This is the story of a dictatorship, an emotionally manipulative yet eccentric mother and a fall from power through the eyes of children. The two main characters are the incredibly different sisters Rose (15) and Freya Morton (13).
- I know it sounds very... strange and possibly over the top but I hope you enjoy it!
The sun rose unwillingly from the ground as though it were a sleepy child begrudgingly throwing off a warm blanket. Rose also awoke as a soft glow seeped through the thick curtains throwing light onto the perfectly embroidered cushions that had been pushed to the floor at some point during her slumber. A loud groan was heard in amongst the surviving jumble of blankets and pillows as the rays hit the sleeping figure.
A maid hurried in with a tray laden with warm buttery toast, steaming hot chocolate and a bowl of porridge complete with a leisurely dosage of brown sugar. Placing the tray upon the daintily painted side table she arranged some cushions on the bed, awaiting the moment her young charge decided to sit up. After a few minutes the maid lost patience and went over to the curtains before pulling them wide open.
Previously the sun had merely crept into the room like a nervous visitor not daring to touch anything for fear of giving offense. But now it strode boldly into the room, the swishing of the curtains, louder than any fanfare that could have heralded his arrival. A louder groan was heard from the bed as the bedraggled girl sat up . Her long auburn hair hung in a knotted mess down her back, her pale grey eyes flickered briefly downwards as she acknowledged the tray being placed upon her lap. Stubby fingers mechanically wrapped themselves around the edges of the tray as the porridge bowl tipped precariously. Short eyelashes left faint shadows upon cheeks which had yet to lose their baby roundness . To appease the maid, Rose took a small nibble of the toast but soon the warm butter had her tucking in ravenously .
The maid backed out of the door satisfied. She went up many more times over the course of the next hour, emerging from the dirt and smoke of the kitchens with more daintily painted trays identical to the one which she had brought up to Miss Rosanna. By the time she finally reached the kitchens at the end of the morning’s exertions her arms were aching. She nervously glanced at the other servants before slipping out onto the teeming street for a few minutes of freedom.
Rose knew nothing of this as she finished her breakfast. Another maid came up. Rose was clothed in black fabric and starched white collars before her breakfast was removed. Feigning exhaustion, she slunk into an armchair, draping her arm across her forehead dramatically as she did so, mimicking a common gesture of her mother’s. Her stockinged toes lightly scraped the surface of a thin rug through which she could feel the smooth polish of the wooden floorboards.
So began the day of a politician's daughter in an impoverished dictatorship.
So began the day of Rosanna Morton.
So began the day of a friendless girl.