Chapter 8
“Alright, you know why you’re here,” Troy looks at the group in front of him, “So I’ll leave it up to you where you want to start. We have two brick buildings to scrape paint off of and four fences to repaint. Since you seem to enjoy painting so much, that should be easy,” he raises his eyebrows at them.
“Whatever,” Sophie kicks a rock into the road, “let’s just do this.”
Garret raises his hand, “can we start with the buildings?”
“Of course,” Troy says, “and if ever you are in need of a little extra help, then simply tell me who your other accomplice was and I’ll go and fetch him.”
“There was no one else,” Sophie scoffs.
“But what about --” Hans begins, but is cut off by a sound slap across the face from Sophie.
“What are you talking about, Hans?” She asks innocently.
“Um…” he rubs his face, “ow. Nothing.” he kicks some dirt with his toe.
“Good,” she says.
“Okay, in that case, you can go ahead and get to work.”
“Fine. Let’s just do this and get it over with,” she shoots a glare at me.
“Why did I have to come with you?” I whimper to Troy.
“It’s part of your training.”
I smirk, “Awesome,” I say in a voice which implies that it actually is not-awesome.
“One of the things you’ll learn very quickly, Mela, is that people are… well, they’re people. You are in a position of great influence, which means that you could easily hated. Of course popularity is not everything, but being well-liked is something to consider.”
“Where are you going with this, exactly?”
“We are going to help them.”
“Why?” I pause, “I don’t mean to sound awful or anything, but since they were the ones who committed the crime, should not they also do the cleanup?”
“Perhaps. But this town is my responsibility, and now yours, too,” he places a paintbrush in my hand.
I run my fingertips over the soft, new bristles. I wonder where it has been, what it has seen. I’m sure it’s seen more than I have, and been more than I have, and known more than I have. I wonder if paintbrushes have names, and if they did, what would his name be? Is he a he? Of course he is a he… I think.
His hair stands on end as though he is perpetually excited - anticipating something, perhaps frightened. But nevertheless, he stands tall and proud, not failing, not giving in.
“Mela?” Sophie touches my arm gently, “are you alright?”
I nod softly, “Yes, I am fine,” but my voice sounds decidedly not-fine even to myself, and I study the paintbrush ever more intently, the intricacies of the wooden handle, the bends of the hair.
“Are you sure?”
I don’t reply. I can’t. I just stare at the object of my affection, like the entire world is gone, like in this singular moment something has happened that cannot be broken.
“Mela?”
I jerk my eyes away with a start, “What? I am sorry, what are we doing?”
Her forehead creases in confusion, “we’re just… painting and scraping and stuff.” she nods towards the paintbrush, “Are you actually going to use that, or just stare at it?”
“No… I mean, yes, I’ll use it. I’m using it.”
She nodded, “Okay, are you sure you are fine?”
The thought flits through my head that it’s been about a day since the last time I fell in love, and perhaps even a week since it was that bad… but was it ever that bad before?
Perhaps I am getting better. Perhaps I am getting worse.
“Mela? Really, you are frightening me. Maybe you should just go home and lie down awhile. I promise I will…”
I hear her voice vaguely, but I cannot understand the words, cannot speak, cannot see, cannot breathe.
“…you won’t have to worry, I swear…”
I curl my fingers into a fist, letting my fingernails dig into my skin, and close my eyes.
Her words become even more distant as I concentrate to breathe, even as that slips away from my control.
I feel myself sink to my knees.
…The yellow house, home, wandering, down the stairs, through the halls, “Mom? Are you in here mom? Mom?” she is so pale. So, so pale, “mom,” I want to scream, but can barely whisper, “mom? Wake up…”
And then it‘s not her in the bed, but a man that I have never seen, and mother being the one speaking, “…Wake up, wake up, we have to get out of here… hurry… we don’t have much time…”
“…time to leave.” The train pulls out of the station, and there she is, waving goodbye, with tears falling down her face. I look up at the man sitting next to me… dark hair, eyes blue, just the same colour of blue…
“…Mela… …Mela…”
“Mela! Mela?”
I open my eyes to see Sophie crouching beside me, “Mela, what is going on?”
I shake my head, trying to think, breathing, trying to make sense of something, “I do not know,” I look at her, “Where is Troy?”
“Over there,” she points to where he is opening a can of paint, flanked by the two miscreants, “Mela, what just happened to you?”
“I’m not sure,” I push myself to my feet, “but I am going to find out.”
I walk behind him, “Troy, we need to talk.”
He turns around to face me, “can it wait until we have finished here?”
“No. Now.”
He frowns and turns to McKinley, “Do you think you could handle this, McKinley?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, softly but surely.
“Good. Then I will leave you.”
We walk to the house in silence, neither of us speaks a word until we are sitting across the table from each other, staring.
“What did my father look like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why would I not asdk? He is my fatrher, after all, eventually I would want to know what he looks like. Why will you not tell me?”
“Calm down, I have no objection to speaking of your father. In fact, I’ll do one better, I will show you him,” he stands up and walks from the room, to return moments later with a photograph in his hand, “I had almost forgotten his appearance myself,” he sighs, “but now I remember. I remember exactly. You are much like him in appearance. Your eyes, your smile, even your voice. You are tall and strong, like he was.”
“He was? Is he dead?”
“I imagine so, although I do not know for certain.” he passes me the photograph.
The man I had seen earlier stares back at me, albeit in black and white, “He was in the military?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There are many things you do not know about him.”
“Tell me.”
“He was very young.”
“That’s not exactly what I expected you to tell me.”
“He was very bright, he was better than the rest of the soldiers, smarter, faster, more strategic.” he sighs, “It was my fault your mother and he ever met. I took a liking to him, he became like a son to me -”
“Then why were you angry about mom and him falling in love?”
“Let me tell the story.”
I nod.
“It was silly. They were so young. He began to change, it was slow, but it happened. Missing his guard shift, tired all the time, pulling away from his friends. He began to speak of conspiracies. I tried to separate them, but they would have none of it. I think Anastasia did it partially to spite me, though I cannot say that I blame her. It was so long ago…” I don’t think he will finish, but he continues, “I cannot remember it all. I don’t want to. It happened so fast, and she was gone,” he closes his eyes, “I will never forget what that did to your grandmother. She died a few years after you were born, right after they took you out of society. I think she just could not handle it… she just gave up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. I am tired. I have things that must be done,” he stands up, then glances down at me, “you may keep the photograph.”
“Thank you,” I barely whisper, my head spinning.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Chapter 77777 (or is it 8? Perhaps I've miscounted... but Iike the number 7, so that's okay, if there is an extra one, they shall both be 7)
“When you walk,” Troy says, taking a few steps in front of me, “Walk with a purpose. Don’t slouch. Don’t look at the ground. Look ahead. Lift your chin up. You’re better than everyone else. Start believing it.”
I take a few careful steps, and he turns around to watch, “No!” he exclaims, “that’s just terrible. What are you doing? You need to learn how to walk. Grace, Mela, grace.”
I take precisely 2 more steps.
“No!” He takes a deep breath, “Like this,” he walks a few more steps, “See? Don’t walk with your legs too far apart. Keep your steps small - you are a lady, after all. For goodness sake, child, bend your knees! You are by no means a penguin! Don’t cross your arms, you’ll look angry. You’re not angry, are you? Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry yet.” I mumble.
“Good, now step.”
I take a step.
“With grace.”
And another.
“I suppose that’s better.”
And now exactly 5 more.
“Smile, Mela, this is hardly considered torture.”
“No, really, I think it might be,” I glance around the empty streets surrounding us.
“Hardly, child, hardly.”
I take a few more steps, then turn to look at him, “Is this really necessary? I mean, really? What does it matter, how I walk?”
“It matters,” he states flatly, “Now walk.”
I take several more steps.
“Too clunky, still. You walk as though you’re a young man, instead of a lady.”
“It would be a great deal easier to be a man,” I observe my brand-new patent leather, shiny, shiny, shiny shoes with exactly twelve buttons on each one, and a small heel - two inches, perhaps. Beautiful things, however painful they may be. Lovely. Maybe better suited to stare, and not as much to wear.
“Mela, watch yourself.”
“Of course,” I mumble.
“Will you stop that mumbling? It is not becoming, nor fitting for a girl of your position. You do not mumble, you speak, with poise and grace.”
“Fantastic. So now not only do I walk poorly, I also speak poorly.”
“Neither is sarcasm flattering.” He adds.
I smile patronizingly, “of course.”
“Now walk,” he pauses for a few seconds as I pace back and forth, “I take care of this town, it’s social issues, it’s financial issues, it’s legal issues… all kinds of issues. I have influence, not only over the people in this town, but over several very important people in high places. I have a reputation to protect. You are my granddaughter, and my only living heir. The issues, the influence, the reputation… it falls on you, as well. You must learn to deal with such issues as may be presented, you must learn how to use influence wisely, you must learn how to gain - and to retain - respect. This is important, Mela. It is not child’s play. You will be a very important and powerful woman. I wish for you to do well in the position that you have been thrust into, but it is not for me to decide. Learning the skills you need, wisdom, intelligence, modesty, integrity - among others - it all begins with simple things. A graceful walk, a coherent voice, a well-fitting outfit. From small things we often learn things that are really and truly important. Appearances, of course, are important to some extent, but more important are the qualities you gain by polishing appearances.
Don’t act as though I am torturing you by making you to look and to act the part you’ve been given. You are here for a reason, Mela. You are my granddaughter for a reason. Your mother died when she did for a reason. You fall in love for a reason. Don’t act as though this is a burden. Though it can be a trouble, it is yours. You cannot run away from it, you are nobility. What you must decide is if you will take it upon yourself willingly, or forced. Will you accept the path laid out before you, or will you run away?”
“Catch her!” a voice rings out from around the corner, shortly followed what can only be described as a parade of characters; a cloaked girl carrying a large bundle of… something in her arms, followed by a masked boy of about the same size, followed by a much smaller boy with a paper bag over his head, who was then followed by a dog, and after the dog, two cats. And all this party was followed by three men on horses, two more dogs, two men on foot, and one very fat, very old, very angry woman in bedclothes.
And if there’s anything at all that I know about the world, it is that you do not want to mess with very fat, very old women in bedclothes.
“What in the world is going on here?” Troy’s voice booms over the ruckus.
To my fascination, everyone freezes and turns to look at him.
“My Lord! What a surprise!” One of the men on horseback exclaims, dismounting.
“I imagine so,” Troy says unhappily, “What is the meaning of this, Yorke?”
“This trio,” the man, Yorke, explains, “was caught not only trespassing, but also destroying the property of Madam Muldrich, here.”
“Indeed!” Adds the indignant bedclothes woman, who is presumably Madam Mulrich.
“There was a fourth, sir, but he got away,” Yorke studies the ground in embarrassment.
“I see,” Troy says, turning to the three children, “and who are you?”
“Artists!” The elder boy exclaims.
“Artists, you say?”
“Of course,” the boy continues, “the world is our canvas.”
“And what are your names?”
They remain silent.
Troy walks to the older boy and pulls the mask off his face, “Garret. Why am I not surprised?” he turns to the next boy, lifting the paper bag off his head, “and Hans, I thought better of you.” then to the girl, pulling back the hood of her cloak, “Sophie Chancing?” he seems taken aback.
“Yes, sir.”
“What would your brother say?”
“I would say that she needs to be in bed, where she belongs at such an hour,” another young man rides around the corner on horseback, dismounting in front of Troy, “I am terribly sorry, my Lord. I was not expecting this. I’ve been out looking for her for over an hour. I promise you it will not happen again.”
Troy massages his forhead with his thumb and index finger, “could someone please enlighten me as to what exactly is going on?”
“Of course, sir,” Yorke offers.
“Let’s go inside, first,” Troy suggests, but I hardly hear him.
I grin down at the red street beneath my toes. The wonderful, glorious street! Of all the beautiful things in all the beautiful world, this - this street, right here beneath me - this is the fairest!
“Mela Abbey!” Troy says, “come. Now.”
I jerk my glance away from the street to realize that the rest - yes, all of them - have already gone inside the house, “I’m sorry,” I mumble, following Troy inside.
