England, 194x
Antonia was staring at the dirty, broken mirror in front of her. Gone was the little perfect siren everybody painted her to be. Bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, pointed chin, fair complexion coloured only by the blackness of her under-eye. She was supposed to be an ethereal, beautiful bride. She was supposed to be glowing with pride, paraded everywhere by the groom to capture everybody’s attention thus validating the sole purpose of her existence: to be the sought-after trophy wife. A marionette in strings. She’d understood her purpose before she realized it, and learned to accept it.
But now she was crying. Nobody was supposed to be crying on their wedding day. She, of all people, knew that. Her love for romantic prose and poetry made sure she did, and never once had she ever pictured herself wet with heavy tears just seconds from making it to the altar. And she felt horrible for it. Her stomach was in knots, and she wanted nothing else but to bolt out of there and scream into the void. But that’s not how a good bride should behave. She should be beaming, with tears that were happy, and place herself decidedly right beside her groom.
It felt like so many summers ago since she’d found herself lying on the mattress by the swimming pool, basking in sunlight, a raspberry lollipop melting in her mouth*. She was waiting then, for a young man, the one who’d always come for her no matter what happened. She could be shattered in pieces on a night before she’d even bled, and he’d glue every piece of her together again. She could be deserted somewhere far away, and he’d risk his own sweetheart to come get her. She could whine and wail and cry and cry and cry, and he’d whisk her pain away. Now, everybody was waiting for her outside. Mum must be beaming with joy—or whatever that breakable woman might feel towards her eldest daughter now—and her younger sisters must be dead silent in their seats. Two other marionettes with strings had yet to attach.
Well, at least you’re spared from the horrors of war. You’re safe here, in the arms of your numerous maids and cooks and dirty gold. You’ll have your husband come to you—if he comes back. You’ll be obedient, because you have always been put first. “Women and children only!” they shout. And you’ll always be both.
Antonia tried to make amends for her absence in war with this—the least she could do. She could deal with the tears later, with emotions that prompted it in the first place. She could name her feelings one by one after the war ended—if it ever did—because she did not have the luxury of time. She would mourn properly, later, atop the tall grasses on the uphill in Cornwall, with the burnt paintings and broken figurines, glasses of mimosa, fuchsia-painted nails, black shades, big umbrellas, raspberry lollipops, unnecessarily huge swimming pool, a father and two brothers wrapped in her too tiny, shaky arms.
That’s the lifetime vow she’d made first and foremost, before her veil fell in place, her violet dress kissed the ground in all its grace, fragrant flowers gripped tightly in her bony fingers. Tears subsided, and the siren slapped on the perfect face of a happy bride.
***
*Read more in Rahasia Antonia
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