#27: Preparation, 100_prompts
Blast my inability to link posts. This will have to do for now, until I can find 'Livejournal for the Recently Dense' [Hoorah for the Beetlejuice reference!]
“Are you alright, dear?” Your mother asks worriedly, smiling all the same.
“Yes, yes -” a cough as you struggle for air makes you forget what you were about to say. Your hands clutch at your stomach, willing your diaphragm to expand and allow more in. During times like these, you wish you weren’t a nurse.
“You’re sure?” Why does she insist that you keep talking? You don’t have enough oxygen to think, let alone communicate. Instead, you offer her a distracted nod and a rather ragged smile, feeling your cheeks reddening in your struggle to breathe. “Nice and tight girls,” you gasp as the strings are pulled even tighter. “That’s it.”
“Mother,” you wheeze. “Are you sure -” you pull at the front of the elaborate gown to try to loosen it enough to talk, “- that it’s … supposed to … be this tight?”
“Yes, dear, quite sure,” she inspects the work of the maids behind you. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake! It’s a corset not a violin; it won’t break.”
“I might -” you have a chance to say before the corset constricts your breathing even further.
“Oh, pish-posh. It’s your wedding day, Joan. Don’t you want to look your best?” She fiddles with the many bangles on her wrists, inspecting them, as was her habit.
“I’d rather … be wearing … my night -” you squeak improperly when the maids draw the strings tighter still. “- gown …” You’re panting now, while the maids finish tying the last of the corset neatly.
“Joan?” You glance at your mother, resisting the urge to glare. “You look a bit flush. You haven’t caught anything, have you?” She lays a cold palm on your forehead as though you were an infant, but you’re unable to resist, protest or to even reassure her that no, you haven’t caught a cold. That, instead, you’re tightly strapped into a dress from which you have no means of escape. “Joan?”
Was the room swaying or was that just you? The colours begin to meld together, dancing with each other hypnotically, blending, shifting, changing. The room itself has the feel of a rocking ship, dipping from one side to another. You mother, who had been in front of you moments ago, seems to have melted away but you can still hear her voice. That nagging, scraping noise that makes you shudder whenever she pokes that beaky nose of hers into your business. This way and not that, just like the room. And you were in the middle of it, pulled from one direction to another, torn in two.
But it didn’t sound like your mother. Not your mother. She didn’t sound like that. This mother sounded … concerned.
“Joan!” You can’t answer. Before you’ve even realised what’s happened you’re on your back and turned to the side to better loosen and rip away the corset. Your chest heaves at the sudden freedom and you drink in air as a starving man would gruel.
“Wha - what happened?” You ask bewildered, still out of breath. Mother allows the maids to lift you from the floor and sit you down on the settee next to your vanity mirror before she answers. She sits besides you, straightens her black dress around her ankles and then looks at you matter-of-factly.
“You turned blue, dear.”
No reply is forthcoming.
Sometimes you wonder which is easier, living with her or without her.