Passa Piano

Prologue

I felt soft fabric under my fingertips, opening my eyes to a sunlit library. Hazy vision settled and refocused, blinking away the post-nap dryness. I'd been curled up in the reading chair. The gnawing pressure of the corner of my book poking my leg had gone unnoticed until now as I got up on my bambi legs, my field of view about as high as the third shelf. Inhaling deeply, I scrunched my eyes in the afternoon sunlight beaming through the stained glass as the dry dusty scent of many books filled my lungs and danced on my palate.

"Hnnn," I groaned as I stretched, curling my toes on the hardwood floor as I felt the ridges of the wood on my soles.

Looking around, again, I furrow my brow as I assess my surroundings, "Everything's so tall..."

It's nice to be back

The passing thought didn't anchor itself, flitting away, unacknowledged, faster than a passing butterfly. Instead, young Nikka padded her way out of the room and down the hall, following the tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread. Around her swirled and passed old photographs, paintings, and knickknacks that artfully littered the walls, each frame as unique in itself as was what each contained.

A bright blinding light flooded the end of the hallway, sunshine spilling in a glowing golden gleam as it warmed the varnish of the old floor. The pictures on the walls move and wave down with happy faces, as though they are alive. I see myself laughing and running about within the confines of a bright sky blue carved wooden border. I recognize the scene as a memory of when we went to Greece where I raced down the pier in the marina in Athens on my short stubby little legs, only four years old.

Another frame, a slim ornate silver shell, shows a hand drawn scientific diagram of a plant with detailed notes sprawling in elegant handwriting, seemingly drawn on crumbling papyrus. Before I can investigate further, soft overlapping voices draw my attention from beyond the puddle of sunlight and my ears perk, attention quickly diverted to the snippets of conversation.

"-nd maybe next ti-"

"Oh definitely!"

The smell of freshly baked pastry, fig jam, and butter waft as though calling the young girl inside. Even at that age, seven-year-old Nikka had a keen sense of smell; her little nose uncovering the tang of copper that intertwined among the warm, pleasant scents. She frowned, what could they be doing?

"Again, thank you for doing this."

"You know I don't mind...Anyways, it's better this than the alternative."

I wrap my hand against the doorframe to the kitchen, my gaze falling on my small fingers. A wave of nausea and dread collide as the gut wrenching feeling that something is terribly wrong barrels through me. Without noticing, my hand now firmly grips the painted wood and I feel my lungs struggling to expand. My raspy breath attracts the attention of the two women sitting in carved wooden chairs around a small coffee table, behind them a large plate laden with croissants was covered with a lace towel and on the table sits a single plate with a half-eaten croissant as well as a plastic bag with a thin serpentine hose and a cheerfully colored tab that snake all the way up her arm. Rich burgundy flowed into the bag, and belated understanding dawns.

Beatrice must be here.

I see mom and Beatrice pause in their talking as they zero in on my presence.

"Mio Caro!" Mom's face breaks out in a beaming smile, "How was your sonnellino? Feeling hungry?"

Mom.

Strangely, my face feels wet, I feel tears start to fall with increasing intensity making odd pluck-plack sounds as they hit the floor. My feet carry me as fast as I can run to my mother, I jump into her arms, seeking her warmth and the familiar coolness of her silk shawl that had more than once become my blanket for napping. I seem to feel the fabric just within reach, she's right there, her smile is real. I need to hug her.

Please.

I feel the cool, cruel wood of the chair backing on my face as I see the floor rushing at me at an alarming rate, I feel bigger, my limbs heavier, so heavy I might as well be underwater. The impact doesn't come, though. Mom is nowhere to be found but honey blonde hair shines brightly in the fading light. Cool, green eyes meet mine as with one hand she holds me up, a palm's width off the floor. Her plump peachy lips part to reveal sharp incisors that smoothly penetrate the plastic of the red filled bag. I am frozen, breath shallow as the smiling mouth full of warmth just mere moments ago is painted gruesomely with my mother's lifeblood. Nevertheless, the bloodstained teeth break into a psychotically charming smile and a warm lulling voice, as pleasant to the ears as a cup of tea on a sunny morning, seems to wrap around me.

"You alright there, Sunshine?"

Beatrice's voice is molten honey, sweet and soft, tinged with a southern accent. Her eyes betray a flicker of hidden warmth despite their empty, lonely green glaze.

I'm not scared, Beatrice, I can trust her. She won't hurt me, she loves us. She'll help me! I just have to ask; I need to answer her. As though coated in grit and sandpaper, my throat is dry as I try to choke out words desperately.

"M-mom," is all that I manage to croak out as the taste of salt from all my tears suddenly becomes overwhelming in my mouth.

Pain. That blade like, cutting emotion cannot be hidden in Beatrice's eyes. She parts her lips as though to reply but instead, lets me go.

Again, there is no impact. The wooden floor melts around me and fills my nostrils, my crying mouth, and coils around my neck.

I can't breathe.