Melissa Spatiatis.
“Tighter.”
“Tighter.”
“One more…”
I scream, unable to feel my waist or remember if I even have one.
“Elizabeth, I cannot breathe.” I say, turning my head to try to find her in the midst of the servants gathered in the ornate chamber.
Two maids, whose faces are etched with concern for me, yet, concentrated, hold either end of a thick silk rope. It is threaded through loops hidden within the bodice; a contraption designed to achieve the perfect silhouette – a waspish waist that is to accentuate my already impressive figure.
With practiced hands, the maids pull the rope taut. I grip the edge of a nearby armchair, knuckles white, as the bodice squeezes tighter. My hands splayed wide for balance against the relentless pull of the rope.
“It’s perfect.” I hear Eliz
