The Secret Masquerade

Interview with a vampire - Opal

        If this was how I had to live, I don't think being an immortal blood sucker was for me. One thing after the other, my parents were getting gowns, masks, jewelry, you name it. The foyer was filled to the brim with butlers and maids getting dress after dress and mask after mask off of racks that lay on the grand staircase that sat in the perfect center of the room ready for me to try. The foyer was more than just that, it was a museum. Lined with near perfect art, or so my father says, the walls that stretched far and wide were beautiful. Though it was a good distraction, reality hit when my father yelled "Next!" for a butler to grab another of the hundreds of beautiful dresses. The maids rushed to get me off of the pedestal that I stood on and into a nearby room to change.
        My parents said, "You have to look the best to be the best." In part I believe them. So, I went along with it and kept a smile on my face. It feels like I did that a little too often. I can't even remember the last time I made a choice that was mine, or my mother for that matter. Just yesterday in fact I remember hearing her sob from down the hall about my decision to participate in the masquerade in the first place. But now it is like she was stripped of her old self entirely.
        "Opal honey, what about this one?"
        "That one is gorgeous!" I said walking back over to my mother and feeling the fabric of a baby pink dress with silver lining. It came with a set of cloud white gloves and a pair of rose quartz earrings. It really wasn't my style. Or did I even have a style? Anytime I wanted something other than what mother or father did, it was a "Oh you won't look good in that." Or even a "Please, no boy wants to see a girl wearing that." Either way, I just dealt with it and moved on.
        "You look lovely darling." My father said, kissing my mother on the cheek. My father stood tall, always wore a suit, and always had the best smelling cologne, made from a special perfumer. My mother was somewhat of a femme fatale. She got what she wanted when she wanted and without a bat of an eye, she did. She was known as one of the seven sirens of the west coast. Though their methods of obtaining and maintaining the life we have now are questionable, I really had no room to judge. I mean I couldn't even if I wanted to. They had given me a life of envy. Without them I would be nothing.
Another twenty minutes had passed of looking and tearing through dresses to show them to my mother and father for their picking when I saw an unfamiliar man pass by a nearby corridor.
        "Who was that?" I asked while turning my head away from the seamstress that was fitting my dress. She made an aggravated grunt as I continued to lean to catch another glance before falling. My mother and father rushed to help me to my feet.
        "What was that you saw?" My father asked when a blur flew past me and tackled my father. I tried to turn as quickly as I could to see what had happened but they were too fast. From corner to corner, the strange figure and my father seemed to be tearing one another apart. I jumped to my feet, ready to either run or fight. Though I did not really know how, I was willing to try. The fighting continued before making an abrupt stop in the center of the room right in front of my mother and myself.
        "Markov!" My mother shouted. She started to grin as she walked towards them both and gave a hug.
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        When the servers came they blushed. And anytime my mother saw him she blushed. Yes he might have been very cute and yes he was built like an olympic gold medalist, but I did not like him in the slightest. This Markov character was not to be trusted. I know I know, I just met him or whatever but still. How have I never heard about him before, AT ALL? First he attacks my father unexpectedly. Then he just decides that he's going to be staying with us?
        For dinner, we had seared scallops and baby spinach with spiced pomegranate glaze. One of my all time favorites despite the small portion size.
We sat at dinner and everyone was talking except for me. I was trying to analyze him from a distance but that was not working. So, I built up the courage to ask, "So where are you from exactly?"
        "Well, I am from south London."
        "Okay but where?"
        "How is that hardly important when you my dear have a very important date coming up! By the way, how are you doing with all of that?" Then my mother gave me a look and whispered
        "Don't be rude Opal." I just rolled my eyes and continued to eat. But the fact that he did not want to share is concerning. I mean how hard is it to tell someone where you're from?
        "It is goin-" I tried to say before my father interrupted.
        "It is fine, everything is going according to plan." Plan? What plan? One thing I will say about my dear father is that he has his secrets, his lies, and his restrictions. And yes, it is frustrating as hell.
        "What about the Dance of the Dagger?" Marcov asked before taking a very generous drink of his wine. This piqued my interest. I had heard about some of the things we would have to do to complete our so-called trial but this, I was not familiar with.
        "That is a matter that we will discuss another time." Of course, more secrets.
        "How about we move to the art room?" My mother asked, getting up from her place.
       "Wonderful idea dear." My father replied. I started to get up and put my silverware on my plate before my mother stopped me.
        "You should stay and finish your meal." I sat there and watched my parents gawk over a man they had never even mentioned. But I did what I was told. And I was alone.