“Keep an alert mind to your thoughts, child. We can’t have people finding out about this sort of thing right now,” he pauses as he pushes open the door, ushering me inside, “for your sake, Mela. Not mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods and plasters a smile onto his face, “Act like a lady,” he whispers in my ear, pushing me into the drawing room.
“Good evening, everyone,” I announce as I plaster on my biggest, most gracious, most welcoming, most I-am-an-important-person-who-cares-about-you grin, “shall we discuss what brings us all here tonight?” I glance over my shoulder at Troy, who is looking at me like I just swallowed a live monkey, or grew a third ear, or something.
“Okay,” I continue, “why don’t we start by everyone telling me what their name is.”
“Do you really want to handle this?” Troy whispers to me.
“Well, you pushed me in first, so I figured that was the idea,” I hiss back.
“Well, no, it wasn’t,” he mumbles, “but you’re doing fine. Carry on, I’ll step in if you need assistance.”
“So,” I walk over to who had formerly been declared as Madam Muldrich, and ask her her name, anyways.
“Madam Annette Mudlrich.”
“And you?” I turn to the man sitting beside her.
He grins, the type of grin that covers his whole face, crinkling up his eyes and revealing crooked teeth, “John Anders, Mi’lady, of the City Guard.”
I turn to the next, a young man probably in his twenties with bright blue eyes, “Private Matthew Whitaker, of the Royal Service.”
“James Bethel, City Guard,” volunteers the dark-haired teenager next to him.
“Liddell Bethel, also of the City Guard,” his presumable older brother states.
“Captain Yorke Cooper, Royal Service,” he smiles and nods charmingly at me.
I turn to the next person, the youngest boy, “And you are...”
“Hanson Charles Bethel, artist.”
“I see. And you?” I turn to the other boy.
“Garret Remington,” he glances at Hanson, then at Yorke, then back at his hands and adds, “artist.”
“Sophie Chancing, artist,” she looks at the other two, “but I’m much better than they are.”
“Okay, and you?” I turn to Sophie’s brother.
“McKinley Chancing.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“It was her idea,” Garret says, pointing at Sophie.
“Shut up, moron,” she says, smacking him across the face.
“You can’t tell me what to do!”
“These children were trespassing!” Madam Muldrich shrieks.
“This is the third time this week we’ve gotten calls complaining about this, it‘s unacceptable, these delinquents should be punished!” Yorke accuses over Garret and Sophie’s argument, and Madam Muldrich’s wailing.
“They’re just young,” Matthew Whitaker reasons, “they just wanted to have some fun, be a little crazy. They‘ll grow up.”
“Are you suggesting that it’s alright to destroy someone else’s property?” Yorke exclaims, indignant.
“My property!” Madam Muldrich wails, “these evil, evil little children…”
“…and I’ll rip your tongue right out of your mouth if you ever…”
“…my petunias!”
“…I’ll take any responsibility…”
“…the destroying of property is a criminal offense…”
“…he’s your brother…”
I glance desperately at Troy as the arguments and accusations spiral out of control.
“Silence!” his voice booms above the rest, and the room settles to a hush, “We are not children, and we will not act as such.”
Hanson raises his hand.
“Yes, Hans,” Troy allows.
“I’m eight.”
Troy nods, “Alright, with the exception of Hans, we are not children.”
“I’m twelve!” Garrett pipes in.
“Doesn’t count,” Troy says, “you’re old enough.”
“If I am a child, does that mean I can act like a child?” Hans asks.
“No.”
He swears under his breath.
“Watch your mouth, Hans,” Liddell Bethel admonishes, “mind I don’t have to wash it out with soap and feed you to the gulls.”
Hans bites his lip nervously.
“There will be no feeding the gulls,” Troy states.
Hans lets out a sigh of relief.
“Of course, sir,” Liddell Bethel replies.
“Good. Now, shall we start with Madam Muldrich?” he turns to the elderly woman, “What happened, ma’am?”
“I was awakened from sleep by these… these hooligans, making a ruckus outside!” She exclaims, half indignant, half falling asleep.
“And what were they doing?”
“Painting my fence!” she yawns.
“Now that doesn’t sound so terrible,” Troy says, “your fence needed a good coat of paint, anyways.”
“No, no,” she mumbles, “not that kind of paint. They were painting words and pictures. Not whitewash. And they trampled my petunias…”
“I see,” he nods to the woman, “that will be all, Madam Muldrich. Mr. Anders, if you would escort the lady to her home?”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Anders rises to his feet and offers Madam Muldrich his arm, which she takes, somewhat begrudgingly, and they exit out the front door.
“Now, Yorke, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“As Madam Muldrich stated, they were defacing property,” Yorke sighs, “sir, you know that we’ve had complaints about this before. Now we’ve finally caught them in the act and have the opportunity to do something about this.”
Troy nods deeply, “and you?” He turns to the three “hooligans”, “do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
Garret speaks up, “I’m real sorry, sir, it won’t-”
Sophie smacks him, “shut your mouth!” then turns to Troy, “we have nothing to say to you,” she says with a toss of her hair.
Troy is silent, and everyone seems to be watching everyone else, biting their lips and clenching their fists.
Or in McKinley Chancing’s case, biting his lip so hard that it’s actually started to bleed, and tapping his foot rapidly. He stands up quickly, “I’m so sorry, sir,” he blurts out, “I’ll keep a better eye on her, I swear,” he glances over at Sophie, “I’ll make sure she starts behaving better, and-”
“You’re not the boss of me!” Sophie retorts, perhaps a bit too loudly.
McKinley Chancing glares at her, biting his lip again, “Be quiet, Sophie,” he turns back to Troy, “I am so sorry, sir. Anything I can do, really, I’ll do it, I swear. I’ll fix her fence and her flowers and whatever else Sophie messed up, and then I can -”
“Calm down, McKinley,” Troy nods at the couch, “sit.”
McKinley nods and does as he’s told.
“McKinley, this isn’t your fault,” he turns, “but Sophie, I do believe you’ve earned yourself a share of the blame. Along with you, Garret, and you, Hans.”
“What’s gonna happen to us?” Hans asks, sporting his best pout.
“You’re going to repair the damage you’ve done. I see no reason to take more extravagant measures. Do you, Mela?”
“Um, what? I mean, no, no, I don’t,” I blush.
“Good, then. So I will see you three tomarrow at noon, right in front of my house,” he glances around, “don’t think you can get out of it. If you don’t show up, I will involve your parents.”
“So what?” Sophie rolls her eyes, “my parents are out of the country. They could care less what kind of sh- I mean, messes I get into.”
“I’ll make sure she’s here, sir.” McKinley says, shooting a glare at Sophie.
“You can’t-” Sophie begins.
“You’ll be here,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Good,” Troy says, “And you two will be here?”
“Yes, sir!” they say in unison.
“Good. Then there is no cause for us to still be here. Go home and get some sleep.”
Everyone stands up and starts to file out, except for Yorke, who approaches Troy, “sir, I don’t want to undermine your authority or anything like that, but-”
“Then don’t, Yorke. Just don’t.”
“But sir-”
Troy sighs, “What happened to not undermining my authority?”
“They’re criminals, sir.”
“Oh, come on, you’ve never done something a little scandalous?” Troy chuckles and slaps him on the back.
Yorke blinks at him.
“Apparently not, then,” Troy says, clearing his throat, “It’ll be fine, Yorke, you’ll see. All children grow up one day.”
“Not all,” he says, glancing disdainfully at Liddell and James Bethel, who seem to be having a burping competition on their way out.
“They will too, one day,” Troy replies, “and they are still both younger than you.”
Yorke shakes his head, “What I don’t understand is how a good man like McKinley could have a sister like…” he glances over at Sophie, who is arguing with the aforementioned ‘good man’, “her.”
Troy shrugs, “Yes, well, it happens. Goodnight, Yorke.”
Yorke nods, “Of course. Good night, sir.” He follows the rest of them out the door.
I take a few careful steps, and he turns around to watch, “No!” he exclaims, “that’s just terrible. What are you doing? You need to learn how to walk. Grace, Mela, grace.”
I take precisely 2 more steps.
“No!” He takes a deep breath, “Like this,” he walks a few more steps, “See? Don’t walk with your legs too far apart. Keep your steps small - you are a lady, after all. For goodness sake, child, bend your knees! You are by no means a penguin! Don’t cross your arms, you’ll look angry. You’re not angry, are you? Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry yet.” I mumble.
“Good, now step.”
I take a step.
“With grace.”
And another.
“I suppose that’s better.”
And now exactly 5 more.
“Smile, Mela, this is hardly considered torture.”
“No, really, I think it might be,” I glance around the empty streets surrounding us.
“Hardly, child, hardly.”
I take a few more steps, then turn to look at him, “Is this really necessary? I mean, really? What does it matter, how I walk?”
“It matters,” he states flatly, “Now walk.”
I take several more steps.
“Too clunky, still. You walk as though you’re a young man, instead of a lady.”
“It would be a great deal easier to be a man,” I observe my brand-new patent leather, shiny, shiny, shiny shoes with exactly twelve buttons on each one, and a small heel - two inches, perhaps. Beautiful things, however painful they may be. Lovely. Maybe better suited to stare, and not as much to wear.
“Mela, watch yourself.”
“Of course,” I mumble.
“Will you stop that mumbling? It is not becoming, nor fitting for a girl of your position. You do not mumble, you speak, with poise and grace.”
“Fantastic. So now not only do I walk poorly, I also speak poorly.”
“Neither is sarcasm flattering.” He adds.
I smile patronizingly, “of course.”
“Now walk,” he pauses for a few seconds as I pace back and forth, “I take care of this town, it’s social issues, it’s financial issues, it’s legal issues… all kinds of issues. I have influence, not only over the people in this town, but over several very important people in high places. I have a reputation to protect. You are my granddaughter, and my only living heir. The issues, the influence, the reputation… it falls on you, as well. You must learn to deal with such issues as may be presented, you must learn how to use influence wisely, you must learn how to gain - and to retain - respect. This is important, Mela. It is not child’s play. You will be a very important and powerful woman. I wish for you to do well in the position that you have been thrust into, but it is not for me to decide. Learning the skills you need, wisdom, intelligence, modesty, integrity - among others - it all begins with simple things. A graceful walk, a coherent voice, a well-fitting outfit. From small things we often learn things that are really and truly important. Appearances, of course, are important to some extent, but more important are the qualities you gain by polishing appearances.
Don’t act as though I am torturing you by making you to look and to act the part you’ve been given. You are here for a reason, Mela. You are my granddaughter for a reason. Your mother died when she did for a reason. You fall in love for a reason. Don’t act as though this is a burden. Though it can be a trouble, it is yours. You cannot run away from it, you are nobility. What you must decide is if you will take it upon yourself willingly, or forced. Will you accept the path laid out before you, or will you run away?”
“Catch her!” a voice rings out from around the corner, shortly followed what can only be described as a parade of characters; a cloaked girl carrying a large bundle of… something in her arms, followed by a masked boy of about the same size, followed by a much smaller boy with a paper bag over his head, who was then followed by a dog, and after the dog, two cats. And all this party was followed by three men on horses, two more dogs, two men on foot, and one very fat, very old, very angry woman in bedclothes.
And if there’s anything at all that I know about the world, it is that you do not want to mess with very fat, very old women in bedclothes.
“What in the world is going on here?” Troy’s voice booms over the ruckus.
To my fascination, everyone freezes and turns to look at him.
“My Lord! What a surprise!” One of the men on horseback exclaims, dismounting.
“I imagine so,” Troy says unhappily, “What is the meaning of this, Yorke?”
“This trio,” the man, Yorke, explains, “was caught not only trespassing, but also destroying the property of Madam Muldrich, here.”
“Indeed!” Adds the indignant bedclothes woman, who is presumably Madam Mulrich.
“There was a fourth, sir, but he got away,” Yorke studies the ground in embarrassment.
“I see,” Troy says, turning to the three children, “and who are you?”
“Artists!” The elder boy exclaims.
“Artists, you say?”
“Of course,” the boy continues, “the world is our canvas.”
