Stroy Cont. Chapeters 1 & 2 (exposition through rising action)

Chapter One

Every woman knows what they are expected to be and how they are expected to act. I have been designed by society, custom made to satisfy men. I am constantly confined to the edges of life, cooking in the house and birthing babies for my husband. I can do nothing I want, nothing I need. For, I am not supposed to want, to need. I am just supposed to be. Be the woman on the edges, making life comfortable for man.
In this society there should be no reason for me to question my place. It has been clearly defined by the generations of women before me, twisting back through the memories of time.
Like every woman, I too am being forced into this confining mold. I am only seventeen, yet there is no mystery to how my life is going to unfold. I sometimes wish there was more uncertainty, more room for me to grow. Maybe even a chance for me to learn about myself without society holding so tightly to my hand. I want to be set free, but I can’t. My life is already planned out for me.
I have what every women should long for, every woman should want. I have a man who is deeply in love with me. I come from a wealthy family. I am an attractive and well educated woman. However, for one reason or another I not satisfied. My father, Eric, and my mother, Mary, expect me to happily slide into my custom crafted mold. They expect me to turn out exactly like them.
The loved crazed boy whom desperately wants to marry me is named Julian. He is kind and funny, and relatively handsome. It is not that I do not like him, for I do. I just do not love him. Like society, he also has expectations of me. After our proposed marriage, Julian wants me to mother his seven desired children, to cook and clean for him, and care for him the rest of his life. And worst of all, my parents agree.
Most women would love this kind of opportunity thrust at them with such vigor and approval. I am just not one of them. At times I consider speaking up, asking for my life to be different. But I can’t imagine what kind of woman I would become. I am afraid my family would shun me and society would reject me. As much as I want to break out the role, which like quicksand, is slowly and painfully pulling me in, I do not want to end up living in the shadows of this world. Being shunned would be worse than conforming to society. I think anyway.
I do not know what I even want. I do not know what to even ask to be different. All I know is that I have this burning and un-ignorable desire to be different; to take my life into my own hands. I want to strive to be more then just society’s little house wife of a woman.
Maybe it was my parent’s mistake to educate me. I know what is out there in the world. I know the possibilities. I know there is more. And I refuse to forget about it. I don’t know why I am expected to be happy with my life plans. I probably should be. It is most likely not a good idea to question my place. I mean, shouldn’t I be happy about my Julian and my marriage proposal. Isn’t that what every woman waits for, even longs for? So, then what is wrong with me? Why am I so unsatisfied? Why am I so unhappy?
Part of me is afraid to change. To flee the life I have looming just within reach; the life that is just an arm’s length in front of me. The life that could be mine with one simple step forward. The life that would be mine by me uttering the word “yes” to Julian. I don’t want to be a disappointment. I am not sure my desires are worth disappointing my family and possibly loosing them.

