𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭.

ᴏɴᴇ

Winter in Pennsylvania was almost the same as winter in France. French winters were just as cold and dreary as they were back home. Thick blankets of snow covered nature and all of its surroundings, the cold wind passed through the sky in blades, and the sun, even when it decided to show itself, never gave any heat.

I didn't understand how people liked the winter.

While I understood holidays and spending time with loved ones, I didn't understand the cold or the atmosphere. People always seemed cold and more susceptible to pains of all sorts while time seemed to delay.

"Are you warm enough, Miss?" The driver asked, looking back at me through his mirror.

I nodded and forced myself to smile. "Yes, I'm fine."

The driver decided to keep the windows cracked during the snowstorm. I had two blankets on me and was balled up in my seat, fighting to keep warm. I had been subjected to harsh shards of wind cutting into my skin for almost two hours.

"We're not far, are we?" I asked.

The driver sighed heavily, obviously fed up with me too. "No, Miss, we aren't far."

I sighed and leaned back into my seat, hoping for this nightmare ride to end soon.

Not even two weeks ago, my Dad's wife announced on Christmas morning that she wanted to send me to stay with some relatives in France. She thought it would be "good" for me to get away from everything after struggling for the last two months. I didn't know who these relatives were, how she was related to them, or why she just sprung the idea on me so fast, but she was insistent on me going.

Me and my father's wife, Julie, didn't have the best relationship. From the moment I was sent to live with them at seven years old, she always treated me as if I was a consistent burden. Our strained relationship and her treatment of me for all these years were why I was skeptical of going to stay with her family.

Truthfully, I would have never agreed to something so outlandish if my father didn't support it. He was easier to convince than I was and when it came time to talk to me, he listed valid points.

"Oh come on, kiddo," He told me. "This might be good for you. No one will bother you in the mountains."

I had been struggling for the last two months after a traumatizing—to say the least—incident in college. It really took a toll on me.

I remember being so stubborn and closed off to the idea. "But Dad," I was so over that conversation. I just wanted him to drop it. "We don't even know these relatives. What if they're some psycho murderers?"

My dad told me he knew one of the said relatives, and that he met him once or twice. His name was Marcel and he was around my dad's age, more than likely somewhere in his mid to late forties. My dad wasn't able to answer most of the questions I had about this "Marcel" and Julie would shoot me down anytime I tried to mention him. All I could get out of her was:

1. they lived in a reclusive estate in the French Alps
2. and she believed I would have "such an amazing time" that I "probably wouldn't even want to come home."

While she was right about the mountains, I wasn't sure where I was. We were so far into the mountains that we had to be at least an hour from the nearest neighbor or town. The higher up we got, the trees got thicker, and the guards along the roads got thinner.

God, I think I'm gonna be sick! I rolled my eyes.
This whole travel experience was engraved in my memory as the journey through Hell. The journey began with a delayed red-eye to Paris, followed by a jet flight to a private airport where I was picked up by the driver. The driver was an old man, no younger than seventy-five, and he had the temper of a toddler.