning for more, the cry to be set free, to go for something more thrilling. A thrill that will not only have color creep to my cheeks but also leave me hot and bothered, tingling in my feminine parts.
"Emily! Shit. You are going to burn the whole place down!" My best friend, Maya hurries to lessen the angry flames that rise from the stove in front of me.Why did I turn it on again? I truly cannot remember.I could have bored myself to sleep with my endless thoughts if she hadn't come in.
"I see he has done another round on you again," she groans.
I am not very outspoken about my thoughts, but somehowit's easy for Maya to read the conflicts and discomforts with a look in my eyes. I have heard people complain that my eyes display so many emotions at once that it is hard to conclude my mood. I simplify it by giving them a reaction they expect when they complain.
If they think I should be sad, I put on a sad face. If I am expected to be angry, I turn my lips downward and perfect the look. I have been robotized. Forced to become submissive to the core.
"He sent a note," I say in a soft, pleasant voice. I know she was the intruder who peered down my shoulders and read the note with me, but I don't mind. I'll still respond.
I can't totally criticize my love life. I even consider myself a lucky woman to have what most people crave. I may not be entirely satisfied with my romantic life or choice of occupation, but I accept that it's all right for me.
I'll never dare to openly declare my longings, my growing appetite that eats away the doctrines: the chains that have made me this way. I am still a woman who must suppress her feelings.I should be sensitive about his feelings too.
