Here is an interesting story about a girl whose name was drawn out of a hat the moment that she entered the world. This is a story about Marie Antoinette Bourdeux, the fifth to youngest of nine siblings, the second to the most impulsive and imaginative of nine siblings, and the walking definition of the “black sheep” in her herd.
One teacher, four doctors, three lawyers, one prostitute
Hello, my name is Marie, and I am a prostitute. As you have read, I am one of nine siblings, all from different mothers and fathers. I was born on a winter’s night in the middle of nowhere, France. My mother was as fussy as her hair; red, wild, and never taking the same shape. My father was as boring as his glasses; big, square, and with a crack in one lens.
I was raised in Southern France, and home-schooled there as well. I lived on a fairly large piece of land in a fairly large house with all of my nine siblings; four younger sisters ranging in hair-color from the deepest shade of red, to the palest blonde, four older brothers; ranging in eye-color from the clearest shade of blue, to the deepest shade of green. And then there was me; ranging in hair color from the darkest shade of black, to the lightest shade of black, ranging in eye-color from the darkest shade of yellow, to the lightest shade of yellow. My brothers and sisters were almost always playing, studying, fighting, and talking together. I was almost always playing, studying, fighting, and talking to myself, or with my imaginary friend, Anne.
Because I was home-schooled, I knew next to nothing about the world beyond our wrought iron front gate. I knew the obvious things, like history, and math, and science; but I did not know people. The one thing in the world that I yearned to learn about, I knew nothing about. When I was eight years old, I read my first novel. When I was 10, all of my tiny bedroom walls were lined with hundreds of novels. By the time that I was 15, not only were the walls of my room lined with books but the floor of my room had so many piles of books that I had to shovel a narrow path to my bed, and another to my closet. Although I had not physically seen the world beyond our land; I had lived through the most intricate life situations, and seen the strangest lands known to man through my only friends, my books.
My entire family thought that I was mute. I never spoke to anyone, they never spoke to me, and I liked it that way.
When I was 16, and more curious about the world than ever, my oldest brother, Napolean Bonaparte Bordeux, was accepted to a very esteemed university in the heart of Paris. Upon overhearing this news, my mind began to tick, like a clock. I wanted to go with him, and because I wanted to go, I would most certainly accompany the bluest of all the eyes in my family to the City of Lights. Not in the conventional way, however.
The day of his departure started off in the same fashion that most of the days in the Bordeux household began. All of my siblings ran down the wooden stairs and into the kitchen for breakfast two hours after the sun rose. I was the last to enter the kitchen, as always. We all sat at the long wooden table waiting for our mother to serve us our usual bread and butter, porridge, juice or milk, breakfast. My sisters chattered noisily, my brothers threw pieces of bread at each other when my mother wasn’t looking. I sat, quietly planning my escape, not touching any of my food. I noticed that my father was staring at me over his square spectacles from across the table. He never stared, let alone, looked at me. I found this particularly strange.
After breakfast, Napolean went to his room to gather his things before the train ride to Paris, and I ran upstairs to mine. Among the few things that I grabbed for my own journey were: two of my absolute favorite books, an extra pair of under wear, my tooth brush, my life savings from a small jar hidden in my closet, and the clothes on my back.
I walked back downstairs and opened the closet beneath the stairs. I looked up and down, to my left and to my right to make sure that no one was watching me. I reached into the darkness and found the suitcase that was half my size; this is what I was going to travel in. I had prepared it the night before. I had attached a large card with Napolean’s name, and address on it. The suitcase was fairly light for its size, so I knew that the extra 120 pounds would not seem like much other than a really heavy check in bag. I looked around one more time, partially to make sure that no one was around and partially to take in my home one last time. I strategically placed it directly in front of Napolean’s door, unzipped it, and crawled inside. After making myself as comfortable as possible, I zipped it shut and crouched in the darkness hoping that my clever plan was clever enough.
Alas, I heard the sound of knocking on my brother’s door, the voice of my mother fussing about in her usual way, and the handle of my suitcase being pulled. I heard my father ask my brother why the suitcase was so heavy, and I could almost hear my brother shrug, in his usual nonchalant manner that has ruled him since he was a boy. Finally I felt the suitcase being pulled over the marble floors, felt the jolt of every step down to our gravel front path, and eventually being thrown into the vehicle that was to deliver us to the train station. My plan worked! I was almost free.