“And what are your names?”
They remain silent.
Troy walks to the older boy and pulls the mask off his face, “Garret. Why am I not surprised?” he turns to the next boy, lifting the paper bag off his head, “and Hans, I thought better of you.” then to the girl, pulling back the hood of her cloak, “Sophie Chancing?” he seems taken aback.
“Yes, sir.”
“What would your brother say?”
“I would say that she needs to be in bed, where she belongs at such an hour,” another young man rides around the corner on horseback, dismounting in front of Troy, “I am terribly sorry, my Lord. I was not expecting this. I’ve been out looking for her for over an hour. I promise you it will not happen again.”
Troy massages his forhead with his thumb and index finger, “could someone please enlighten me as to what exactly is going on?”
“Of course, sir,” Yorke offers.
“Let’s go inside, first,” Troy suggests, but I hardly hear him.
I grin down at the red street beneath my toes. The wonderful, glorious street! Of all the beautiful things in all the beautiful world, this - this street, right here beneath me - this is the fairest!
“Mela Abbey!” Troy says, “come. Now.”
I jerk my glance away from the street to realize that the rest - yes, all of them - have already gone inside the house, “I’m sorry,” I mumble, following Troy inside.
“Keep an alert mind to your thoughts, child. We can’t have people finding out about this sort of thing right now,” he pauses as he pushes open the door, ushering me inside, “for your sake, Mela. Not mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods and plasters a smile onto his face, “Act like a lady,” he whispers in my ear, pushing me into the drawing room.
“Good evening, everyone,” I announce as I plaster on my biggest, most gracious, most welcoming, most I-am-an-important-person-who-cares-about-you grin, “shall we discuss what brings us all here tonight?” I glance over my shoulder at Troy, who is looking at me like I just swallowed a live monkey, or grew a third ear, or something.
“Okay,” I continue, “why don’t we start by everyone telling me what their name is.”
“Do you really want to handle this?” Troy whispers to me.
“Well, you pushed me in first, so I figured that was the idea,” I hiss back.
“Well, no, it wasn’t,” he mumbles, “but you’re doing fine. Carry on, I’ll step in if you need assistance.”
“So,” I walk over to who had formerly been declared as Madam Muldrich, and ask her her name, anyways.
“Madam Annette Mudlrich.”
“And you?” I turn to the man sitting beside her.
He grins, the type of grin that covers his whole face, crinkling up his eyes and revealing crooked teeth, “John Anders, Mi’lady, of the City Guard.”
I turn to the next, a young man probably in his twenties with bright blue eyes, “Private Matthew Whitaker, of the Royal Service.”
“James Bethel, City Guard,” volunteers the dark-haired teenager next to him.
“Liddell Bethel, also of the City Guard,” his presumable older brother states.
“Captain Yorke Cooper, Royal Service,” he smiles and nods charmingly at me.
I turn to the next person, the youngest boy, “And you are...”
“Hanson Charles Bethel, artist.”
“I see. And you?” I turn to the other boy.
“Garret Remington,” he glances at Hanson, then at Yorke, then back at his hands and adds, “artist.”
“Sophie Chancing, artist,” she looks at the other two, “but I’m much better than they are.”
“Okay, and you?” I turn to Sophie’s brother.
“McKinley Chancing.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“It was her idea,” Garret says, pointing at Sophie.
“Shut up, moron,” she says, smacking him across the face.
“You can’t tell me what to do!”
“These children were trespassing!” Madam Muldrich shrieks.
“This is the third time this week we’ve gotten calls complaining about this, it‘s unacceptable, these delinquents should be punished!” Yorke accuses over Garret and Sophie’s argument, and Madam Muldrich’s wailing.
“They’re just young,” Matthew Whitaker reasons, “they just wanted to have some fun, be a little crazy. They‘ll grow up.”
“Are you suggesting that it’s alright to destroy someone else’s property?” Yorke exclaims, indignant.
“My property!” Madam Muldrich wails, “these evil, evil little children…”
“…and I’ll rip your tongue right out of your mouth if you ever…”
“…my petunias!”
“…I’ll take any responsibility…”
“…the destroying of property is a criminal offense…”
“…he’s your brother…”
I glance desperately at Troy as the arguments and accusations spiral out of control.
“Silence!” his voice booms above the rest, and the room settles to a hush, “We are not children, and we will not act as such.”
Hanson raises his hand.
“Yes, Hans,” Troy allows.
“I’m eight.”
Troy nods, “Alright, with the exception of Hans, we are not children.”
“I’m twelve!” Garrett pipes in.
“Doesn’t count,” Troy says, “you’re old enough.”
“If I am a child, does that mean I can act like a child?” Hans asks.
“No.”
He swears under his breath.
“Watch your mouth, Hans,” Liddell Bethel admonishes, “mind I don’t have to wash it out with soap and feed you to the gulls.”
Hans bites his lip nervously.
“There will be no feeding the gulls,” Troy states.
Hans lets out a sigh of relief.
“Of course, sir,” Liddell Bethel replies.
“Good. Now, shall we start with Madam Muldrich?” he turns to the elderly woman, “What happened, ma’am?”
“I was awakened from sleep by these… these hooligans, making a ruckus outside!” She exclaims, half indignant, half falling asleep.
“And what were they doing?”
“Painting my fence!” she yawns.
“Now that doesn’t sound so terrible,” Troy says, “your fence needed a good coat of paint, anyways.”
“No, no,” she mumbles, “not that kind of paint. They were painting words and pictures. Not whitewash. And they trampled my petunias…”
“I see,” he nods to the woman, “that will be all, Madam Muldrich. Mr. Anders, if you would escort the lady to her home?”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Anders rises to his feet and offers Madam Muldrich his arm, which she takes, somewhat begrudgingly, and they exit out the front door.
“Now, Yorke, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“As Madam Muldrich stated, they were defacing property,” Yorke sighs, “sir, you know that we’ve had complaints about this before. Now we’ve finally caught them in the act and have the opportunity to do something about this.”
Troy nods deeply, “and you?” He turns to the three “hooligans”, “do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
Garret speaks up, “I’m real sorry, sir, it won’t-”
Sophie smacks him, “shut your mouth!” then turns to Troy, “we have nothing to say to you,” she says with a toss of her hair.
Troy is silent, and everyone seems to be watching everyone else, biting their lips and clenching their fists.
Or in McKinley Chancing’s case, biting his lip so hard that it’s actually started to bleed, and tapping his foot rapidly. He stands up quickly, “I’m so sorry, sir,” he blurts out, “I’ll keep a better eye on her, I swear,” he glances over at Sophie, “I’ll make sure she starts behaving better, and-”
“You’re not the boss of me!” Sophie retorts, perhaps a bit too loudly.
McKinley Chancing glares at her, biting his lip again, “Be quiet, Sophie,” he turns back to Troy, “I am so sorry, sir. Anything I can do, really, I’ll do it, I swear. I’ll fix her fence and her flowers and whatever else Sophie messed up, and then I can -”
“Calm down, McKinley,” Troy nods at the couch, “sit.”
McKinley nods and does as he’s told.
“McKinley, this isn’t your fault,” he turns, “but Sophie, I do believe you’ve earned yourself a share of the blame. Along with you, Garret, and you, Hans.”
“What’s gonna happen to us?” Hans asks, sporting his best pout.
“You’re going to repair the damage you’ve done. I see no reason to take more extravagant measures. Do you, Mela?”
“Um, what? I mean, no, no, I don’t,” I blush.
“Good, then. So I will see you three tomarrow at noon, right in front of my house,” he glances around, “don’t think you can get out of it. If you don’t show up, I will involve your parents.”
“So what?” Sophie rolls her eyes, “my parents are out of the country. They could care less what kind of sh- I mean, messes I get into.”
“I’ll make sure she’s here, sir.” McKinley says, shooting a glare at Sophie.
“You can’t-” Sophie begins.
“You’ll be here,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Good,” Troy says, “And you two will be here?”
“Yes, sir!” they say in unison.
“Good. Then there is no cause for us to still be here. Go home and get some sleep.”
Everyone stands up and starts to file out, except for Yorke, who approaches Troy, “sir, I don’t want to undermine your authority or anything like that, but-”
“Then don’t, Yorke. Just don’t.”
“But sir-”
Troy sighs, “What happened to not undermining my authority?”
“They’re criminals, sir.”
“Oh, come on, you’ve never done something a little scandalous?” Troy chuckles and slaps him on the back.
Yorke blinks at him.
“Apparently not, then,” Troy says, clearing his throat, “It’ll be fine, Yorke, you’ll see. All children grow up one day.”
“Not all,” he says, glancing disdainfully at Liddell and James Bethel, who seem to be having a burping competition on their way out.
“They will too, one day,” Troy replies, “and they are still both younger than you.”
Yorke shakes his head, “What I don’t understand is how a good man like McKinley could have a sister like…” he glances over at Sophie, who is arguing with the aforementioned ‘good man’, “her.”
Troy shrugs, “Yes, well, it happens. Goodnight, Yorke.”
Yorke nods, “Of course. Good night, sir.” He follows the rest of them out the door.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Chapter 6
“So you’re a Duke?”
Troy nods, “Yes.”
“And that means what exactly for me?”
“You’re nobility. And you must act as such.”
“Like… a queen?”
“Somewhat.”
“I wear a crown and wave at commoners?”
He chuckles, “My word, do you have a lot to learn,” he offers his hand to help me into the carriage.
“Um, how do you do this, exactly?” I giggle nervously, staring down his hand. Such a wonderful thing, hands are. So intricate and yet so simple. They express and show so much about a person. They add so much to the world, yet often go unnoticed.
“Mela, don’t stare at my hand.”
“Right,” I smile sheepishly at him.
“Just take my hand, like so,” he places my hand in his, “and climb into the carriage.”
I do as he instructs, “What is the purpose of that? I could have gotten inside the carriage on my own.”
He nods, “That is correct.”
“So the point is what?”
“It’s a formality. An honor.”
“What so formal or honorary about it?”
“I’m not really sure,” his brow wrinkles up, “I’ve never thought about that before. Just one of those silly things we do because we’ve always done it that way, I suppose.”
“Good day, my Lord,” a rather deep voice calls out.
“Oh, hello Yorke,” Troy tips his hat to the person bearing the rather deep voice, “I’ve told you before that you may call me Troy.”
“Of course, Troy,” a tall man with dark hair shakes Troy’s hand.
“Yorke, meet my granddaughter, Mela Winston. Mela, this is Yorke Cooper.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Milady,” he takes my hand and presses it to his lips, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Yorke is in the military, Mela. He’s been assigned here for the next few years.”
“And am at your service, as always, my Lord,” he pauses, then glances at me, “And yours as well, Lady.”
“Thank you,” I glance at Troy, wondering if I responded correctly.
“No, thank you,” Yorke says, “It is my honor to serve such a beautiful woman.”
I bore holes in the ground with my eyes and try to keep from laughing.
“Well, we best be going,” Troy announces, “It was good to see you, Yorke.”
“You as well, my lord,” he looks at me, “We will meet again soon, no?”
“Uh, sure.” I mutter.
“Good day,” Troy concludes, stepping into the carriage.
Yorke tips his hat to me, and Troy flicks the reigns.
“Yorke’s a fine young man. From a good family,” he steals a sideways glance at me, “And he seemed to like you rather well.”
“What are you implying?”
“Well, you are of an age that you could think of being married. We can’t let you get too terribly much older.”
“I’m only sixteen. And I’m just getting to know the world. I doubt that now is the most prudent time for me to audition husbands. Besides, don’t you think Yorke’s a little… you know?”
“I know what?”
“Just… not the type of man that I’d like to marry.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a little ridiculous.”
“Most men are, my dear. You just have to find someone who is ridiculous enough to make you laugh, then snatch them up in a hurry.”
“I don’t think all people are ridiculous. You’re not ridiculous, and you’re a man.”
“Very well, let me correct myself. All young men are ridiculous, and then one day they shall all wake up to find themselves old and boring. Like me.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“Fifty-seven years. Over half a decade, mind you.”
