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Before her mind could fully comprehend the meaning of life itself, she had always been aware of the hatred that came in voices of those who called her name. Undesirable and unloved.
“Oh, but █████, you’re not smart enough. You can’t catch up to your friends at school. Oh, █████, whatever shall we do with you?”
But in her room, in a world where it was only made for her, she was called Miss Pomegranate Plate.
Hands took hers as she walked through large ballroom doors, welcomed by colourful balloons and popping confetti. Otherworldly creatures made of fabric and cotton cheered upon her arrival, raising their ribbon fists and bouncing upon springy shoes. Music began to blare as a cheery yet deep voice spoke through the speakers, announcing the grand entrance of Miss Pomegranate Plate.
Respected. Loved. Desired.
She couldn’t help but smile and waved, her doll clutched close to her chest.
She adorned a head full of flowers, large and blooming, with petals rained down her back and trailing behind her. Her skirt was adorned in crimson silk and dark lace to match with knee high socks and shiny black heels.
Her hands were held as she was guided to her throne made for her, of velvet cushions and flowers decorating along the crest rail, matching her crown. As soon as she took her seat, the ballroom seemed to clear itself from all the visitors, and couples began to take its place. They’d walk with fingers intertwined, positioning themselves for a dance, remaining frozen while the center was left vacant. Miss Pomegranate watched as the music stopped playing, replaced with something classical and sophisticated, one she’d only hear if she visited the principal’s office of her school in his good mood.
“Miss Pomegranate Plate,”
A cheery voice spoke from her right side, and before she could turn her head towards him, he stepped forward, kneeling on one knee in front of her.
He was not familiar to her, but he wore a charming smile, freckles littering her light skin, and a star seemed to be engraved in the iris of his right eye. He had a bright turquoise top hat with gold filigree and accents, to have matched his tailcoat in the same colour scheme. He wore a silky cravat fitted with a pumpkin pin, glowing dimly in the middle of his large black bow, and he seemed to have brought an adorable companion resting on his shoulder. It was a bunny wearing a monocle and a top hat of its own.
“May I have your hand in this dance?”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. There was a lovely man who lowered himself to respect her, extending a gloved hand towards her for a dance. Someone actually fancied her? Was there someone who actually wanted her within his presence?
Her lips clasped together tightly, placing her hand in his, and she could instantly feel the warm comfort that came after his fingers wrapped around it.
Miss Pomegranate hopped out of her chair with Quinian’s hand holding her steady, taking her to the middle of the crowd. The attention was on the both of them, gasping and swooning in adoration as his free hand rested on her upper back. She had never danced before, ballet class never seemed appealing to her when she had been registered to it by her guardian, but when the first key of the piano began to play, her feet carried her effortlessly.
She danced and swayed, following Tea Party’s footsteps and the melody of the music. Everyone seemed to follow suit, lost in the eyes of their partners, with some leaning their heads against the other’s shoulders.
Miss Pomegranate tilted her head upwards, meeting Tea Party’s assuring smile, carefully twirling her with her hand above her head. She would have to admit though — it was getting exhausting. She wanted to look at him, rest her head against him too, but the differences in their heights had proven to be difficult.
Without saying another word, the gentleman seemed to notice, halting their prance. In that moment, she felt her feet lifted from the air, scooped into Quinian’s arm as he continued to dance, with Miss Pomegranate now taller than anyone in the ballroom atop his shoulder. The spotlight shone bright upon the ballroom’s favourite couple, chanting their names and throwing candies of colourful wrappers and flowers petals their way.
Tea Party twirled and spun, her hand resting in his palm.
As the night went deeper with time, the crowd slowly dispersed and bid their farewell, leaving Mr. Coat Rack and Ms. Saucer stayed loyal to Miss Pomegranate’s throne while Tea Party brought her back.
“It was a pleasure, Miss.” Quinian cooed, setting her down onto the cushion and going down on one knee.
Miss Pomegranate quickly took hold of Quinian’s finger, which he chuckled in response.
“I won’t leave you just like that, don’t worry!”
Miss Pomegranate’s lips faltered into a small frown, her cheeks lightly dusted in pink.
“But you’ll still leave.”
Quinian’s expression changed to something solemn, the eyes drooped just a bit. She didn’t realize the micro changes though.
Carefully, his thumbs caressed the back of her hands before he brought them to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“Temporarily. With time, our paths will cross again. You know that much, don’t you Miss Pomegranate Plate?”
She remembered something about Quinian’s eyes, with the way it sparkled like it contained the Milky Way itself, lost in his galaxy of stars. He scooted closer, tilting her hands so her palms would cup his cheeks, grinning from ear to ear.
“Don’t miss me too much. We shall have this dance again another time. For now… You must wake.”
Wake?
Quinian’s grip began to loosen. No, he didn’t seem to exist to begin with. The soft warmth he carried in his cheeks, those bright eyes with a star shape engraved in his right eye, the freckles that peppered his pale skin — the feeling were all absent from her fingers. She reached, grasped and extended her hand… there was nothing. The world catered to her so perfectly had crumbled, quietly, a whispered disappointment. Her conscious illusion was fading away.
She awoke in the middle of her empty room, a dish full of rotten pomegranate seeds served on a silver plate in front of her, its stench familiar to her senses. The coat rack stood quietly in one corner of the room, while the teacup remained overturned like how she had remembered to have left it to be, right by her mattress with the duvets crumpled and slipping over the edge. Her walls were dark, windows barred with planks and tape, curtains tattered and torn.
She will see him again… another night.
Retreating under her covers, she laid her head on her pillow, Quinian’s voice soothed the nightmares away.