Running To You

Promised

 The wind sighed through the quiet marketplace. A few store keepers were packing up their wares. The sun, far off on the horizon gave the pale sand a fiery glow. A girl stared down from her window. Her dark, gentle features appeared to be in placid consideration of all things womanly. Indeed, to a beholder from the street below, she seemed the lucky, so pretty and privileged. Who would not want her sheltered life?

Marcella. Marcella did not want her life. Her father was the seventh son of a mediocre farmer, but had worked hard to become a well to do merchant. Her family was very cultured. She was taught delicate crafts, such as needlework and painting and running the household. Cultured perhaps, like a cheese, so overripe that it is no longer tasteful.

Her mother, however, so genteel and slender, had taught her how to read and gave her many books of epic poetry. She showed Marcella how to trace animal prints on their morning walks. She revealed how their town was built on the ruins of earlier people. The vivid stories her mother told made Marcella's inniards quiver with fascination oh, if only she could.....

" Gentle one, why do you sit idle?" A voice interrupted her thoughts. Her father stood in the doorway. Marcella turned, with a careful face of submissive interest.

"I am practicing a good posture, Papa," she answered.

"Ah, yes," Papa sighed. "A composed woman makes the perfect wife."

Marcella's parents had been acting suspiciously of late. Her mother could not quite meet her eye, and her father spoke more than ever of wifely things.

"My child, please join Mama and me downstairs."

Marcella nodded and descended though the trapdoor to the living area. She glanced at her mother, who's face was tight around the eyes. Something was up.

Clearing her throat, her mother spoke. " Gentle one, you are a lovely woman now, so, we must, we, your father and I... have decided... To see you wed."

Marcella's jaw clenched, " What makes you think I want to be wed?" she ground out.

"You are an adult, surely want a husband?" her father's voice spoke of danger. Marcella was too angry to care.

"I am not some pathetic girl who waits to be wed to some man YOUR AGE! I refuse! I want to run my own life."

"Control yourself, child." Marcella bristled at her father's words. One moment she was a woman to be wed, the next she was a child to disciplined.

"You do not earn your living, so you cannot decide how you live," her father snapped. "You will do as you are told and marry the man we have chosen."

Chosen? Her husband was already chosen? They had not thought to tell her sooner? Did they really think this was not for her to decide?

"Couldn't I at least say WHO I marry?" she asked, trying to bargain.

Her mother now spoke " It is too late now. You are to be wed in a month."

Marcella blinked, swallowed and said "Very well." She then turned and went back to her room.

Her parents had expected more resistance, but were relieved by Marcella's actions.

In her room, Marcella seethed. Screaming into her pillow was not enough, gnashing her teeth was not enough. She trembled. How dare they? Was she an animal to be sold to the highest bidder? She reached for her sewing scissors. Slowly, she opened them, watching them reflect the sharp sunlight. Running her thumb along the edge, her face twisted. She would slit his thoat. How dare he buy her like an exotic pet? She wanted to see the metal bite into flesh and see his eyelids flutter as he lost consciousness. In a haze she placed it against his pulse. It beat unevenly. She pressed the point in and swiftly drew the blade back.

A sharp pain cleared her head. Looking down, she realized that she had cut her own wrist. Thick blood spurted out, coating her hands and making the blade slippery. She fumbled for a cloth and bound her wrist as tightly as she could. There, on her floor, in a mess of blood, she knew she could not kill her husband. She did not have strength to subdue him, nor the will to take his life. The sight of her own blood made her queasy. Besides, what would she do when he was dead? Probably, she would be hanged.

Marcella sighed. She had a whole month to come up with a plan, or come to terms with her engagement. Violence would get her nowhere.

Authors Note: I photoshopped the cover using palmyra ruins and the painting 'Laughter' by ChiCaGo. She is an awesome artist and all credit goes to her. Thank you so much for reading the first part of my story.