I glance at the reigns in his hands… the wonderful, beautiful reigns. So perfectly constructed and exquisitely made. Such a nice leather.
“Mela, watch yourself.”
“Of course,” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds.
“To be honest, I’m not yet sure how this will work out, Mela.”
“What will work out?”
“You adapting to regular society. It could complete flawlessly, or it could be an utter disaster. My guess is it shall work itself out somewhere in between the few - after some perfectly flawless moments and some perfectly disastrous moments.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
He frowns, “Well. I suppose then we change, and adapt. And you will have to do just what you have to do, regardless of how simple or difficult said task is. It is my hope that one day you shall be able to stare at an object for twenty minutes - nay! Twenty days - and feel not the slightest attraction to it.”
“But it’s not my fault!” I protest, “I can’t help how I feel!”
“Can’t you?” He frowns, “Perhaps we’re born with natural bents towards things… say, for example, stealing. And one could go their whole life stealing loaves of bread and pocketbooks and newspapers, and just blame it upon the fact that it is how they were born and brought up. However, another with the same inclination may live his whole life and perhaps be tempted to take things that don’t belong to him, but consciously choose to live in a different way than the way he was born and brought up would lead him to do.”
“That’s different. That’s like… I don’t know. Just a thing. People don’t normally fall in love with everything they see. I know this. It’s not just a sin or a ‘bent’, it’s a curse.”
“But then, we all have our curses, Mela. Just as the man with a bent towards stealing, or a woman with a bent towards prostitution, or a young boy with an inclination to lie… perhaps these aren’t unusual things, but curses nonetheless. It’s important to realize, Mela, that nothing that you naturally do makes you spectacular or outstanding. Falling in love doesn’t make you any more unique than, say, that boy over there,” he points to a young boy playing marbles on the sidewalk, “What makes you spectacular is who you choose to be, and what you choose to overcome.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you can’t live your entire life blaming your faults on something else. Whether they are your fault or no, they are, in fact, yours to deal with. You can work to overcome them, or you can wallow in self-pity.”
“But… Falling in love with things isn’t a sin. I mean, it makes life rather difficult, but it’s not actually a bad thing.”
He raises his eyebrows, “Where do you get your funny ideas about life?”
“I don’t know. Books. Newspapers. Art.”
“All full of lies and silliness. No, love, real love, is quite hardly a sin. But lust, my dear girl, is of the seven deadly variety.”
“You’re saying I don’t fall in love?”
“Precisely.”
“I fall in… lust?”
“Well, I’d hardly call it love. It is impossible to really love an object. A thing.”
“Just because you’ve never done something doesn’t make it impossible.”
He nods, “good point, but irrelevant. I’m not speaking from personal experience. I’m speaking from a well-established veiwpoint, backed by definitions, commonly accepted ideas, and generally my observations.
“Fantastic.” I roll my eyes.
Troy nods, “Yes.”
“And that means what exactly for me?”
“You’re nobility. And you must act as such.”
“Like… a queen?”
“Somewhat.”
“I wear a crown and wave at commoners?”
He chuckles, “My word, do you have a lot to learn,” he offers his hand to help me into the carriage.
“Um, how do you do this, exactly?” I giggle nervously, staring down his hand. Such a wonderful thing, hands are. So intricate and yet so simple. They express and show so much about a person. They add so much to the world, yet often go unnoticed.
“Mela, don’t stare at my hand.”
“Right,” I smile sheepishly at him.
“Just take my hand, like so,” he places my hand in his, “and climb into the carriage.”
I do as he instructs, “What is the purpose of that? I could have gotten inside the carriage on my own.”
He nods, “That is correct.”
“So the point is what?”
“It’s a formality. An honor.”
“What so formal or honorary about it?”
“I’m not really sure,” his brow wrinkles up, “I’ve never thought about that before. Just one of those silly things we do because we’ve always done it that way, I suppose.”
“Good day, my Lord,” a rather deep voice calls out.
“Oh, hello Yorke,” Troy tips his hat to the person bearing the rather deep voice, “I’ve told you before that you may call me Troy.”
“Of course, Troy,” a tall man with dark hair shakes Troy’s hand.
“Yorke, meet my granddaughter, Mela Winston. Mela, this is Yorke Cooper.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Milady,” he takes my hand and presses it to his lips, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Yorke is in the military, Mela. He’s been assigned here for the next few years.”
“And am at your service, as always, my Lord,” he pauses, then glances at me, “And yours as well, Lady.”
“Thank you,” I glance at Troy, wondering if I responded correctly.
“No, thank you,” Yorke says, “It is my honor to serve such a beautiful woman.”
I bore holes in the ground with my eyes and try to keep from laughing.
“Well, we best be going,” Troy announces, “It was good to see you, Yorke.”
“You as well, my lord,” he looks at me, “We will meet again soon, no?”
“Uh, sure.” I mutter.
“Good day,” Troy concludes, stepping into the carriage.
Yorke tips his hat to me, and Troy flicks the reigns.
“Yorke’s a fine young man. From a good family,” he steals a sideways glance at me, “And he seemed to like you rather well.”
“What are you implying?”
“Well, you are of an age that you could think of being married. We can’t let you get too terribly much older.”
“I’m only sixteen. And I’m just getting to know the world. I doubt that now is the most prudent time for me to audition husbands. Besides, don’t you think Yorke’s a little… you know?”
“I know what?”
“Just… not the type of man that I’d like to marry.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a little ridiculous.”
“Most men are, my dear. You just have to find someone who is ridiculous enough to make you laugh, then snatch them up in a hurry.”
“I don’t think all people are ridiculous. You’re not ridiculous, and you’re a man.”
“Very well, let me correct myself. All young men are ridiculous, and then one day they shall all wake up to find themselves old and boring. Like me.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“Fifty-seven years. Over half a decade, mind you.”
I glance at the reigns in his hands… the wonderful, beautiful reigns. So perfectly constructed and exquisitely made. Such a nice leather.
“Mela, watch yourself.”
“Of course,” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds.
“To be honest, I’m not yet sure how this will work out, Mela.”
“What will work out?”
“You adapting to regular society. It could complete flawlessly, or it could be an utter disaster. My guess is it shall work itself out somewhere in between the few - after some perfectly flawless moments and some perfectly disastrous moments.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
He frowns, “Well. I suppose then we change, and adapt. And you will have to do just what you have to do, regardless of how simple or difficult said task is. It is my hope that one day you shall be able to stare at an object for twenty minutes - nay! Twenty days - and feel not the slightest attraction to it.”
“But it’s not my fault!” I protest, “I can’t help how I feel!”
“Can’t you?” He frowns, “Perhaps we’re born with natural bents towards things… say, for example, stealing. And one could go their whole life stealing loaves of bread and pocketbooks and newspapers, and just blame it upon the fact that it is how they were born and brought up. However, another with the same inclination may live his whole life and perhaps be tempted to take things that don’t belong to him, but consciously choose to live in a different way than the way he was born and brought up would lead him to do.”
“That’s different. That’s like… I don’t know. Just a thing. People don’t normally fall in love with everything they see. I know this. It’s not just a sin or a ‘bent’, it’s a curse.”
“But then, we all have our curses, Mela. Just as the man with a bent towards stealing, or a woman with a bent towards prostitution, or a young boy with an inclination to lie… perhaps these aren’t unusual things, but curses nonetheless. It’s important to realize, Mela, that nothing that you naturally do makes you spectacular or outstanding. Falling in love doesn’t make you any more unique than, say, that boy over there,” he points to a young boy playing marbles on the sidewalk, “What makes you spectacular is who you choose to be, and what you choose to overcome.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you can’t live your entire life blaming your faults on something else. Whether they are your fault or no, they are, in fact, yours to deal with. You can work to overcome them, or you can wallow in self-pity.”
“But… Falling in love with things isn’t a sin. I mean, it makes life rather difficult, but it’s not actually a bad thing.”
He raises his eyebrows, “Where do you get your funny ideas about life?”
“I don’t know. Books. Newspapers. Art.”
“All full of lies and silliness. No, love, real love, is quite hardly a sin. But lust, my dear girl, is of the seven deadly variety.”
“You’re saying I don’t fall in love?”
“Precisely.”
“I fall in… lust?”
“Well, I’d hardly call it love. It is impossible to really love an object. A thing.”
“Just because you’ve never done something doesn’t make it impossible.”
He nods, “good point, but irrelevant. I’m not speaking from personal experience. I’m speaking from a well-established veiwpoint, backed by definitions, commonly accepted ideas, and generally my observations.
“Fantastic.” I roll my eyes.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Chapter 5 & a bucket o' drama... sorry that this is taking me so long to write :-(
Knock, knock, knock.
I race over to my window and push back the curtains, to be greeted by the grinning face of the girl from the carriage.
I close my eyes, then open them again, unsure whether I am hallucinating or not, then carefully avoid focusing on her.
She knocks again, and as I glace at her, she motions for me to open the window. So, against all common sense and better judgment, I do.
“Hi,” she says happily, “I’m Sophie.”
“Hi, Sophie,” I say uncertainly.
She sticks out her hand, and I stare at it blankly, so she pulls it back, “Don’t be all freaked out. I suppose it is awfully strange for you to have someone come to your window like this, but Mr. Thramas never has any visitors, so I did not think anyone would answer if I went to the front door,” she takes a breath, “Anyways, I have never seen you before. Are you new here? What is your name? How do you know Mr. Thramas?”
“I am new… kind of,” I say.
“Great. Where are you from?” She climbs the rest of the way through my window.
“I used to live in the yellow house.”
“Really? I did not think that anyone lived there. It looks so eerie, with that one giant, looming window. Sort of terrifying, really.”
I laugh, “I suppose.”
“So why did I never see you before?”
“My mom… she never let me out of the house, not since I was very young.”
“That’s awful!” Sophie exclaims.
“I guess so.”
“So what happened?” She asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, “What are you doing here?”
“My mom died.”
“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry! That is horrible.”
I shrug, “I keep thinking it is… but then again, maybe it is not.”
“Why do you say that?”“Well, now I finally get to see things and do things and live. My mom and I were never terribly close, anyways. I mean, she was the only person I ever remember knowing up until yesterday, aside from Percy, my cat, but it is not as though we talked all that much, or anything.”
“Oh. Well, what is your name?”
“Abbey - wait - no, it’s not. My name is Mela.”
Sophie’s brow wrinkles up in confusion.
“Well, I always thought my name was Abbey, but Troy - my grandfather - says that my name is really Mela, and that Abbey is just my middle name.”
“Oh. Why did you not know your first name?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I imagine so. It sounds like everything is complicated with you right now, Mela,” the clock in the parlor begins to chime, and Sophie jumps to her feet, “Oh! I’m late! I had forgotten!” she climbs back out the window, “I’ll come back again,” she promises, “soon!”
And with that, she is gone, so I close the fabulous window.
“Mela,” Troy’s voice echoes down the hallway, “Mela Abbey, have you tried it on yet?”
“Not yet!” I call back, “did you fetch Percy?”
“Well, I presume this is Percy. He’s looking rather unhappy and rather fat. I suppose that he could have survived a few more days without food.”
Percy’s familiar meow of protest meets my ears.
“Although,” Troy continues, “Percy does not seem to agree with me.”
I laugh, “he rarely agrees with anyone. He’s just the sort of personality that finds the most enjoyment in being entirely disagreeable.”
“Well, get that tried on, and perhaps we’ll even be so daring as to venture into town today.”
“Sounds terrifying,” and I’m only half joking.
“Well. Yes. I imagine it will be. But we’ve all got to overcome our fears, so hurry along, now.”
I slip the white undergarment over my head, “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Be ready in exactly fifteen minutes. I’ll have the carriage arranged.”
“Carriage?” I squeal, “We get to ride in a carriage? I’ve never ridden in a carriage before!”
“Indeed, no, you have not. Well, there’s a first for everything. Get ready. Wear the hat. It just is not proper for a young lady to be in society without a head covering.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Indeed it is not. Leastways not for one of your standing.”
“Remind me again what my standing is, exactly,” I pull a dark blue dress over my head.
“I am very important, which makes you, as my granddaughter, also very important.”
