The era of the 1920’s was closing in, people were already buying their new year dresses and women who knew all kinds of superstitious tales were getting ready with their red underwear and brooms. It came so suddenly that those still living in the old ways felt it as a blow to their chests and prides. The decadent era had begun and dances were held all over the county calling forth newly independent women to their dance halls. Girls in their teens flocked in and danced and flirted and felled in love. Meanwhile young men saw an opportunity to meet as many socialites as they could. Adults who had seen nothing of the like were shocked and barred their daughters from disappearing in the middle of the night.
Marianne Desmond was a jewel of young womanhood, radiating with a sweet innocence and shyness. That sweetness and innocence was sometimes to the naked eye rather alluring and beguiling. Her small frame, red hair and green eyes were a startling combination. Anyone who was asked about Marianne Desmond would answer readily “She is such a sweet and well brought up young lady” but very few really knew the real Marianne Desmond. Those who knew her would not speak her secrets and those who knew her were very few. Only god, Marianne and the devil knew what the girl was truly about. Her best friend a classy girl of brown locks and bold disposition would say that Marianne was a “Simple dimwitted lovable girl” and Marianne herself would look down and mutter something under her breath. She still wore a simple frock and a white pinafore on top of it. She still lived in the small rural part of England were very few things happened. However, every few times that her mother allowed her to go to Oxford to visit the college and bring her brother some groceries she would dress in a scandalous red dress and curl her hair to the side and put some kohl on her eyelids and rouge on her lips and berry paste on her cheeks. She would put on her new pumps and go dancing. Then when it was time for her to take the train back to Livingston, she would dress down, put her plain frock back on , clutch her bag all the way home and keep her head down like a meek young girl. That was Marianne Desmond’s second life.
The night was too warm and infected by heaviness of the orange peels, sweat, and heavy perfume. The smell in combination was nauseous and the overdressed girl stepped out into the darkness. She could not keep her head form spinning back and forth and she knew that the few drinks she had had fallen horribly in her empty stomach. She retched over the railing, the vomit coming hot and sour in her mouth. Her eyes watered and she still clutched the railing. Then drunkenly she made her way into the ballroom once again. The dance was in full swing with the music playing strongly over the chatter. Marianne pushed into the crowd and went up the stairs not truly knowing where she was going. It had been a bad idea to come to this party. The train was leaving in a few hours and she was in no condition to make her way over there. She was in no condition to do anything. Her wandering feet took her up the stairs into the alcoves in the house. She knew she was not supposed to be here. The host of the party would not like it. This was private. However no reprehensions of her mind stopped her from opening a room and falling asleep on top of the bed.
The next day would be new years and her brother was waiting patiently at the train station for her. Marianne never showed up and he thinking that she had taken the afternoon train returned to his dorm and went to sleep.
She woke up to a mundane headache that seemed to find joy in making her temples pound and her stomach rebel against her. Her mouth was dry and sour tasting. She licked the front of her teeth and cursed her drinking habits. She had never drunk before. Last night she had missed the fruit punch and thirsty took a glass of champagne offered to her. She did not think that she would accept the next one…and yet she did. And by the time she came to recognize that she was drunk. Well there had been nothing she could do.
Her small hands went to her forehead and with a glance at the room she recognized that she was not at home. She was not in her forest green room with the hazel coverlet draped around her. Instead she was in a huge alcove , naked and with a killing headache. She pulled the covers around her and wondered what had happened. A cry escaped her mouth and she tiptoed to the door. A man laid on the other room, sprawled across the bed and snoring softly. Marianne put her hand to her mouth and looked for her clothes. Now she had done it. And she did not even remember what happened. She pulled her underwear back on and her corset half tied . Her dress was pulled down and she was glad for the first time that she had not worn anything too revealing. The dress reached two inches below her knee and it covered her dainty shoulders. She was about to go downstairs when a deep voice silkily drawled out
“Where are you going kitten?”
Marianne’s heart drummed wildly against her chest. How horribly brazen of him! Could he not just let her leave with her pride intact? What had happened? She did not want to think about it too much because she had a slight idea of what had transpired during the night. What monster would take advantage of a drunken woman? She turned around and with a sickly smile answered:
“I do…I must go!”
Her hands then grabbed the doorknob and she wandered down the stairs only to find the servants walking about doing their daily chores. She was a ruined woman now but with her heart in her throat she came back to the room startling the naked man.
“I’m terribly sorry. But there are…there are too many people down there….I can’t go downstairs” The her eyes fell on him and she looked away blushing. He must think her a strange strumpet. She was not a strumpet…but she could not very well say “I live in Livingston and come sometimes almost once in three months...and that’s when I go dancing...because I love to dance..” Her shoulders fell and she vowed her head. No she could not say that, It would be a killing strike against her. Her shoulders then slightly squared and she said clearly
“My name is Elizabeth…Elizabeth Trenton …and you are?”
If she had slept with the man. She might as well know his name.
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Submission Name: 1920s