Chapter Two – Three months later, the middle of winter

Although it has only been three months, it feels like it has been more than an eternity. Everyday I feel like I walk through life with a profound sense of emptiness. I feel as if there is something missing, that there must be something more. I just am not satisfied. It is as if, in my mind, I have a consistent debate raging: one part of me is screaming “Florence, there is more to this live than your family is allowing you, so do something to change it! Make yourself happy!” while another part whispers, “Florence, please do not do this. Do not ruin what you already have and what has already been made for you. Do not ruin your family and your life. Please.”I wish that I knew which voice to listen to. I mean, although one screams and the other whispers they seem to have the same amount of pull in my mind. I love my family dearly, but I just don’t think their plan for my life is what I am meant to do. I don’t think I can follow there dreams and be happy. Sometimes I wonder if women are even supposed to be “happy.” I know I am crossing a societal line when I question my place and my role as a woman, and if I have the right to find happiness on my own terms. I also wonder if having an opinion and asking questions are really wrong. Why should my desire, and the desire of so many other women, to break the mold that defines us, be silenced by men without a second thought? How is that just? How is that fair?
Sometimes I want to ask my mother if she is happy and living the life she always imagined. I want to ask how she copes and how she gets through every day. Although I long for such a conversation, I can not bring myself to as my mother such questions. I think my mother would be disappointed in my curiosity. She is very old fashioned and has little respect for the idea of women’s rights. From what I have gathered, without asking of course but by observing, my mother believes women are supposed to be servants to their husbands. Her policy is: anything the husband wants, the wife shall do. I have a difficult time understanding her reasoning. I don’t understand how she can put herself down and dismiss her rights as a person, and yet act as if she is not be affected by her choices. Although it is not what I want, I am afraid to tear my family’s values apart and therefore loose them forever. I am just so confused.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Quickly I try to dry my tears, straighten out my dress, and fix my hair. I can not have someone coming into my room while I am looking like this. Seconds later, I hear a light knocking on my door.
“Just a moment,” I call in an attempt to sound proper and composed.
“Alright dear,” the voice responds. It is my mother. After thoroughly fixing my hair, I have run out of excuses as to why I can not open the door. I know my face is still red from crying, and I am dreading having to open the door and be subjected to my mother’s questions about my emotional well-being. I will just have to come up with an excuse, and fast, for I hear another knock on my door which grows more impatient sounding by the second.
“Florence!” my mother grumbles, “What is taking you so-” At that very moment, I pry the heavy old oak door open. On the other side my mother stands, waiting. I look directly into her eyes for the first time since I was a little girl. I desperately try to see past the hard shield she seems to have over them, hiding her secrets and her feelings. Starring for another moment I look deeper and see what I think may be sorrow. A sorrow so deep and so old it blends right into her face. We stare at each other for a long while. While I search her face I know she is also searching mine.
“Sweet Florence,” she says tenderly, “what is the matter? Did something happen between you and Julian? Are you hurt? What Florence, what is it?”
How did she expect me to answer? Does she actually believe that I will tell her the truth behind my tears? How can she think that my sorrow is a trivial as a fight I had with Julian? How can my own mother be so unaware?
“Oh, nothing is wrong mother. I was just getting up after a short nap when I slipped and hit my elbow on the floor. It hurt quite badly at the time, however now I am fine. My face just stays red for a while after I cry,” I lied. It was a lame excuse, but she bought it.
“Oh, Florence I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, no, mother. I will be fine,” I reply.
“Alright dear, be safe now. Do not forget to do the laundry, scrub the floors, and cook supper before five. Goodbye.”
“Mother,” I exclaim annoyed. There was no way I could do all of that work in less than an hour!
“Do not make me beat you Florence, because I will!” my mother screams, hand rising toward my face.
“No, mother, NO!” I exclaim as her hand hits my face with unbearable force. I stagger momentarily and then stand frozen for a few seconds. What had just happened? My face suddenly began to sting and tingle and then as quickly as the pain started it disappeared and my face went numb.
Slamming the door, I sigh with relief. Suddenly I feel exhausted. I walk over to my bed and slowly sink into the mattress. Looking around, I examine the room. From the old oak door to the solid wood floor everything looks impersonal. I see nothing of any meaning to me. I could loose anything in this room and I would be fine with it. I feel no connection with anything. As I settle into my bed, I gaze out the window. I can see the snowy landscape through the iced over window. The trees make eerie lines, chopping up our estate. The landscape looks vast and irregular, yet beautiful at the same time. This sight causes me to fall to my knees and begin a prayer to God:
Dear God, please if you are out there listen to me in my time of need. My heart desires for one thing, yet my mind keeps telling me to dismiss such feelings. I desperately want to be different; to break the mold society has placed upon me. I do not want to marry Julian and I do not want to be a housewife. I want to be as free as the snow covered trees. I just do not know how to do it. I do not want to loose my family, but I may have to in order to find true happiness. God, what should I do? Should I strive to be different? Should I strive to be more? Please, God, help me with this decision.
Waiting for an answer, I kneel on the floor in silence. Suddenly, I hear a voice. I look around the room, startled. In am still completely alone. Then it speaks again.
“Florence, strive for more. Florence, do not marry Julian. Florence, help others. Florence, become a nurse.”
Then just as quickly as it had emerged, the voice dissipated into the silence again. I do not know who exactly it was. However, in my heart, I believe that it was God answering my prayer. Whoever had spoken to me has helped make my decision final. I am going to break the mold. I get up and cross the room. I open the door and will myself to walk down the long and dimly lit corridor. I reach the stairs and begin my decent to the kitchen to tell my family of the decision I have made.