I quickly gather my things while the rest of my classmates head towards the exit, discussing plans for the weekend.
"See you on Monday, Fumiko," my friend Yori says goodbye with a smile.
"Goodbye, I'll call you later," I respond with a "kawaii" wink.
I wait for the classroom to empty completely before heading to the gym locker rooms. I make sure there's no one else there and lock the door. That's a perk of being the leader of the gymnastics club.
In front of the mirror, I observe myself for a moment. The girl looking back at me is a stranger, a distorted version of the Fumiko my family believes they know. She's wearing a short, tight dress, with her hair loose over her shoulders. Provocative, rebellious. But that's me, or at least, the version of me that I don't have to hide, the one that doesn't have to play the role of the docile and submissive daughter.
With a sigh, I start to undress. I fold the dress carefully and put it in my bag, along with my school books. In its place, I take out a simple gray kimono that I quickly put on. Its texture is the antithesis of my dress: where one promises adventure, the other whispers conformity.
As I properly adjust the obi, each knot and each fold tighten around me like armor, transforming me into the ideal woman my clan venerates and, at the same time, imprisons. My hair, once wild and free, is now precisely gathered into an austere bun.
The cold water against my skin is not cold enough to freeze the thoughts that assault me as I wash my face. With each stroke, the makeup goes, and with it, the girl who allowed herself to dream of a world beyond the expectations and rigor of the clan. The illusion disappears, revealing the skin of a person I barely recognize, an actress playing the role of her life.
The young girl in the mirror is now the very image of submission. My eyes, once full of fire and insolence, are extinguished to reflect the image of the perfect little woman: serene, obedient, practically invisible. A silly, brainless prude. "Wife material," a venomous voice murmurs in my head, a mockery of the potential I sacrifice every time I submit to this disguise.
Once the transformation is complete, I stand there for a moment, motionless. There's a knot in my throat, a mix of anger and resignation that struggles to erupt in the form of a scream, but remains trapped inside me.
Finally, I hastily leave the locker rooms, praying I don't run into anyone who might wonder why Fumiko Matsumoto, the most beautiful girl at the academy, is wearing a silly and bland gray kimono. Fortunately, the hallways are deserted at this time of the afternoon. I manage to get out without incident until I reach the school entrance. There awaits my family's limousine, punctual as a clock.
The chauffeur greets me politely and opens the door for me. Once inside, I remove my geta and sit in the back seat, as befits. Through the tinted window, I watch the vibrant city landscape, people living their lives in freedom. A freedom that I can only touch with the tips of my fingers.
The ride home seems too short, lost in the fantasy of not having to hide who I really am. Soon we are crossing the imposing gate of the Matsumoto clan and traveling the road that leads to the main mansion.
This huge traditional structure has always seemed more like a gilded cage than a home to me. Nothing in its architecture attracts me, neither the delicate woodwork, nor the meticulously manicured gardens, nor even the soft lights filtering through its shojis. All of that is mere camouflage, a silk curtain that covers the reality with a mantle of falsehood.
The chauffeur parks in front of the entrance. I get out quickly without waiting for him to open the door, eager to enter before someone sees me. Inside, Reika, one of the maids, dressed in a gray kimono as similar to mine as a uniform, greets me.
She informs me in a submissive voice that my mother is waiting for me in the dining room for dinner. The words 'dinner' and 'mother' cause me a shiver that I try to hide; I lack the appetite for the food and for the company that awaits me.
I move forward with steps that I learned to make inaudible, gliding toward the dining room as if the contact with the floor repulsed me. And there she is, my mother, Tomoe Matsumoto, a figure shrunken under the weight of her own expectations and the mountain of those she inherited.
Her presence is omnipresent and oppressive. She glides among the servants, correcting a poorly served portion of rice, realigning a series of disordered chopsticks, with her penetrating gaze ensuring that every grain, every fiber, every air particle is in its place.
My mother may seem an imposing figure to everyone, but behind that facade, she is just another puppet trapped in this gilded cage, just like me. She too had her wings clipped and her spirit bent long ago, when she was married to my father. But time and customs made her forget her own rebelliousness, absorbing her into the rigid oppressive system designed by and for men that she now perpetuates with pride.
Sometimes I look at her and can't help but wonder if that will be my destiny too, to become in time a diligent jailer of the next generations. The idea terrifies me.
Seeing me enter, her stern expression slightly softens.
"Welcome, Fumiko. How was the sewing class today? I hope you are learning quickly that important art for when you get married."
I try to dispel my thoughts and make a respectful bow.
"It was very productive, mother. I improve my stitches every day," I respond in a soft voice.
She nods pleased. Of course, she doesn't know that in reality I was at school dressed in modern clothes and acting like a normal teenager, and that my time in the "sewing club" is a locker room where I change skins like a nocturnal creature longing for the day. But that's something I could never confess to her.