I stick my head out of the door and look at him, “What are you, exactly?”
“Important,” he replies, touching a finger to my nose, “now finish getting ready.”
I sigh, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I will. Just not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know that you’re ready for that sort of responsibility yet.”
“What?” I poke my head back out the door, “what are you, the king or something?”
“Put on a hat, Mela.”
“Fine. I’ll put on a hat. But then you have to tell me what you are.”
“Alright. Deal.”
“Fantastic,” I close the door to my room and put on a large, lovely, be-flowered, straw hat.
I race over to my window and push back the curtains, to be greeted by the grinning face of the girl from the carriage.
I close my eyes, then open them again, unsure whether I am hallucinating or not, then carefully avoid focusing on her.
She knocks again, and as I glace at her, she motions for me to open the window. So, against all common sense and better judgment, I do.
“Hi,” she says happily, “I’m Sophie.”
“Hi, Sophie,” I say uncertainly.
She sticks out her hand, and I stare at it blankly, so she pulls it back, “Don’t be all freaked out. I suppose it is awfully strange for you to have someone come to your window like this, but Mr. Thramas never has any visitors, so I did not think anyone would answer if I went to the front door,” she takes a breath, “Anyways, I have never seen you before. Are you new here? What is your name? How do you know Mr. Thramas?”
“I am new… kind of,” I say.
“Great. Where are you from?” She climbs the rest of the way through my window.
“I used to live in the yellow house.”
“Really? I did not think that anyone lived there. It looks so eerie, with that one giant, looming window. Sort of terrifying, really.”
I laugh, “I suppose.”
“So why did I never see you before?”
“My mom… she never let me out of the house, not since I was very young.”
“That’s awful!” Sophie exclaims.
“I guess so.”
“So what happened?” She asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, “What are you doing here?”
“My mom died.”
“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry! That is horrible.”
I shrug, “I keep thinking it is… but then again, maybe it is not.”
“Why do you say that?”“Well, now I finally get to see things and do things and live. My mom and I were never terribly close, anyways. I mean, she was the only person I ever remember knowing up until yesterday, aside from Percy, my cat, but it is not as though we talked all that much, or anything.”
“Oh. Well, what is your name?”
“Abbey - wait - no, it’s not. My name is Mela.”
Sophie’s brow wrinkles up in confusion.
“Well, I always thought my name was Abbey, but Troy - my grandfather - says that my name is really Mela, and that Abbey is just my middle name.”
“Oh. Why did you not know your first name?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I imagine so. It sounds like everything is complicated with you right now, Mela,” the clock in the parlor begins to chime, and Sophie jumps to her feet, “Oh! I’m late! I had forgotten!” she climbs back out the window, “I’ll come back again,” she promises, “soon!”
And with that, she is gone, so I close the fabulous window.
“Mela,” Troy’s voice echoes down the hallway, “Mela Abbey, have you tried it on yet?”
“Not yet!” I call back, “did you fetch Percy?”
“Well, I presume this is Percy. He’s looking rather unhappy and rather fat. I suppose that he could have survived a few more days without food.”
Percy’s familiar meow of protest meets my ears.
“Although,” Troy continues, “Percy does not seem to agree with me.”
I laugh, “he rarely agrees with anyone. He’s just the sort of personality that finds the most enjoyment in being entirely disagreeable.”
“Well, get that tried on, and perhaps we’ll even be so daring as to venture into town today.”
“Sounds terrifying,” and I’m only half joking.
“Well. Yes. I imagine it will be. But we’ve all got to overcome our fears, so hurry along, now.”
I slip the white undergarment over my head, “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Be ready in exactly fifteen minutes. I’ll have the carriage arranged.”
“Carriage?” I squeal, “We get to ride in a carriage? I’ve never ridden in a carriage before!”
“Indeed, no, you have not. Well, there’s a first for everything. Get ready. Wear the hat. It just is not proper for a young lady to be in society without a head covering.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Indeed it is not. Leastways not for one of your standing.”
“Remind me again what my standing is, exactly,” I pull a dark blue dress over my head.
“I am very important, which makes you, as my granddaughter, also very important.”
I stick my head out of the door and look at him, “What are you, exactly?”
“Important,” he replies, touching a finger to my nose, “now finish getting ready.”
I sigh, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I will. Just not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know that you’re ready for that sort of responsibility yet.”
“What?” I poke my head back out the door, “what are you, the king or something?”
“Put on a hat, Mela.”
“Fine. I’ll put on a hat. But then you have to tell me what you are.”
“Alright. Deal.”
“Fantastic,” I close the door to my room and put on a large, lovely, be-flowered, straw hat.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Chapter 4 - Dawn has been changed to Mela, b/c I realized 'Abbey Dawn' is the name of Avril Lavigne's clothing line... awkward! She is now Mela Abbey.
“Now that you are staying with me,” Troy tells me the next morning, “I shan’t have you holed up in the house all day long, doing whatever you please. There are a great many things to be required of a girl your age.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you must attend school, and learn how to read and write.”
“I already know how to read and write,” I explain, “Mom taught me.”
“Well, that is good, then.”
“What else do I have to do?”
“You shall still have to attend school, as is proper for a girl of your age. And to even do that, you have quite a bit of learning to do.”
I frown, “What do you mean?”
“I shall not insist on you learning to be normal, because that would be awfully dreadful. Rather, you must simply learn to temper your problems, as to call as little attention to yourself as possible. Once we’ve gotten you in school, it will be important to start on other things.”
“Such as?”
“Well, a girl of your rank will have certain responsibilities to society.”
“Of my rank? I have a rank? I thought I was just kind-of like the pond scum of society?”
Troy shakes his head slowly, “I am a very important man,” he explains, “And as such, and you now being under my care, you’ll have to become quite proper and refined. I am impressed with your gracefulness in movement, and your manner of speech, both are much more refined than one would expect from your upbringing. However, there are other things that will be important., such as learning manners and customs, and“ he frowns at me, “how one should dress.”
“Oh,” I glance down at myself, “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“How long have you had those clothes?” He asks.
I shrug, “I’m not sure. A long time, I suppose.”
“Do you own anything else?”
“Just more things that look like this,” I glance down at my simple gray dress. It’s nearly to my knees now, I’ve grown so tall. I suppose in common society, that would be unacceptable - immodest - which must be why I need new clothes.
“I see,” he says, “Well I can’t very well take you out in public looking as such, so I suppose I shall just have to guess at sizes, then once you have something presentable to wear, I can take you out and we’ll get you measured for a wardrobe.”
“Alright,” I agree.
“Well, I believe I’ll take off to get you something now - don’t put off til tomarrow what you can accomplish today, aye?” He pulls on a dark, heavy coat then turns to look at me, “Now while I’m gone, you need to make the most of the time - here is what I want you to do: Stare. Pick anything, and fall in love with it. Your goal is to not make it noticeable that you’re entirely infatuated. You should try your best not to say anything about it, and not to touch it, or do anything that might show your affection. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that, he leaves.
I close my eyes and spin around in circles until I feel as though I’ll fall over, then I open my eyes, spinning more slowly.
Sometimes this is what I do if I just want to escape, because when one is dizzy, one cannot focus on anything, and if I cannot focus on anything, I cannot fall in love with anything.
Troy’s words spin through my head.
“…. We’ll have to have a funeral arranged…”
“…We all believed that she had killed you…”
“…Perhaps, Abbey, it isn’t all that important to be normal…”
“…Mela.”
I crash to the ground, more lost and confused than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Why did you have to die?” I whisper, “Why couldn’t things have kept being the way they were? What happened.”
I slam my fist into the floor, and a dull ache crawls up my arm.
Am I being selfish or unfair? Should I just feel sorry that mom’s gone, and not feel sorry for myself? Should I be happy that she is gone, and that finally I will be allowed to see the world?
Perhaps that is a good thing, but mostly I just feel afraid. It’s like I just closed my eyes for one second, and when I opened them an entirely new world lay before me. A world filled with beautiful things of all sorts, and terrifying things, and mostly just strange things.
I lean back and lay flat on the floor, staring up at the electric lamp on the ceiling, “Do you know why I am here?” I ask it.
Of course, the lamp does not respond, it being a lamp, but if it did, I imagine it would say something lovely, and perhaps a bit arrogant.
It would have a right to be arrogant of course, it being such a truly fascinating and wonderful lamp. And arrogance, in moderation, is not necessarily unattractive.
In fact, I believe the arrogance of said lamp to be intensely attractive.
I wish there were a way I could climb up to the lamp, just to touch it, and to know it.
I close my eyes and shake my head, “He said no touching, Abbey… er… Mela. And he would not like you closing your eyes like this, either. He thinks you need to learn to cope. And I must certainly be crazy, I never used to talk to myself like this. I suppose that is because I always talked to Percy,” I jump to my feet, “Percy!”
I must have forgotten him in all the chaos. He’ll be at the house, all alone, and likely very afraid, and very lonely, and quite hungry, too, I imagine. Unless he somehow managed to trap one of the mice that run through the house at night. But I’m afraid Percy is terribly fat, and not all that good at chasing mice, so he is likely quite hungry.
I dash out the door, set on retrieving Percy.
Unfortuanately, in my haste, I forgot a very important fact - I cannot go dashing around without thinking.
The second I swing open the door, my attention latches on the first thing I see - a carriage, pulled by two strong, chestnut horses.
Inside the carriage are three small children, and a young woman of about my age, with long, golden hair. She urges the horse to move more quickly with a flick of her reins, and with her other hand holds back one of the children from falling out of the carriage.
She is, by far, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I wonder what she is like? I wonder if she is pleasant?
She turns towards me and smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. Then the carriage turns the corner and they are out of my sight.
I close my eyes and try to re-gain my senses, “This was a bad idea,” I whisper to myself.
“You are right, it was,” Troy grabs my arm and drags me back in the house, “When I told you that you needed to adjust to society, I did not mean for you to go gallivanting outside on your own on only the first day you are learning to adjust,” he slams the door shut behind him, “What were you thinking?”
“Percy.”
“Who?”
“My cat. He’s at my house all by himself, and he’s terribly fat, and I’m afraid he will not be able to catch any mice to eat. He might starve. And he’s awfully spoiled, and won’t know what to do with no one around. I was just going to get him.”
Troy laughs delightedly, “You ventured outside to get your cat?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was terribly stupid, albeit interesting,” he smiles, “It’s alright, child, I shall go fetch Percy. You stay here. Go to your room and try this on,” he hands me a package wrapped in brown paper.
I wander back to the room Troy has given me to stay in while I live with him - he said that it used to belong to mother - and unwrap the brown paper package. I pull out a long, white, undergarment shift, and begin to unfold it.
And then am interrupted by a knock on my window.
“Like what?”
“Well, you must attend school, and learn how to read and write.”
“I already know how to read and write,” I explain, “Mom taught me.”
“Well, that is good, then.”
“What else do I have to do?”
“You shall still have to attend school, as is proper for a girl of your age. And to even do that, you have quite a bit of learning to do.”
I frown, “What do you mean?”
“I shall not insist on you learning to be normal, because that would be awfully dreadful. Rather, you must simply learn to temper your problems, as to call as little attention to yourself as possible. Once we’ve gotten you in school, it will be important to start on other things.”
“Such as?”
“Well, a girl of your rank will have certain responsibilities to society.”
“Of my rank? I have a rank? I thought I was just kind-of like the pond scum of society?”
Troy shakes his head slowly, “I am a very important man,” he explains, “And as such, and you now being under my care, you’ll have to become quite proper and refined. I am impressed with your gracefulness in movement, and your manner of speech, both are much more refined than one would expect from your upbringing. However, there are other things that will be important., such as learning manners and customs, and“ he frowns at me, “how one should dress.”
“Oh,” I glance down at myself, “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“How long have you had those clothes?” He asks.
I shrug, “I’m not sure. A long time, I suppose.”
“Do you own anything else?”
“Just more things that look like this,” I glance down at my simple gray dress. It’s nearly to my knees now, I’ve grown so tall. I suppose in common society, that would be unacceptable - immodest - which must be why I need new clothes.
