DISCLAIMER! ~All French text and translations have been taken from google, correct me of any errors! ~ °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
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Time never allowed my thrumming soul to pause, nor wait. It never allowed the clouds in my mind to pass, cease or better yet disappear.
The room seemed to fade, darken and dull, My head lulled at the ticking sensations that laid at the palms of my hand. Shards of glass encased them, whilst I fawned over the streams of blood that pooled them.
Everything blurred. Until it was all sheathed in darkness.
When I awoke sudden aches and pains pierced at my tired joints and limbs. My vision was hooded, yet fixated on the bandage wrapped cloth of my palms, sprinkles of blood seeping through the fresh material.
Slow and rhythmic hums brought a warmth to the shell of my ears. A distinct tone and melody I was all to familiar with, and a round and paled face I was all to grateful for, came into view. A pool of pills resting in her palm and a tall jug of water occupied her other. I felt the weight of her body leave a sloping dent in my mattress, accompanied by her frail and tender touch resting itself on my thigh.
Freya, an older, tender women I lived above, she is a lonely widow who spends her time knitting and crocheting meticulous designs and patterns, for her works to then hoard the empty rooms of her now deceased family.
"Freya," My voice was horse and choking, leaving the remains of my pain to stab at my throat. A soft smile graced her face as she assisted in sitting me up in my bed and taking my medication. I downed the icy cold liquid in one smooth chug.
"I'm guessing you heard of the news," she sighed.
"If only I wish I hadn't," I croaked, narrowing my eyes down to the swelling wells in my palm.
"I'm sure a well of young women like youself will have no issue in finding a new home," she sniffed.
That's issue, it would be. Since fleeing to France, I seemed to carelessly live on the thousands of dollars that my mother left me once she had decided to go MIA. It would be no surprise that her illegal charades would land her in pots of gold. Yet with no way in contacting her it seamed that her "Heart" wouldn't get a taste of the merchandise. The money she left me was withering, and my options were diminishing. No matter how much I desperately fought to be smart, do right. I was still the same child she had abandoned. Wreckless and overdosed on medication.
Hardly any jobs looked to employ a seemingly to young of an immigrant. So it was with much distaste that I had resorted to other means of money producing. And for that same reason I lived under an alias, a lie, a distortion of my true reality. I wanted to stray from my way of living, search for safer, more ethical ways of earning money. Yet it seemed this unsuspecting bombshell would set me back yards in my plans.