"I am glad to hear it. A good wife must master those feminine tasks to perfection. Now sit down, dinner is ready."
I obey in silence. Soon the servants bring trays of fine porcelain with fish, steamed vegetables, and bowls of rice. My mouth waters, but I wait politely for my mother to start the meal.
"Itadakimasu," she finally says, and I repeat in a low voice before starting to eat.
Dinner proceeds in silence, as is customary. From time to time my mother makes some comment about the preparations for tomorrow's tea ceremony, the visit of an allied family, or my duties at home. I respond with respectful monosyllables, without giving my opinion.
It's a relief when we finally finish eating and I can withdraw. I make a seated bow to my mother and excuse myself to go to my room to study and meditate, as any exemplary young lady should.
Once alone, I close the sliding door and let out a deep sigh. At last, I can take off the mask, simply be Fumiko.
I change the stiff kimono for a comfortable house yukata and undo the bun, letting my hair fall freely over my shoulders. Then, with slow movements, I light some aromatic incense and sit on the floor on a cushion.
I close my eyes and inhale the soft aroma, letting it take away the tensions of the day. Here in the privacy of my room, I can meditate without forcing a submissive posture, speak out loud without asking for permission. Think freely.
Sometimes I wish I could genuinely be the quiet, demure young woman my family expects of me. It would be so much easier to fit into the rigid mold they try to impose on me, rather than lead this exhausting double life. But it's impossible to extinguish the spark that burns within me, my true essence. Within me is an indomitable spirit, longing to explore the world beyond the walls of this gilded cage they call home.
I know that someday I will gather the courage to take flight away from here, toward freedom. To break the invisible chains that bind me to a prefigured destiny that I don't want in the slightest. But for now, my small window of freedom are the fleeting hours at the academy, where I can be myself, without ties. There I can laugh, have opinions, and dress as I please.
I sigh. I miss my friends and their jokes terribly. I wish I could call them right now, just to hear their voices. But my mother closely monitors the phone in case she receives an important call from the Council of Elders.
Instead of risking using the phone, I take my old diary from its secret hiding place under my bed, its worn cover filled with confidences, poems, and drawings that reflect my true dreams and concerns.
I flip through the ruled pages until I find one of the latest entries, where I pasted a cut-out photo from the school yearbook. There, Makoto is giving me his bright and captivating smile in the gardens of the academy.
Makoto is everything my family would disapprove of in a suitor, starting with his lack of lineage. But that only makes me more irresistibly attracted to him. He represents the freedom and fun I so crave in my life.
When I'm with him, I can be simply Fumiko, not the silent, perfect porcelain doll I have to transform into when I come home. He doesn't expect me to be the exemplary daughter my family demands... He seems genuinely interested in discovering my dreams, my fears, my imperfections.
More than once, I've caught myself daydreaming about a future with Makoto. I imagine us escaping to get married on a tropical beach, as far away as possible from the stifling protocol of the clan. Maybe living in a cozy mountain cottage, full of laughter, music, and creativity. Raising a few lively and spirited children, free from the strict rules that chained me during childhood.
He may not know it, but I have given him an idealized, almost mythical role in my secret hopes. Makoto has become a sort of knight in shining armor in my dreams, a prince charming who will someday rescue me from the clutches of my family.
I know it's silly and impossible. But dreaming isn't bad, right? Don't we all need an imaginary refuge, a fantasy to cling to in order to endure a reality that's too harsh, too cold, too real?
So, with the image of Makoto's bright smile etched in my mind, I return to face my golden cage, counting the minutes until the next time I can be truly free.
***
The persistent knocking on the wooden door abruptly rips me from a peaceful sleep. Lazily, I half-open my eyes and sit up on the futon, trying to get my bearings. The pale rays of sunlight filtering through the window tell me it's early, too early for a Saturday.
"Miss Fumiko, I regret waking you so early but your mother requests your presence immediately," a muffled voice calls from the other side.
I recognize Reika. Her tone of urgency wipes away the last vestiges of sleepiness.
"I'll be right there, thank you Reika," I reply, stumbling out of the warmth of the blankets.
I quickly put on my kimono to be presentable and arrange my hair into a simple but tidy bun. Within minutes, I'm ready, wondering what important matter could require my attention on a Saturday morning.
Reika waits outside with a slight bow.
"Lady Tomoe awaits you in the main reception room. Important visitors have just arrived without prior notice."
I nod in understanding as I walk briskly through the hallways, trying to guess the identity of the visitors. As I round a corner, the deep and measured voice of my father confirms it before I see him.
"Brother, your presence on our lands honors us as always. This unexpected visit is a pleasant surprise."
I stop just before the slightly open doors of the reception room, where I glimpse my mother already seated on her heels in a submissive position. Three steps ahead of her stands my father, and next to him, my Uncle Nobu and his son.
