Oralie opened her eyes, still lying in bed. She had to blink a few times, because it felt like her eyelids were stuck.
She nearly cried when she realized what day it was. And she nearly cried again when she realized her mother was standing at her door.
As she blinked more, she could see that her room was its not-so-natural shade of hot pink, everything slathered in jewels, as if a dragon who'd eaten all the pink gems in all of the Lost Cities had vomited all over her bedroom.
The thought actually brought a smile to her face. It was wiped off as she saw her mother's scowl.
"Now, now, Oralie, you've gone and messed up your hair," her mother said sharply. "Let me help you fix it."
She grabbed Oralie's shoulders and yanked her out of bed and onto the floor so that Oralie was sprawled across her
soft, fluffy pink rug in her simple pastel pink nightgown.
I'd prefer some dark purples, greens, blacks, and grays, Oralie thought bitterly, or oranges, yellows, blues, and whites. Anything but this ultra-feminine torture.
"Now, now," her mother chided - Isn't reading people"s thoughts without permission illegal for Telepaths? Oralie thought. Well, even if it is, it won't stop my mother - "think happier thoughts. And I'm your mother, I can do what I want. Pink is fine. It's time you signed up for matchmaking. You've put it off for ten years. We let you. And why? Because you didn't 'feel like it was necessary.' Well, it's necessary now!" she said loudly. "You are twenty-five, and haven't even signed up for matchmaking yet! Thank God you're not Talentless!" She spoke the word as if it was a curse to say it.
"Mum. Still on the floor here." Oralie mumbled, her voice muffled by the rug.
Her mother sighed. "Stand up. And being Talentless is a curse."
"Mum," Oralie gasped, half-shocked and half-terrified of what her mother thought about LGBTQIA+ elves. She knew the acronym because her father was an Emissary and went to the Forbidden Cities occasionally. Were there any LGBTQIA+ elves?
Her mother made a "tsk tsk" noise and shook her head.
"You have to carry on the family name," she said.
"Mum, I don't—" Oralie started—
"Yes!" Her mothers voice carried across the bedroom. "Yes, you do want to! You will either become a Councillor or marry, and you will sign up for matchmaking today! Don't make me bring your father into this!"
"I will," Oralie said, frantically scrambling to get up—"I'll sign up, but—"
"But?" Her mother pressed.
"Don't tell Dad," Oralie begged.
"I won't," her mother said curtly, and turned to go downstairs.
Her pale yellow gown swished as she walked out. She looked over her shoulder at Oralie. "Your hair is really a mess," she said, as if to herself.
But it wasn't, because Oralie heard her, and this time she realized that she was the wrinkle in her mother's smooth gown, the blemish on her soft face. She could never be perfect, only miserable, and her mother knew it. She was just trying to rub it in and make her more miserable.