I'll always sing for you

Chapter 3 Start Of Starting Over

Giving up is easyier, then fighting all
Your life, but holding on is rewarding, with the passing time.

I'd been to Aunt Marcy's old apartment once or twice. Trust me, the place was fantastic before.

Her new place, though, was insanity.

I walked through the elavator door, my mouth dropping to my toes at the sight before me.

The the living area was ginormous, with goregous granite flooring, fancy black couches with leather covering, walls painted egg shell white and a chandiler that had to be made of crystal, hanging over a built in fire place.  There were also hard wood coffee table and end tables that adorned the room georgously, and real paintings of various things- girls in pretty dresses, mostly- lined the walls.

The stairs that led to the second floor, which only the deck of could be seen, lied off to the right of the room. They were the stairs that twisted with a fancy flair.

"Wow." I said, giving a low whisle. Aunt Marcy laughed.

"Like it? Cost a fortune, but it's home. To be honest, the private elevator is definitely the thing that sold me on it. So convient."

I nodded quicky. I'd gotten on the elevator, expecting to arrive on the floor, but instead the door had opened straight into the apartment.

It was awesome.

"Where's my room?" I asked excitedly.

Aunt Marcy grinned. "You'll be having the Guest Room Sweet. It's the second best to the master alone. I happen to have five extra rooms in this house, all vacant, so of course you get the best. Yay me, right?" She rolled her eyes. "Money is only as cool as the neices you have to share it with."

I laughed, giving an amused shrug. "Well, share away than. Where is this fabulous room?"

"Right this way. Oh, I've got these!" She hefted my carry on bag and my purse.

"Is your mom shipping you instruments later then?"

I cringed. I'd sort of failed to explain my lack of interest in continuing my old hobby, but I assumed the fact I hadn't picked up a ukuele (my all time favorite thing to strum back in the day,) in seven months, would give her and my parents the right idea.
Apparently not.

My folks had been confused, when I insisted on putting everything musical, even old records I'd collected, in storage with Cleif's things. That's where my instruments belonged though; with his.

"Oh, um no...actually I'm not really into that anymore. It was a silly old hobby and all."

Aunt Marcy's jaw was so low it could have reached the ground.

After she was done gaping, she began interogating; "What? Silly old hobby? Laur, you and- Well you've been playing since you were old enough to know what Chords were. Trust me, I tried to have my big brothers talent for music, and it never reached me the way it did your family. You're joking right? You've got major potential baby doll! Please tell me that's a joke. I was going to get you a slot at that coffee house. Legit record producers go there sometimes."

Every word she said sent an ache through my chest, like an out of control fire. What could I tell her that would make sense? Certainly not 'sorry, Aunt Marcy, but I blame music for the loss of a couple minutes with my brother, not to mention, preforming was always something we did together, and maybe, I can't do it without him. Maybe he was my muse. Maybe I only ever sang for him in the first place.' The truth wasn't an easy thing to tell at times.