Rich Rebels

prologue | atelophobia

Malaina

I HATED IT here. My dress was too tight. Mother said it's form-fitting, made me look slimmer than I'll ever be. Perhaps this is true. Wearing it made my already frail figure appear thinner.

However, I could feel it suffocating me. It hugged  my waist like a bone crushing corset.

My breaths were heavy and jagged. They say beauty is pain, a pain that I would, unfortunately, have to experience every single day of my life.

I stared at myself in the tall floor-length mirrors that surround me. The fitting room was perfectly illuminated with bright lights and the last bit of sunlight that entered through the large windows. It was almost evening, around half past five.

I looked perfect. Too perfect. Everything about me has been planned, designed, and executed. The tailor was crouched down beside me, adding the finishing touches of the pale pink floor-length dress.

It was evident that she was tired as well, her movements slower than usual, her back naturally arched from bending so much.

The shimmering sequins adorn every inch around my waist, showering down towards the very bottom of the dress.

The dress was made to match the pink azalea flowers pinned in my hair. I wished they were real. I wished my life felt more real.

To the public eye, my life was everything anyone could dream of. Deep down, it was only materialistic.

Plastic. I wanted something real. To get out from the confinements and comforts of my own home and experience the world for myself. I knew though, I knew that this would never happen. My parents would never allow it.

Mother had my hair straightened again. Bone straight, not a single curl in sight. She liked it better that way.  Instead of being in its natural state, springy and curly, and completely me, it was now sleek and straight. Dull and just like everybody else. Just like her.

She had also had Pascal come and cover my frightful dark circles that had formed around my eyes with makeup. I could barely recognize myself after he had finished with my makeup, plucking and waxing every visible imperfection.

Feeling uncomfortable, I went to  ask my mother if I could keep my hair curly, perhaps even tone down the makeup. No matter how many times I pleaded with her, she refused to listen.

"Malaina," she tutted when I asked. "That unruly hair isn't very elegant, now is it? Now you should be thankful that we were able to get you to look like this."

She didn't even bother to look up from the book she was reading. Mother only stopped to take a sip of her steaming hot cup of tea, a sign that I was dismissed.

I could only sigh and obey her. I didn't bother to ask again or bring it up with Father, knowing his response would be the same.

In the dressing room, I had a few minutes to take off my mask. Not a literal mask, but rather a mask of my emotions. I could already hear the sound of light chatter starting to build up from downstairs.

The guests were arriving, and even without looking outside, I could tell that they were all lined up in their sleek luxury sports cars. Those cars could stretch down the street for miles and miles.

Every week it was as if everyone upgraded their car to a new and better model, bought the newest luxury items money could buy,  never wanting to be the odd one who was left out. All they saw life was a competition.

A stupid competition to determine who was the richest, the most beautiful, the most successful. Life to them was just a game of chess; either you win, or you lose. There was no in between.

"Miss, the dress is finished," I heard the tailor say from beside me. She had worked on my dress for weeks and weeks, coming into the house once in a while to make sure it fitted. 

My gaze snapped in her direction.

Her eyes were warm and encouraging, but also tired. She admired her handiwork for the last time. I nodded, thanking her and sending her a grateful look.

I caught one last glimpse of myself in the mirror and forced myself to smile.

It was time to go.