“I see,” he says, “Well I can’t very well take you out in public looking as such, so I suppose I shall just have to guess at sizes, then once you have something presentable to wear, I can take you out and we’ll get you measured for a wardrobe.”
“Alright,” I agree.
“Well, I believe I’ll take off to get you something now - don’t put off til tomarrow what you can accomplish today, aye?” He pulls on a dark, heavy coat then turns to look at me, “Now while I’m gone, you need to make the most of the time - here is what I want you to do: Stare. Pick anything, and fall in love with it. Your goal is to not make it noticeable that you’re entirely infatuated. You should try your best not to say anything about it, and not to touch it, or do anything that might show your affection. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that, he leaves.
I close my eyes and spin around in circles until I feel as though I’ll fall over, then I open my eyes, spinning more slowly.
Sometimes this is what I do if I just want to escape, because when one is dizzy, one cannot focus on anything, and if I cannot focus on anything, I cannot fall in love with anything.
Troy’s words spin through my head.
“…. We’ll have to have a funeral arranged…”
“…We all believed that she had killed you…”
“…Perhaps, Abbey, it isn’t all that important to be normal…”
“…Mela.”
I crash to the ground, more lost and confused than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Why did you have to die?” I whisper, “Why couldn’t things have kept being the way they were? What happened.”
I slam my fist into the floor, and a dull ache crawls up my arm.
Am I being selfish or unfair? Should I just feel sorry that mom’s gone, and not feel sorry for myself? Should I be happy that she is gone, and that finally I will be allowed to see the world?
Perhaps that is a good thing, but mostly I just feel afraid. It’s like I just closed my eyes for one second, and when I opened them an entirely new world lay before me. A world filled with beautiful things of all sorts, and terrifying things, and mostly just strange things.
I lean back and lay flat on the floor, staring up at the electric lamp on the ceiling, “Do you know why I am here?” I ask it.
Of course, the lamp does not respond, it being a lamp, but if it did, I imagine it would say something lovely, and perhaps a bit arrogant.
It would have a right to be arrogant of course, it being such a truly fascinating and wonderful lamp. And arrogance, in moderation, is not necessarily unattractive.
In fact, I believe the arrogance of said lamp to be intensely attractive.
I wish there were a way I could climb up to the lamp, just to touch it, and to know it.
I close my eyes and shake my head, “He said no touching, Abbey… er… Mela. And he would not like you closing your eyes like this, either. He thinks you need to learn to cope. And I must certainly be crazy, I never used to talk to myself like this. I suppose that is because I always talked to Percy,” I jump to my feet, “Percy!”
I must have forgotten him in all the chaos. He’ll be at the house, all alone, and likely very afraid, and very lonely, and quite hungry, too, I imagine. Unless he somehow managed to trap one of the mice that run through the house at night. But I’m afraid Percy is terribly fat, and not all that good at chasing mice, so he is likely quite hungry.
I dash out the door, set on retrieving Percy.
Unfortuanately, in my haste, I forgot a very important fact - I cannot go dashing around without thinking.
The second I swing open the door, my attention latches on the first thing I see - a carriage, pulled by two strong, chestnut horses.
Inside the carriage are three small children, and a young woman of about my age, with long, golden hair. She urges the horse to move more quickly with a flick of her reins, and with her other hand holds back one of the children from falling out of the carriage.
She is, by far, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I wonder what she is like? I wonder if she is pleasant?
She turns towards me and smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. Then the carriage turns the corner and they are out of my sight.
I close my eyes and try to re-gain my senses, “This was a bad idea,” I whisper to myself.
“You are right, it was,” Troy grabs my arm and drags me back in the house, “When I told you that you needed to adjust to society, I did not mean for you to go gallivanting outside on your own on only the first day you are learning to adjust,” he slams the door shut behind him, “What were you thinking?”
“Percy.”
“Who?”
“My cat. He’s at my house all by himself, and he’s terribly fat, and I’m afraid he will not be able to catch any mice to eat. He might starve. And he’s awfully spoiled, and won’t know what to do with no one around. I was just going to get him.”
Troy laughs delightedly, “You ventured outside to get your cat?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was terribly stupid, albeit interesting,” he smiles, “It’s alright, child, I shall go fetch Percy. You stay here. Go to your room and try this on,” he hands me a package wrapped in brown paper.
I wander back to the room Troy has given me to stay in while I live with him - he said that it used to belong to mother - and unwrap the brown paper package. I pull out a long, white, undergarment shift, and begin to unfold it.
And then am interrupted by a knock on my window.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Chapter 3 - I'm a little uncomfortable with how this chapter played out, so let me know what you think!
I don’t remember ever walking down the street before, although I’m sure I have, because from what I’ve read, the typical two-year-old child is able to walk, and mom did not start isolating me until that age.
Rocks… rocks! I never expected them to be so perfectly round and grey and lovely. And dirt? Why had no one ever told me what a perfect colour of brown it is? And the little children playing cricket, in their bonnets and straw hats - why had no one ever told me that there were such beautiful things to be seen? Certainly, I’d read about such things, but in the books and pictures they all seemed relatively un-phenomenal. So ordinary and bland.
But to see it, to really, truly see the world, and not through the glass window in the parlor, everything is so grand. The colours are so much brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. So bright, in fact, that they’re making my head ache just from looking at them. Perhaps that is bad, but I’ve never felt such a wonderful ache in all of my life.
In the distance, hiding behind the tall houses and buildings, and even behind the tall trees that are scattered around, there is something I’ve never noticed before, “Mountains,” I whisper, “In all the time I’ve looked out the window, I’ve never seen you.”
Troy grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the cream-colored house, “Never xdid agree that your mother raised you correctly, hiding you away from the world as she did,” he frowns down at me, “and I suppose now that you’ll be staying with me, as it seems, we’ll have to get you adjusted to society. I shan’t have you secluded from society as your mother had. It just won’t do. You must learn to deal with your… difficulties. There won’t always be someone to take care of you.”
I nod blankly at him.
“But for now, we don’t have time, we need to make some calls and get your mother buried. Once everything is settled, then I shall begin to teach you how to be… well… functional.”
I nod again, “No one ever told me that the world was so bright,” I say softly, “And I never knew how lovely it was.”
“Of course not,” he says gruffly, “With Anastacia keeping you holed up in that horrible, dark house the way she did, what can one expect?”
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Well, close your eyes so you don’t get distracted, and I’ll guide you to the house.”
I blindly let him lead me to the house, where he proceeds to pick up the phone, send me to explore the rest of the house, then talks on the phone. I’m assuming that he’s calling whoever it is that one calls when someone dies. Or when someone suddenly finds a homeless child. Either is probable.
I slowly walk through the house, memorizing as much as I can, so perhaps I won’t have to keep my eyes open every time I walk through. After all, mom always said that it was best if I simply didn’t see anything at all, so that I couldn’t fall in love with anything. That’s why we lived in a house with only one window, and only one door. That’s why there were no lights on in our house, ever. And that’s why I may as well have been born blind.
Blind so that I couldn’t see that quilt, or that bowl of soup, or that window. I walk over to the window, not to look outside, but just to look at the window itself. I never really thought about windows all that much, moreso what was outside of the window, but now to see one, so neat and clean and beautiful - so unlike the one at home - I can’t help but notice it. How beautiful it is and how nice and… just so clean.
I close my eyes, and turn around before I open them again. I never knew that houses looked so different. I suppose I never thought that there could be so much light in a house - a window - sometimes two - in every room! And lamps and candles everywhere.
I wander back around to the room with the telephone, where Troy is still discussing important things, I suppose.
“…not sure that this would be the best arrangement for the girl,” Troy pauses, probably listening to the person on the other end of the line, “Of course. I understand,” He pauses again, “No, nobody knew about the girl! We all thought that her mother had, well, you know.” I realize that he hasn’t noticed I have entered the room, so I slip back around the corner and lean against the wall, listening.
Perhaps it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but, after all, it seems that I am the person they are talking about, so it only seems fair that I know what’s going to happen to myself. I close my eyes and pay attention.
“Of course. For now I have no problem with keeping her here. I may as well let her know. She’s at least sixteen now, she deserves to know the truth.”
“What truth?” I cannot help myself.
Troy looks up at me and nods in recognition… he has such a lovely little nod… so wonderfully shown off by his purple bowtie.
“I have to go,” Troy says into the phone, “She is here. Goodbye.”
“What truth?” I ask again.
“Sit down, child, and try very hard not to fall in love with anything.”
I nod solemnly and blink, then carefully avoid focusing on anything, “Yes, sir.”
Troy motions to a table surrounded by three wooden chairs, “Sit,” he says again.
I slide into one of the chairs. They’re dark and shiny and quite pleasant, actually. I shake my head, “No,” I whisper, and close my eyes.
“Is that what your mother taught you to do?”
“What?”
“When you fall in love with something, just to avoid it, close your eyes?”
I nod.
“Your mother’s not here anymore.”
“I know.”
“Open your eyes.”
I obey, and carefully don’t look at anything too long.
“What do you know about me?” Troy asks.
“Nothing, really,” I reply, “Just that mom said if I was ever in trouble, I should call you. That is all.”
He nods, “All right. Fair enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s time that you know the truth. How old are you, Abbey?”
“I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”
“Yes. That’s right,” he leans back in the lovely wooden chair, “Abbey, why don’t I start at the beginning?”
“That sounds alright.”
“Good. Then I shall tell you a story. Your mother was once very young, as all once are, of course. And back then her name was not Anastacia. It was Ann. Plain, simple Ann. Her mother and father were very simple folk, and raised her right here in this town. Ann loved her father very much, but she and her mother never got along. When Anne was twelve years old, her father died. She became very strong willed and selfish, and did a great many disreputable things. This increased after her mother remarried. The man was, perhaps, a very selfish fellow, and he and Ann did not get along at all. And perhaps that is why Ann left. She lived with a young man for three years, during which time she had a baby,”
“Me?” I interrupt him.
“Yes,” he continues, “When the young man realized that you were, well, how you are, he left. Ann was only fifteen years old at that time. She went insane. She did very much love him, I believe, and didn’t know what to do without him. She moved back in with her parents, started putting on airs, calling herself ‘Anastacia’ and wearing fancy gloves all the time. She began to take all kinds of drugs. Then came the doctors, one after another, prescribing anything under the sun to ‘cure’ her.”
“Mom was crazy?” I whisper.
He nods, “Yes. You probably never noticed, since she’s really all you ever knew, but it is true.”
I nod, “Okay. What happened?”
“She finally became angry with her parents when they stopped paying for the drugs the doctors prescribed, and moved into that big yellow house. And no one ever saw you again. We all believed that she had killed you.”
“My father’s not dead?” I gasp suddenly, “Mom always said that he was dead.”
“No, he is not dead.”
“Where is he?”
Troy frowns, “I can’t tell you yet.”
“So what is going to happen to me?”
“You’ll stay with me, for now.”
“Why?” I blush, “I mean, I’m not meaning to be rude, I’m just curious as to how you know my mother, and why you’d be willing to keep me even for a time. I wouldn’t want to keep me - why do you?”
He sighs, “Because I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was married to your grandmother, and I loved her until the day she died. And after her death, I suppose I tried to correct all my wrongs - to make things right with Ann, and perhaps to see my granddaughter again.”
“You’re my grandfather,” I whisper.
He nods, “Yes, I am.”
“She wouldn’t let you see me?”
“She told me you were dead.”
“She lied.”
“Yes,” he frowns, “she did. But we’ve all made our mistakes, and I’ve done things worse. Hearing from you today, it was like hearing from a ghost. My word, but you don’t look a thing like her. You look just like your father, you know?”
“Who was he?”
“That is a story for another day,” the elderly man stands up and pushes the chair back into the table, “I don’t agree with the way your mother raised you, but then again I don’t agree with the way I raised her. I can’t change the past, but I suppose I can do my best to change you.”
I shake my head, “No one can change me. Mom said that no one ever could. She said I’ll never be normal.”
Troy cocks his head, reminiscent of the pictures of those sad hound dogs I’ve seen in pictures in books, “Perhaps, Abbey, it isn’t all that important to be normal,” he walks over and places a hand on my shoulder, “perhaps it’s just important to be you.”
