winter ioffe / d5 / fin

You know you’re one of the lucky ones. You were born into wealth, and in wealth you’ve remained. You never want for anything, not food or clothing or experience. There are people much less fortunate than you, you know this, you see it with your own two eyes. Unfortunately, there’s not much you care to do about it when you and your siblings are strutting around the district like you own the place. People get what they get in life. If everybody was rich, that wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?

Your house is large, multiple stories stacked on top of each other and more rooms than your family can fill. The appliances are shiny, pristine, as if nobody ever actually uses them. There are traces of gold laced in the wood of the main staircase’s railing, and you don’t know if it’s real gold or not, but you figure it doesn’t matter either way. You have more important things to focus on, like your closet (which is always stuffed to the brim with the latest fashions), your vanity (with its mirror lined with bright lights and drawers for every type of makeup), and your bed (covered in thick downy blankets, always too hot, but you can sacrifice comfort for aesthetic).

Your room is your safe space, the place you feel the most at home. You love to stand in front of your full-length mirror and plan your outfits, holding different items in front of your short body and matching them with others. You’re shaped a bit rounder than most, but it’s never bothered you, and it shouldn’t bother anyone else, either. After picking outfits, you pull one of your cushioned ottomans in front of the mirror and style your dark hair (yes, you have a vanity, but the vanity is for makeup and makeup only). Loose waves have been your preferred style as of late, but you’d never say no to a braided up-do.

Before you leave the house, you make it a point to smile at yourself in the mirror. Everything seems so perfect in your life, from the outside. It’s a cliche to say that everything is not as it seems, but how can it be a cliche if it’s your reality?

So where does the wealth come from, exactly? Your father, a stern man who refrains from showing affection as much as he can, owns one of the larger oil rigs in the district. He rules over the business with a domineering, ruthless fist. His employees are unhappy, but they know if they complain, they will be cut from the staff without a second thought. People are clamoring for work, they’re falling over themselves for a chance to work at this rig. The people who work there know they are easily replaced. They will work as hard as possible to keep that from becoming a reality. You pity them, having to work themselves to the bone for a barely livable wage. Still, there is a part of you that knows what it’s like to be uncertain of your place among a group, or a family, not that you would ever admit it (to anyone, or yourself).

He rules over his family much the same way. You were the first born, the eldest daughter, a curse that will remain unbroken until the day you die. As the eldest daughter, you were the guinea pig, the surrogate mother, the mediator, the person thrust in the middle of everything. Your parents fought constantly from the earliest moment you can remember. Your mother had been one of the many women who your father had charmed with his wealth. Problem was, she wasn’t aware he was charming other women. She was far into her pregnancy with you when she caught him in their bed with another woman. Neither one of your parents wanted to deal with the damage their reputations would take if they divorced, so they stayed together.

As the oldest, you felt it was your responsibility to put yourself between your parents. You wanted to protect your mother from your father, your father from your mother, your siblings from the screaming and cursing and slammed doors. It wasn’t your responsibility, but who else was going to do it? You thought maybe, maybe if you were good enough, if you were the perfect daughter, your parents would stop fighting— but they didn’t. By the time you realized nothing was going to change, you already resented them too much to go back.

You don’t resent your father’s money, though. If you were going to take anything from the man, it was going to be that. You do not want his temper, or his unfaithfulness, or the iron grip he rules his business with (no matter how many times he claims you’re next in line to lead it). No, you want his cash. You like filling your wallet with coins and bills and going off to the town square with your friends or one of your siblings. You feel like you could spend hours digging through clothing racks, trying on glistening jewelry, waltzing up and down aisles in shoes that are much too tall for you (but they’re fun to try on, anyway). It’s a mindless activity, something you don’t have to think about.

It’s not that you don’t like to think. It’s just that, after spending so many years being the overthinker, the person who worried about everything, you’re tired of it. You want your life to be about you. So maybe you are selfish, and conceited. Maybe you don’t have any opinions of your own and go along with what the people around you think. Maybe you don’t take anything seriously except for shopping and makeup and indulgence. Who cares? You certainly don’t.

So what happens, when your father tells you you aren’t taking your future career seriously? What happens when your mother seals herself away from the rest of the world? What happens when one of your sibling accuses you of being vapid and self-centered before slamming their door in your face? Here is what happens. You go into your room and lock the door behind you. You draw all the curtains and light a candle, so the room is bathed in an orange glow. You go into your bathroom, draw a hot bath, and toss oils and salts into the water. After your bath, you put on the fluffiest robe you own and you do your fancy skincare routine and you look at yourself in the mirror and say, this is for me. I am tired of doing for others. This is only for me.

And then, you are unbothered.