After exchanging a look with my mother, I slide into the room and quickly kneel behind her, my forehead nearly touching the tatami, as custom dictates. The wives and daughters of the clan must remain silent and with lowered eyes in the presence of men, like inconsequential shadows.
"My deepest apologies for my delay, honorable uncle," I greet with my gentlest voice. "Welcome to our home."
My uncle grunts, which I interpret as acceptance of my apology. He wears the distinctive gray haori that indicates his rank, and his posture conveys the same aura of calm authority as my father.
"I was just telling Sato about my son Yukio's progress in his wind sword training," my uncle continues. "His talent sets him above other youths of his age."
"Excellent news. Yukio has always shown great potential; I am sure he will go far under your wise mentorship, brother," my father celebrates, patting my cousin on the back. "If only my own daughter demonstrated the same dedication to her duties as a future wife. But I fear that Fumiko is too distracted and superficial."
Yukio bows respectfully, with an arrogant smile playing on his lips. I muster all my willpower not to show any reaction. I simply bow my head even lower, silently praying that the meeting ends soon.
The rest of the conversation unfolds similarly, with my father and uncle discussing clan matters while drinking green tea. I remain kneeling in submissive silence beside my mother, listening without daring to intervene. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, my uncle announces his departure, not before accepting my father's invitation to return in the evening for a more intimate dinner.
Once they have risen to leave, I politely excuse myself and ask permission to withdraw. I need to escape this oppressive atmosphere before I break. My steps instinctively lead me to the tranquility of the backyard garden, seeking refuge under the shade of my favorite cherry tree. But peace does not come; the bitter conversation repeats in my mind over and over.
Suddenly, the crunch of gravel alerts me that I'm not alone. I turn around startled to find myself face to face with Yukio's impassive gaze. He's wearing his training keikogi and his ceremonial katana at his waist.
"Well, well, if it isn't my dear cousin. You slipped away too fast," he comments with a hint of mockery. "I guess you couldn't stand them talking about issues too complex for your limited mind."
Just then, a gust of wind makes his short, blonde hair move, covering his forehead. Quickly, he brushes his face with his hand, allowing a "flirtatious" smile to blossom on his lips. His long, thin eyebrows only accentuate his appearance, which would surely be very attractive to any other woman. But I look away, uncomfortable that he followed me.
Yukio has always made me nervous. It's not his aesthetics that bother me, but that poisonous aura, as if no one and nothing could impose rules on him. He's the living embodiment of everything I despise about the clan, a man who will never understand what it's like to walk with the burden of a womb marked for nothing but procreation.
"I didn't want to interrupt our parents' important conversation," I mutter as an excuse.
Yukio releases a derisive laugh that makes my skin crawl.
"Please, don't insult my intelligence with such obvious lies. We all know that women like you have one purpose: to look pretty and please. It's a shame to waste the potential of our lineage on someone so insignificant. But I suppose some are born to stand out, and others to obey submissively."
I clench my fists with contained rage at his hurtful words, but I don't respond to the provocation. That would only make things worse.
"If you'll excuse me, I need to get back. Have a pleasant afternoon, cousin," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Just when I'm about to turn my back, he grabs my shoulder forcefully, preventing me from leaving.
"I'm not done with you," he hisses threateningly. "And right now, I can think of a few ways to pass the time that are much more... interesting."
His gaze crawling over my body leaves little to the imagination. I try to break free, but his grip is like a vise.
"Come on, Fumiko. Don't make it harder with an embarrassing scene. You know this is going to happen whether you like it or not. Why do you think my father came all the way here? Your father is tired of keeping you, he wants to sell you like the brood mare you are. Give in and maybe I can be gentle with you," he says with a voice silkily threatening.
His cold, almost bored tone sends a shiver down my spine.
"Release me now, Yukio, or I swear I..." I warn in vain, as his fingers press harder on my skin.
"Or what?" He interrupts with a mocking laugh. "We both know you can't do anything to stop me. My speed far surpasses yours. You're weak and pathetic, that's the reality. I, on the other hand, am a natural predator. I take what I want, when I want, and no one can stand in my way. So be a good girl and comply with my wishes."
The coldness in his green eyes chills my blood. But deep in his gaze, I also spot a glint of madness, of thirst for power and absolute control. Yukio is used to getting his way, to everyone fearing and indulging his whims without protest.
But I am not like the others. So, I gather the strength I have left and spit at him with contempt:
"You're a damn sicko, Yukio. We're not kids anymore; I won't let you do whatever you want."
He remains unfazed, my insult sliding off his impassive facade.
"Empty words. But fine, we'll do it the hard way if you insist. You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment. When it happens, I'll make you pay for your insolence until you beg for mercy. And when I'm done with you, you won't even have the value to lift your gaze from the ground. You'll be just an empty shell, a broken doll for me to do with as I please."