English paper that i actually like!!! zounds!

My name, Rosaline, means little rose. All my life I have been just so: an object of lust, men’s desires. I am quite beautiful, so I have been told. People expect me to enjoy these suitors, these so called lovers who come after me. They expect me to make a decision, but the right one. For these reasons I will never fall in love. I may marry; for there is no way that my father would stand such “appalling” behavior as a spinster daughter. And as I near my seventeenth birthday, he’s fear is greater and greater each day that I should end up so. Being from one of the richest families around, that would be the most dishonorable thing I could do to my family. All anyone ever thinks about is renewing the supply of babies!

No man I have ever met has led me to believe that they are at all interested in my intellect and mind. Behind this pretty face there is a mind, heart, and soul. Men are just after me to claim me, like some prize at a great tournament. Like some ornamental belonging that they will forever boast upon.

If I were plain, or marred by some disease, no one would feel the same. Even if it would happen now, people would just shake their heads and mutter, “What sin has that family committed, that one so pretty would be so brutally ruined!” As if I am worthless without my face! I tell you that men are not treated the same way! Women are only looked at in lustful ways. Men are looked at first by their money, then their looks.

I have known young girls like me who have given up their lives to marry old, fat, doddering men who had nothing more to offer than a comfortable life and a hope that her children, the Lord bless those poor darlings born to that unhappy marriage, will have a better, richer childhood than she herself did.

And when that man, who was so much older than the poor girl, would take ill and die, all would shake their heads and weep and say what a shame it was for one so young to be widowed so soon. And she, with great sorrow of course, could hardly hold back her joy. For now she could be free of his tyrannous rule. After the length of the mourning period, she would court again; get a younger, more suitable man. And live comfortably off her first husband’s money, maybe gaining more when she married the second time.

Fi to love. Fi to hopes and dreams. All that matters in this world is the making of money and more heirs of that money. Does it ever end?

My father “notices” the boys that come courting. Yes, I said boys. Even if they are 50 years old, they are still boys in my eyes. They are immature animals who find it so funny when I try to hold an intelligent conversation with them. They laugh at my opinions and my father glares at me.

I pretend to be silly at times, as that is what is expected of me. My mother taught me that when a man who may be interested in you is around, treat him like a scholar. Find him funny at every turn. Even if you know what is going on, never, EVER enter a conversation on politics or swords. Your opinions don’t matter. When (dare she say if?) you get married, the husband comes first. You are not smarter. You have no say. You are worthless. Well she never said that. But you get the idea? Ridiculous!

To put up with this over and over, you have no idea how tiresome it is! Every time there is a party or a suitor drops by for a chat, mostly with my father, my mother is like a little girl herself. After he is gone, while I'm getting ready to retire, she’ll bustle into my room and giggle. What did you think? Isn’t he handsome? He has lots of money! Your children will be beautiful! I really wish you would mind your manners more.

She just does not understand, though I tell her every time, that I have no need of a husband. She thinks that I'm demon possessed when I utter those “oh so vile” words. How could her only daughter, her precious, beautiful daughter be so vengeful of men? And at her age, too! What is the world coming to? Heaven forbid HER daughter should never marry! Someday, darling, someday.

Like the other night. We were at a party held by the Montagues to celebrate someone’s marriage. That fool of a boy Romeo wouldn’t stop following me around. I tried to be gentle, courteous like my mother taught me. After all I was a guest in his house. But he didn’t get it. Dance after dance he pursued me. Would he never understand! I finally just let it out.

I started out calmly telling him what I really thought of him, but soon lost control of my mouth and volume. A brazen, haughty, shallow, play boy who wouldn’t give anyone who wasn’t beautiful a second look or talk to a girl about the REAL issues of life without laughing and saying that she was cute because she pretended to know what she was talking about!

He looked quite surprised. I must say that I was surprised at the force of the words as the escaped my lips. I stood there, panting slightly at the effort it had taken to let that out. I saw a movement across the room. My mother was fainting. Feigning concern, I left Romeo to ponder my words. As I reached my mother, who was being revived by some ladies in waiting, she glared. She ordered me to get my things and we left at once.

In the carriage, there was total silence for 10 minutes. It felt like forever and a half. When I heard my mother take a deep breath, I knew what was coming. Oh, how she let me have it! My father sat quietly off to the side. At times he seemed like he had something to say, but never did get a chance to say anything. For once he let her talk and talk. For once I wished that he would interrupt her and they would fight with each other; not me.

When we got home, I felt that maybe on this night, I would be spared the usual giggles and games. But not a quarter of an hour later, in waltzes my mother. At first she just stood at the end of my bed and shook her head at me. Then she started out with who she believed were good matches and might, just might, have to humor enough to oversee my little outburst tonight. The choices weren’t many. And not from the households she would have picked, if she had the choice. But a daughter who was too outspoken for her own good couldn’t be picky. She gave me a meaningful glance before bidding me goodnight and leaving.

Just as I was settling down to sleep, calming down from my pent up anger, she popped back in. Oh, and did you see the look on Romeo’s face! He is quite taken with you my dear, or I'm a cooked goose! If only you hadn’t ruined your chances so quickly! Now you know whatever girl gets him will be rubbing it in your face every time you see them. You really should have been more prudent!

How I did not just burst out at her I shall never know. But finally she finished babbling and left. Now I couldn’t help but wonder if I had made a mistake. Maybe I should have gotten to know him before I just assumed he was looking at my face and only my face. Drat my mother! Putting these thoughts in my head! I tell you I did not sleep well that night.

The next morning, I regretted it no longer. For who do you suppose showed up and asked me to walk in the gardens with him? I felt my mother’s eyes on me the whole time. I walked at least four feet away from him, barely talking. He looked like a puppy, not an attractive feature. I suddenly wondered if maybe there was something behind those eyes, something that I could fall for. So I stopped. Looked him in the eye for the first time since I was ten and not worried about what HE thought of me. Big mistake. He took that as flirtatious and I saw the joy flash across his face. I started to walk away.

He grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and pleaded. What are you afraid of? So that was it. He thought I was afraid of him. HA! Poor, misguided boy. He must think I'm simple, naïve, and playing hard to get. He must think I'm just like all the other girls, only I'm not mooning over him. He must see me as a challenge. Something to conquer. These thoughts made me sick.
So I told him exactly what I thought of marriage and men. He’s face changed so many times, I could not begin to describe what went on there. I felt that feeling of guilt. That feeling of making this beautiful boy…WHOA! Where ever that came from, I shoved it right back. I could not, would not let this boy’s face make my decisions for me. I left him standing there, all by himself; in the gardens, right next to the rose bushes.

As I entered the house again, I turned back just once. There, on the doorstep, was a single red rose. I watched the slowly retreating back of Romeo fade into the colors of the sunset.

I would never see or hear from him again.