There’s so much smoke. Too much, in fact, to be the common lingering type that would often hover in the air after the usual bonfires the local teenagers would have at night. It was disgusting, especially to a six-year-old. In fact, it was what awoke her. The stifling black clouds were coating her lungs with what felt like tar – and she couldn’t breathe. And when she opened her eyes, it was not to see the normal warm, comforting glow of her pink lava lamp, which had been a trust nightlight since she was four. It was not to see the glow-in-the-dark yellow stars that daddy had stuck to her ceiling, so that she could always see the sky.
It was to see nothing.
That was what scared her the most; her sudden inability to see. No, she wasn’t blind; it was the thickness of the smoke that caused it. But in the mind of a child, things are not always as clear as day.
“Mommy!”
There was no rushing figure. There were no comforting, familiar voices, as would occur when the doting parents of young Prescott were to hear their only daughter cry out in alarm or fear. No. The common reach of the young couple’s arms, who would rush to cradle the girl, did not appear through the thick smoke, which was tangible enough to cut with a butter knife; there were no soothing words, no comforting embrace, and no loving parents.
There was nothing.
“Daddy!”A jolt and a gasp.
Prescott jerked in her bed, her fingers clenched against the pearl-colored bed-sheets beneath her, which were a tangled mess down around her legs. A single tear was making it's way down her right cheek, which pressed warmly against her feathered pillow.
Thank God she was alone.
Her hand moved as she sat up on the bed, wiping absently at the tear with the back of it, and she forced back a sniff.
Mancini's did not show weaknesses.
Mancini's did not cry.
"Stop it," she whispered, as a fresh swell of sorrow rose up, threatening to crash like a wave of pain inside of her. "Grow up, Prescott. Grow up and stop living like a little kid. It isn't 'proper' for you to break down in such a way, even in your sleep. You cannot disappoint Papa in such a way!"
It didn't do any good. It didn't banish the immense depression that had settled deep within her, and was a constant reminder of the emptiness. Oh, yes, she tried to fill it, but it was obviously never to any avail.
With a mental punch to herself, she moved lithely from the bed, years of gymnastics, ballet, and cheer-leading assisting in the easy movement of bed to closet, in merely one step.
A chirping sound caused her to glance idly at the iPhone that sat on the bedside table a few feet away from her.
"Dammit, Tyler, I thought I told you not to talk to me anymore," she muttered, glaring at the inanimate object, as though it had a mind of it's own and was
trying to piss her off. "I hate you ... You ... Stalker!"
After entering her closet and dawning her
outfit for the day, she made her way out of the room - making sure to toss her cell phone in her purse, and without looking at whoever texted her, might she add - and down to the entry room. With a brush in hand, she stopped before the large, gold-framed mirror that was cliche in many ways and in most rich people's homes, and made quick work with her hair. She normally left it down, so it was nothing out of the norm for her to brush it quickly and then allow it to do whatever it wished to.
Adding a dab of lip gloss, some swipes of mascara, and a bit of blush, she glanced at the clock that was reflected over her shoulder in the mirror.
Her instructor was due any minute, and she was
not looking forward to this lesson.
The doorbell was like an echo of her discomfort in that moment.
I don't want to be here.But it wasn't her choice.
Squaring her shoulders and inhaling deeply, she moved over to the door and opened it, plastering a false, bright smile on her lips. "Hello, Miss Vaudeaxun. I've been expecting you," she said, stepping back and to the side to allow the woman entrance to the mansion.
The elderly woman scoffed, making her way into the main parlor, where the family would often entertain guests.
"Sit. Ve shall start immediately," the German lady ordered, standing almost like a Nazi in World War II.
And then the conducting stick came out.
She didn't even use the stick to conduct. It was a
weapon.
Not that she could complain to her Papa about it. He wouldn't do anything and would merely scold her for being 'weak'.
I don't want to be here ..."Begin with Beethoven's Fifth."
A slight nod and her fingers were off, flying across the keys. The music echoed throughout most the large home, and was completely flawless.
Until she reached a Minor G and the abnormality rang loud and true to the fault.
The stick was brought down, smacking with a sickening slap against her right fingers. This blow even managed to break the skin across her middle knuckles. Prescott stifled a cry, tears springing to her eyes and a sob swallowing down.
And she continued to play.
When the woman finally left, Prescott sat, staring at her swollen, bleeding fingers with tears making slow trickles down her cheeks. "Bitch ..."