“But I can’t be around people. I can’t do things. I can’t be me.”
He frowns, “I wonder what gave you that idea? I think you’re fantastic. Of course you’ll have to learn to control yourself,” he grins crookedly, “Don’t think I didn’t see you hugging the dresser in the parlor.”
I blush, “I’m sorry, I just, I couldn’t -”
“No worries, child. I’m just saying. You’re not bad. You’re you. And that’s okay.”
“It was never okay before.”
“It is now,” he turns to walk away, and then stops, “Why do you call yourself by your middle name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your middle name, Abbey. Why do you not use your first?”
“Abbey is my name.”
“No, it is not,” he turns to look at me.
“That’s what mom told me. She said that was my name. She always called me Abbey.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he turns to walk away again.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Of course. I just found out today that most of my life’s been a lie. I got to see the world as it really is - not just out the window. And you say it’s okay to be me. So I guess now that I’m finally figuring out who I actually am, I should know my actual name, too.”
“Your father chose your name,” Troy smiles, “Dawn.”
Rocks… rocks! I never expected them to be so perfectly round and grey and lovely. And dirt? Why had no one ever told me what a perfect colour of brown it is? And the little children playing cricket, in their bonnets and straw hats - why had no one ever told me that there were such beautiful things to be seen? Certainly, I’d read about such things, but in the books and pictures they all seemed relatively un-phenomenal. So ordinary and bland.
But to see it, to really, truly see the world, and not through the glass window in the parlor, everything is so grand. The colours are so much brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. So bright, in fact, that they’re making my head ache just from looking at them. Perhaps that is bad, but I’ve never felt such a wonderful ache in all of my life.
In the distance, hiding behind the tall houses and buildings, and even behind the tall trees that are scattered around, there is something I’ve never noticed before, “Mountains,” I whisper, “In all the time I’ve looked out the window, I’ve never seen you.”
Troy grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the cream-colored house, “Never xdid agree that your mother raised you correctly, hiding you away from the world as she did,” he frowns down at me, “and I suppose now that you’ll be staying with me, as it seems, we’ll have to get you adjusted to society. I shan’t have you secluded from society as your mother had. It just won’t do. You must learn to deal with your… difficulties. There won’t always be someone to take care of you.”
I nod blankly at him.
“But for now, we don’t have time, we need to make some calls and get your mother buried. Once everything is settled, then I shall begin to teach you how to be… well… functional.”
I nod again, “No one ever told me that the world was so bright,” I say softly, “And I never knew how lovely it was.”
“Of course not,” he says gruffly, “With Anastacia keeping you holed up in that horrible, dark house the way she did, what can one expect?”
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Well, close your eyes so you don’t get distracted, and I’ll guide you to the house.”
I blindly let him lead me to the house, where he proceeds to pick up the phone, send me to explore the rest of the house, then talks on the phone. I’m assuming that he’s calling whoever it is that one calls when someone dies. Or when someone suddenly finds a homeless child. Either is probable.
I slowly walk through the house, memorizing as much as I can, so perhaps I won’t have to keep my eyes open every time I walk through. After all, mom always said that it was best if I simply didn’t see anything at all, so that I couldn’t fall in love with anything. That’s why we lived in a house with only one window, and only one door. That’s why there were no lights on in our house, ever. And that’s why I may as well have been born blind.
Blind so that I couldn’t see that quilt, or that bowl of soup, or that window. I walk over to the window, not to look outside, but just to look at the window itself. I never really thought about windows all that much, moreso what was outside of the window, but now to see one, so neat and clean and beautiful - so unlike the one at home - I can’t help but notice it. How beautiful it is and how nice and… just so clean.
I close my eyes, and turn around before I open them again. I never knew that houses looked so different. I suppose I never thought that there could be so much light in a house - a window - sometimes two - in every room! And lamps and candles everywhere.
I wander back around to the room with the telephone, where Troy is still discussing important things, I suppose.
“…not sure that this would be the best arrangement for the girl,” Troy pauses, probably listening to the person on the other end of the line, “Of course. I understand,” He pauses again, “No, nobody knew about the girl! We all thought that her mother had, well, you know.” I realize that he hasn’t noticed I have entered the room, so I slip back around the corner and lean against the wall, listening.
Perhaps it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but, after all, it seems that I am the person they are talking about, so it only seems fair that I know what’s going to happen to myself. I close my eyes and pay attention.
“Of course. For now I have no problem with keeping her here. I may as well let her know. She’s at least sixteen now, she deserves to know the truth.”
“What truth?” I cannot help myself.
Troy looks up at me and nods in recognition… he has such a lovely little nod… so wonderfully shown off by his purple bowtie.
“I have to go,” Troy says into the phone, “She is here. Goodbye.”
“What truth?” I ask again.
“Sit down, child, and try very hard not to fall in love with anything.”
I nod solemnly and blink, then carefully avoid focusing on anything, “Yes, sir.”
Troy motions to a table surrounded by three wooden chairs, “Sit,” he says again.
I slide into one of the chairs. They’re dark and shiny and quite pleasant, actually. I shake my head, “No,” I whisper, and close my eyes.
“Is that what your mother taught you to do?”
“What?”
“When you fall in love with something, just to avoid it, close your eyes?”
I nod.
“Your mother’s not here anymore.”
“I know.”
“Open your eyes.”
I obey, and carefully don’t look at anything too long.
“What do you know about me?” Troy asks.
“Nothing, really,” I reply, “Just that mom said if I was ever in trouble, I should call you. That is all.”
He nods, “All right. Fair enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s time that you know the truth. How old are you, Abbey?”
“I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”
“Yes. That’s right,” he leans back in the lovely wooden chair, “Abbey, why don’t I start at the beginning?”
“That sounds alright.”
“Good. Then I shall tell you a story. Your mother was once very young, as all once are, of course. And back then her name was not Anastacia. It was Ann. Plain, simple Ann. Her mother and father were very simple folk, and raised her right here in this town. Ann loved her father very much, but she and her mother never got along. When Anne was twelve years old, her father died. She became very strong willed and selfish, and did a great many disreputable things. This increased after her mother remarried. The man was, perhaps, a very selfish fellow, and he and Ann did not get along at all. And perhaps that is why Ann left. She lived with a young man for three years, during which time she had a baby,”
“Me?” I interrupt him.
“Yes,” he continues, “When the young man realized that you were, well, how you are, he left. Ann was only fifteen years old at that time. She went insane. She did very much love him, I believe, and didn’t know what to do without him. She moved back in with her parents, started putting on airs, calling herself ‘Anastacia’ and wearing fancy gloves all the time. She began to take all kinds of drugs. Then came the doctors, one after another, prescribing anything under the sun to ‘cure’ her.”
“Mom was crazy?” I whisper.
He nods, “Yes. You probably never noticed, since she’s really all you ever knew, but it is true.”
I nod, “Okay. What happened?”
“She finally became angry with her parents when they stopped paying for the drugs the doctors prescribed, and moved into that big yellow house. And no one ever saw you again. We all believed that she had killed you.”
“My father’s not dead?” I gasp suddenly, “Mom always said that he was dead.”
“No, he is not dead.”
“Where is he?”
Troy frowns, “I can’t tell you yet.”
“So what is going to happen to me?”
“You’ll stay with me, for now.”
“Why?” I blush, “I mean, I’m not meaning to be rude, I’m just curious as to how you know my mother, and why you’d be willing to keep me even for a time. I wouldn’t want to keep me - why do you?”
He sighs, “Because I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was married to your grandmother, and I loved her until the day she died. And after her death, I suppose I tried to correct all my wrongs - to make things right with Ann, and perhaps to see my granddaughter again.”
“You’re my grandfather,” I whisper.
He nods, “Yes, I am.”
“She wouldn’t let you see me?”
“She told me you were dead.”
“She lied.”
“Yes,” he frowns, “she did. But we’ve all made our mistakes, and I’ve done things worse. Hearing from you today, it was like hearing from a ghost. My word, but you don’t look a thing like her. You look just like your father, you know?”
“Who was he?”
“That is a story for another day,” the elderly man stands up and pushes the chair back into the table, “I don’t agree with the way your mother raised you, but then again I don’t agree with the way I raised her. I can’t change the past, but I suppose I can do my best to change you.”
I shake my head, “No one can change me. Mom said that no one ever could. She said I’ll never be normal.”
Troy cocks his head, reminiscent of the pictures of those sad hound dogs I’ve seen in pictures in books, “Perhaps, Abbey, it isn’t all that important to be normal,” he walks over and places a hand on my shoulder, “perhaps it’s just important to be you.”
“But I can’t be around people. I can’t do things. I can’t be me.”
He frowns, “I wonder what gave you that idea? I think you’re fantastic. Of course you’ll have to learn to control yourself,” he grins crookedly, “Don’t think I didn’t see you hugging the dresser in the parlor.”
I blush, “I’m sorry, I just, I couldn’t -”
“No worries, child. I’m just saying. You’re not bad. You’re you. And that’s okay.”
“It was never okay before.”
“It is now,” he turns to walk away, and then stops, “Why do you call yourself by your middle name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your middle name, Abbey. Why do you not use your first?”
“Abbey is my name.”
“No, it is not,” he turns to look at me.
“That’s what mom told me. She said that was my name. She always called me Abbey.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he turns to walk away again.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Of course. I just found out today that most of my life’s been a lie. I got to see the world as it really is - not just out the window. And you say it’s okay to be me. So I guess now that I’m finally figuring out who I actually am, I should know my actual name, too.”
“Your father chose your name,” Troy smiles, “Dawn.”
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Chapter 2
“I love me!” I squeal, looking at my reflection in the mirror the following morning, “I’m so cute and nice and interesting! Who wouldn’t love me?”
Then I frown and close my eyes, realizing that I Haven’t a clue whether anyone would love me or not, as I’ve never met anyone.
I stroke Percy, who is sitting patiently on my lap waiting for me to finish sulking.
“I’m sorry, Percy,” I apologize to him, “sometimes I just wish I were normal.”
He meows at me, and I imagine if he could speak he would be saying something to the effect of, “feed me”.
“Oh, all right, come on, Percy,” I scoop him up in my arms and walk down to the kitchen, “What time is it, Percy? Is it time for breakfast?” I pull a watch out of my pocket, and begrudgingly check the time. 8:01. I’m late.
But oh, my watch is so handsome. The way it keeps time so flawless. I simply want to kiss it. I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk into the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late for breakfast, mom. I know you hate it when I’m late.”
Mom doesn’t reply.
“Mom I know you’re mad, but I’m really sorry, and I wish you’d at least wish me a good morning.”
And she still remains silent.
“Mom? Are you here?” I open one eye cautiously, careful not to look at any one thing in the room for too long. I open both my eyes, “mom?”
I walk to her room, eyes closed, and push open the door, “Mom? Are you in here?”
Still no reply.
She would tell me if she was to be gone this morning, wouldn’t she have?
“Mom?” I glance carefully around the room and… there she is, lying in bed. She must have overslept.
How strange, I don’t believe she’s ever overslept before.
She looks so sweet and peaceful lying in the bed, like an angel or fairy. And her golden hair almost seems to glow of it’s own accord, it’s so shiny.
“Mom?” I approach her and touch her shoulder, “Wake up, mom.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t breathe.
She doesn’t breathe.
She didn’t breathe.
She isn’t breathing.
She’s… dead.
I stare at her. Her pale face and her limp hands. I wonder what it’s like to be dead. I wonder what it’s like to fall asleep and never wake up.
I squeeze my eyes closed, “Think, Abbey, think” I scold myself. I try to remember something - anything - that might help me.
“If ever something should happen to me, Abbey,” I remember her saying, “You must remember this number, and dial it on the telephone. A man whose name is Troy lives in the house two doors down, and he will come and help you.”
But what was the number?
I frantically start rummaging through the house… a piece of paper… so clean and white, so selfless, so unassuming, so - no - not that, and a phone book, so full of information, and thoughtful, and sweet, and, oh! How lovely a thing! But, no! I have to focus. I have to.
