𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Recollection

If you saw yourself within my eyes

Your beauty would come as no surprise

For my image of you, is comprised

Of every star that plagues the skies

—————

Seventeen holds little significance. That is, when compared to what comes before, and what follows. Sixteen marks a certain maturity, both mental and perhaps, physical. One may crave independence, freedom, even rebellion. The future is approaching and so it comes time to prepare.

Eighteen means adulthood. Inheriting complete legal and financial responsibility for oneself. The opportunity to work, to receive an extended education, to settle down and start a family or impulsively travel the world instead. It's the beginning of a journey which entails self discovery on every level.

That is, if you're a man.

It means nothing to women. They have an entirely different set of important and meaningful birthdays. Undoubtedly more narrow and less interesting. Far more restrained, controlled, and closely monitored and criticized by others.

It's usually something along the lines of finishing school at 13. And no, that does not mean completing one's general education comprised of a variety of sciences, arts, and languages. It means enrolling in an academy which prides themselves on their capability to prepare a young woman for marriage. A finishing school.

This brings us to the next milestone; Sixteen. It is now time to put your 'finished' education to use and find yourself a husband. The act of getting engaged and eloping in the house of god all takes place within only a few months as it really doesn't matter how well you know your partner. The only real purpose of getting married is to pop out a few children to ensure the continuation of the family name.

A woman's dowry is a benefit for everyone involved, other than herself. A large sum of money provided to her husband once married. It's odd how in some cultures, brides will be bought by their grooms, money paid to the father in exchange for their precious daughter. But in others, they're the ones paying men to take their girls. As if marrying them is some grueling task that one must be compensated for enduring.

Children begin to appear around eighteen, and may continue to appear until they simply no longer can. Eighteen is the end. The rest of a woman's life will be divided between cooking for her beloved husband and the army of children he's burdened her with since their wedding night, caring for said army, and finding the time to keep her hair voluminous and her skin tight in hopes of discouraging him from taking on a mistress.

Unfortunately for her, this would be near impossible. If not tangled up in an inappropriate affair with another younger, more desirable woman, he will most definitely frequent the local brothel. Why? You ask. Because he can.

Divorce would be social and economic suicide for a wife. And the woman would sooner find herself employed in one of the previously mentioned brothels, then happily remarried in the eyes of the church. But as incredibly unfair and entirely infuriating as this all is, what matters now, on December 17th, is a single number;

Seventeen.

Arriving rather late to the party, Florence's seventeenth year in the world had a lot in store for the young girl. She would be married and experiencing either the discomfort of being with child, or the trials and tribulations of first time motherhood, all within the next 365 days.

The thought of it made her want to puke. Carrying the child, raising the child of a man she barely knows. Bringing a concoction of their combined blood into the world. She felt guilty for her thoughts, but knew that they held some truth.