By the Mountainside.

01.

Dusty picture frames hanging loosely from a screw on the wall each. All aligned poorly with one another. Tracing my fingers over the empty space in between two picture frames, I found myself foiling the loss of my biological father both physically and spiritually.

Death was a concept I was familiar with.

Death had always been a part that formed in the events of my life, and in cases could not be prevented. My father was a man that was sworn to word, and took his words seriously. One cannot be sure if something is a lie or not just by the foretelling of the sentence itself. A promise isn't a promise unless action shows it's part. When one swears upon "death shall do you apart," one thinks nothing of it until it comes right back. When my father said he would die if they were to ever part, he did not lie. He merely kept his word.

My father's death hadn't worried my mother, she kept on living her stressful ever so blissful romantic life. She'd led me on my way to go see my uncle while she was out of the country. 

We were to arrive by train and travel along the country-side.

By we I meant myself and my mother's trusted friend, Rita.

"What are you thinking about?" she would ask, and after she yet again received no response she would lean over to the window and call me "weird" or "strange".

I had grown tired of the silence myself and I proceeded to talk to her. 

"Do you know my mother holds social events in her bedroom sometimes? Apparently she wins a lot of prizes because she's always agitated afterwards."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, apparently she calls it an affair. Or she used to call it that." I felt eyes peer at us and she dared not ask me anything after that.

a/n: afFAIR.