I’ve found that it is vastly difficult to find something if one does not know what one is looking for, as the case currently is. And after a long and unproductive search, I find myself once again in mom’s bedroom, standing next to the bed and staring at her pale face.
“If only it had been me instead,” I whisper, “If only I had died. I am of no consequense. No one loves me. No one needs me. No one even knows my name. The world would not care if I had passed. But you - you were my world, and now I don’t know what to do, and I dearly wish you had not passed.”
“7757.”
The numbers run through my head as clearly as anything I’ve ever known. The phone number. Troy’s phone number.
I frantically race to the phone - the telephone - such a perfect invention - so shapely and shiny and just the right shade of red. I wonder why they say one is “punching in” a number? Does the telephone object to being punched? Does it care? I simply cannot hurt the dear, dear telephone! No, I cannot punch in this number!
But I have to. I have to call Troy. I have to get help.
What will happen if I don’t? I’ll stay here. With a dead woman. And then I’ll die, because I’ll never get food again. And I’ll starve.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wonder if it’d really be so bad to die. Perhaps starvation isn’t the best, but mom has a whole cabinent full of medicines that she took for her nerves, and perhaps if I took a few bottles I would just fall asleep and never wake up again and… no… I cannot.
I punch in the number without opening my eyes and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once… twice…
Perhaps he will not answer? Perhaps he is outside, taking a stroll in the park? Perhaps he, too, is dead?
Three times…
Perhaps he simply doesn’t care for the troubles of a girl he’s never met and her dead mother? Or maybe he’s misplaced his telephone and can’t find it?
Four times…
Or maybe he -
“Hello?”
For a moment I forget to respond. I don’t remember what anyone’s voice sounded like except for mom’s - I suppose I thought everyone sounded like her.
“Hello?” the voice says again.
“Hi,” I say, “Is this Troy?”
“Indeed it is. And who might this be?”
“My name is Abbey.”
“Abbey? Abbey who?”
“Abbey Vicar. I live two doors down from you, in the big yellow house. My mother, Anastasia, said that if ever something were to happen to her, I was to call you?”
“Abbey?” He sounds somewhat stunned.
“Yes.”
“My goodness. I didn’t know that she even kept you,” He seems to be talking more to himself than to me, so I don’t respond. After a few seconds, he continues, “Abbey Vicar, why are you calling me?”
“Are you angry? I’m sorry if you’re angry. It’s just that I-”
“I’m not angry, child. Just astonished, is all.”
“Well… that’s good, I think.”
“Indeed, now why is it you were calling?”
“I need your help. Mom is dead.”
“Excuse me?”
I wonder if he actually intends for me to repeat myself, but I do anyways, just in case, “Mom is dead.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes. I need your help. I don’t know what to do. She said to call you. She said you would help.”
“Why, yes, of course I’ll help. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” I hear a click, signifying that he’s hung up, so I follow suit.
I make my way back to mom’s bedroom, somehow hoping that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps she isn’t dead, perhaps she’s simply sleeping.
“Sleeping without breathing,” I mutter to myself.
I watch her silently, thinking that perhaps if I’m very, very good, perhaps she will come back. Perhaps God won’t take her yet. Perhaps he would take me instead. I shake my head and close my eyes, willing myself not to cry.
Knock, knock, knock.
I jump in surprise at the sudden noise. What is that?
Knock, knock, knock… Knock, knock, knock.
The door! Someone is knocking on the door. Troy!
I run as fast as I can to answer the door, careful as not to be distracted by anything along the way, and fling open the door.
“Hello,” says the elderly gentleman, “I am Troy. You must be Abbey.”
I nod, entirely entranced by the man. His blue eyes sparkle with kindness and love, and his wrinkled little face is drawn into a small smile.
It’s like everything I’ve ever seen through the windows, and every word I’ve read in every book. It’s like something I once saw through a fog is now ever so clear and standing in front of me.
And I’m in love.
“Abbey, are you alright?” He asks kindly.
“Y-y-yes…” I stutter, “I mean… no?” I slap my hand over my eyes, “I don’t know what I mean.”
“Where is your mother?”
“In her bedroom. Follow me,” I keep my eyes closed as I lead him to mom’s room, then allow myself to carefully watch, without focusing on any one thing too much, as he checks her pulse and her breathing.
Finally, he turns to look at me (and I close my eyes, naturally), “Well, Abbey, you’re right. She is dead. Why don’t you come to my house, I’ll need to make some phone calls.”
I cautitiously open my eyes, “To who?”
“To people who can help. We’ll have to have a funeral arranged, and -” He suddenly looks at me and I jerk my gaze to the floor - the handsome, sturdy floor, with all of it’s handsomeness and - I snap my eyes shut, and Troy continues, “What to do with you?”
“What do you mean, what to do with me?”
“Well, you can’t stay here alone,” the old man sighs unhappily, “pack your things. You’ll stay with me for now. And hurry. I do have things to do, so don’t take all day.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
It’s a good thing it’s impossible to see change - because I think I hate it.
Then I frown and close my eyes, realizing that I Haven’t a clue whether anyone would love me or not, as I’ve never met anyone.
I stroke Percy, who is sitting patiently on my lap waiting for me to finish sulking.
“I’m sorry, Percy,” I apologize to him, “sometimes I just wish I were normal.”
He meows at me, and I imagine if he could speak he would be saying something to the effect of, “feed me”.
“Oh, all right, come on, Percy,” I scoop him up in my arms and walk down to the kitchen, “What time is it, Percy? Is it time for breakfast?” I pull a watch out of my pocket, and begrudgingly check the time. 8:01. I’m late.
But oh, my watch is so handsome. The way it keeps time so flawless. I simply want to kiss it. I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk into the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late for breakfast, mom. I know you hate it when I’m late.”
Mom doesn’t reply.
“Mom I know you’re mad, but I’m really sorry, and I wish you’d at least wish me a good morning.”
And she still remains silent.
“Mom? Are you here?” I open one eye cautiously, careful not to look at any one thing in the room for too long. I open both my eyes, “mom?”
I walk to her room, eyes closed, and push open the door, “Mom? Are you in here?”
Still no reply.
She would tell me if she was to be gone this morning, wouldn’t she have?
“Mom?” I glance carefully around the room and… there she is, lying in bed. She must have overslept.
How strange, I don’t believe she’s ever overslept before.
She looks so sweet and peaceful lying in the bed, like an angel or fairy. And her golden hair almost seems to glow of it’s own accord, it’s so shiny.
“Mom?” I approach her and touch her shoulder, “Wake up, mom.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t breathe.
She doesn’t breathe.
She didn’t breathe.
She isn’t breathing.
She’s… dead.
I stare at her. Her pale face and her limp hands. I wonder what it’s like to be dead. I wonder what it’s like to fall asleep and never wake up.
I squeeze my eyes closed, “Think, Abbey, think” I scold myself. I try to remember something - anything - that might help me.
“If ever something should happen to me, Abbey,” I remember her saying, “You must remember this number, and dial it on the telephone. A man whose name is Troy lives in the house two doors down, and he will come and help you.”
But what was the number?
I frantically start rummaging through the house… a piece of paper… so clean and white, so selfless, so unassuming, so - no - not that, and a phone book, so full of information, and thoughtful, and sweet, and, oh! How lovely a thing! But, no! I have to focus. I have to.
I’ve found that it is vastly difficult to find something if one does not know what one is looking for, as the case currently is. And after a long and unproductive search, I find myself once again in mom’s bedroom, standing next to the bed and staring at her pale face.
“If only it had been me instead,” I whisper, “If only I had died. I am of no consequense. No one loves me. No one needs me. No one even knows my name. The world would not care if I had passed. But you - you were my world, and now I don’t know what to do, and I dearly wish you had not passed.”
“7757.”
The numbers run through my head as clearly as anything I’ve ever known. The phone number. Troy’s phone number.
I frantically race to the phone - the telephone - such a perfect invention - so shapely and shiny and just the right shade of red. I wonder why they say one is “punching in” a number? Does the telephone object to being punched? Does it care? I simply cannot hurt the dear, dear telephone! No, I cannot punch in this number!
But I have to. I have to call Troy. I have to get help.
What will happen if I don’t? I’ll stay here. With a dead woman. And then I’ll die, because I’ll never get food again. And I’ll starve.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wonder if it’d really be so bad to die. Perhaps starvation isn’t the best, but mom has a whole cabinent full of medicines that she took for her nerves, and perhaps if I took a few bottles I would just fall asleep and never wake up again and… no… I cannot.
I punch in the number without opening my eyes and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once… twice…
Perhaps he will not answer? Perhaps he is outside, taking a stroll in the park? Perhaps he, too, is dead?
Three times…
Perhaps he simply doesn’t care for the troubles of a girl he’s never met and her dead mother? Or maybe he’s misplaced his telephone and can’t find it?
Four times…
Or maybe he -
“Hello?”
For a moment I forget to respond. I don’t remember what anyone’s voice sounded like except for mom’s - I suppose I thought everyone sounded like her.
“Hello?” the voice says again.
“Hi,” I say, “Is this Troy?”
“Indeed it is. And who might this be?”
“My name is Abbey.”
“Abbey? Abbey who?”
“Abbey Vicar. I live two doors down from you, in the big yellow house. My mother, Anastasia, said that if ever something were to happen to her, I was to call you?”
“Abbey?” He sounds somewhat stunned.
“Yes.”
“My goodness. I didn’t know that she even kept you,” He seems to be talking more to himself than to me, so I don’t respond. After a few seconds, he continues, “Abbey Vicar, why are you calling me?”
“Are you angry? I’m sorry if you’re angry. It’s just that I-”
“I’m not angry, child. Just astonished, is all.”
“Well… that’s good, I think.”
“Indeed, now why is it you were calling?”
“I need your help. Mom is dead.”
“Excuse me?”
I wonder if he actually intends for me to repeat myself, but I do anyways, just in case, “Mom is dead.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes. I need your help. I don’t know what to do. She said to call you. She said you would help.”
“Why, yes, of course I’ll help. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” I hear a click, signifying that he’s hung up, so I follow suit.
I make my way back to mom’s bedroom, somehow hoping that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps she isn’t dead, perhaps she’s simply sleeping.
“Sleeping without breathing,” I mutter to myself.
I watch her silently, thinking that perhaps if I’m very, very good, perhaps she will come back. Perhaps God won’t take her yet. Perhaps he would take me instead. I shake my head and close my eyes, willing myself not to cry.
Knock, knock, knock.
I jump in surprise at the sudden noise. What is that?
Knock, knock, knock… Knock, knock, knock.
The door! Someone is knocking on the door. Troy!
I run as fast as I can to answer the door, careful as not to be distracted by anything along the way, and fling open the door.
“Hello,” says the elderly gentleman, “I am Troy. You must be Abbey.”
I nod, entirely entranced by the man. His blue eyes sparkle with kindness and love, and his wrinkled little face is drawn into a small smile.
It’s like everything I’ve ever seen through the windows, and every word I’ve read in every book. It’s like something I once saw through a fog is now ever so clear and standing in front of me.
And I’m in love.
“Abbey, are you alright?” He asks kindly.
“Y-y-yes…” I stutter, “I mean… no?” I slap my hand over my eyes, “I don’t know what I mean.”
“Where is your mother?”
“In her bedroom. Follow me,” I keep my eyes closed as I lead him to mom’s room, then allow myself to carefully watch, without focusing on any one thing too much, as he checks her pulse and her breathing.
Finally, he turns to look at me (and I close my eyes, naturally), “Well, Abbey, you’re right. She is dead. Why don’t you come to my house, I’ll need to make some phone calls.”
I cautitiously open my eyes, “To who?”
“To people who can help. We’ll have to have a funeral arranged, and -” He suddenly looks at me and I jerk my gaze to the floor - the handsome, sturdy floor, with all of it’s handsomeness and - I snap my eyes shut, and Troy continues, “What to do with you?”
“What do you mean, what to do with me?”
“Well, you can’t stay here alone,” the old man sighs unhappily, “pack your things. You’ll stay with me for now. And hurry. I do have things to do, so don’t take all day.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
It’s a good thing it’s impossible to see change - because I think I hate it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
