Divisible (Ch. 1)

ONE

My mother affixed sprigs of baby's breath to my hair piece in between the carnations. I stared at myself transforming, being decorated like a Christmas tree or a seven-layer cake. The makeup was thin and gritty, a homemade blush made of powered beet root and flour, a lighter shade applied sparingly to the lower lids of my eyes and along the brow line. Nail polish was banned, so we decided on lace gloves to cover my dirt-encrusted fingers that were never completely clear of soil and mulch fibers.

Mom was forbidden from attending the main ceremony, so she teared up as she put the finishing touches to my dress. She was a slight woman with a sun-aged face. Her skin was only a few shades darker than mine, yet she was considered lesser than me, a fact that we were not at all content with, but unable to protest.

"I wish this could be under different circumstances... I wish so much..." her voice broke, tears cascading from her brown eyes, the same color as my own.

"I know. We both do," I said as she placed the veil over my face.

I felt and looked like an ornate lamp. The veil was pink lace to the match the gloves. The frills of the off-white charmeuse turtleneck tickled my chin. Immodest dresses of the past could only be worn if there was a "complete" undershirt underneath—"complete" meaning "covering the neck, collarbone, shoulders, and arms." I can't risk exposure of my shoulder blades—whatever will the guests think? That I chose these clothes to dress myself? Such barbarism! Over the turtleneck blouse was a shift; calling it a dress was a little too optimistic. The shift was made of cheap pale pink linen, patterned with uneven splotches of what might have been an attempt at chrysanthemums, but seemed like a child's drawing of flowers. This dress had been lengthened, its bottom hem resting on my flat-heeled shoes.

Mom was in her work clothes still and would return to the fields while the ceremony took place. We stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. I can't remember the last time I've seen a real smile on her face... or mine, for that matter.

A knock at the door made us both jump.

"The opening ceremony is beginning. Workers need to leave," said the terse voice of Opal, the Stewardess.

"Stay safe, dear," Mom bade me, her hand on the door knob. I could tell she wanted to hug me, could see the muscles tense like she's fighting her own body. She wiped her face as she opened the door and walked briskly down the hall and down the stairs. Opal regarded me, her eyes sweeping veil to foot, her lips pursing like she wanted to laugh. She, like the rest of the family, was pretentious to the point of sheer arrogance.

"You'll go last, after Kirsten and Flora," she said, giving me one last glance over. She'll be gossiping about this later, to the maids, condemning every last inch of me. She snapped the door closed and I was left alone in the cramped little bedroom. It was the tiniest bedroom I'd ever seen, even for a child's room. The bed lengthwise down the room, below where the roof tapered off above. What was stranger was the full-length, massive mirror that was more expansive than the width of the bed. The hardwood floor was only the bare minimum of clean, like the maids only swept in here once a week as opposed to the rest of the house, which was waxed, buffered, mopped, and gleamed like polished marble.

I stood in place, not wanting to move and set anything off balance. I was beginning to sweat—this room had no vent for air conditioning.

The second knock on the door came far too soon. Opal opened it inward, stood aside against the banister of the catwalk while I carefully toed past her. The foyer and entrance to the living room were lined with pristine and regally dressed guests and bureaucrats alike. Gently, I stepped down the stairs, hand gripping the railing for dear life. I kept my face placid, daring not to betray any instinct to remain neutral, appreciative, honored.

The many eyes upon me judged every aspect of my appearance: Each curl of my hair, each flower of the hairpiece, every crease of the shift. I eased into the living room, where the other women stood in similar positions, equidistant from the Head of House. We were an Easter collection of pastels: Kirsten wore baby blue, Flora wore muted lilac, and I wore tepid pink. I filled in the middle space left for me, in front of the Head.

The Head's First Wife appeared behind us in shimmering, holographic gold tiara made of actual rubies. Her dress flowed like silky water from shoulder to toe, her undershirt turtleneck fasted by a gold and diamond-encrusted choker. Her facial expression was carved out of ice, it seemed—I could tell her teeth were clenched, her jaw tight and lips turned down. Her eyes regarded us mutinously, trespassers in her estate.

Believe me, Isolde, we don't want to be here as much you don't want us to be here.

"Let the prospective concubines come forward," said the Head of House, "and join me in commencement of ordained partnership."

He was the squarest man I've ever seen. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass with, yet it was less endearing than it was strangely paired with his uneven jowls. Had he had work done? Did plastic surgeons still exist? His cheekbones were sunken, eyelids unusually wide, giving the appearance that his eyes were bulging. His teeth were too white and straight, definitely veneers.

It's either this or stoning people at the camps. Suck it up, do not cry.

The partnership for every concubine was done one at a time. The First Wife held the hand of Kirsten as she in turn grasped the hand of the Head. This symbolized the First Wife's consent, even if looked like Isolde was breaking Kirsten's fingers.

"Do you promise to serve your Head of House with honor, obedience, love, and respect?" the Head asked.

"I do."

"Let us kiss to symbolize this union."

The Head lifted the veil off Kirsten's face. She became stone as he neared, his lips brushed hers and Kirsten gave a halfhearted attempt at reciprocation. Isolde now looked livid, like she would like to slit Kirsten's throat.

Next was Flora, who was physically trembling. Isolde let go of Kirsten's hand, who stealthily stretched it out behind her back, wincing in pain. She now held Flora's hand who offered her shaking hand to the Head. He repeated the spiel of required oaths. During this kiss, Flora was closing her eyes like she was about to kiss a disgusting creature's.

Me next. Was my heart really beating that fast?

Isolde came near and gripped my hand. Her rings cut into my palms. I wonder if she was doing it deliberately, a threat with unspoken words. The words were spoken and the kiss was coming.

I swallowed bile as my veil lifted. His face was nearing. Was he wearing makeup? I could see the telltale signs of foundation-covered pores. He smelled of cigars, aftershave, and the remnants of the other women's own homemade lip glosses.

His lips pressed against mine, feeling like I had sealed my fate away. This was the key thrown into the ocean, the birdcage clamped around my head. But in a choice between being on the kill squads and marrying the man that took our freedoms away, I would sacrifice my life.

Only question was... how long will this last? How much of me must be sacrificed to spare the innocent?