Belladonna

18

Out in the hall, I make a turn to head for the stairs, The Voice of Doom starting up again. This time, it seems to have brought an entire orchestra with it, and they're playing louder than any promise of clarity or peace. And for a moment, upstairs did seem like a suitable escape, but everyone I don't want to associate with is up there, and if I'm met with an inconvenience, I really just might say something very rude indeed. The worst part of that is that I'll say something rude, yet I won't regret it in the slightest, and lack of regret is often what lands me in hot water. Right now, that's not what I want. I just want everything to slow down so that it all stops seeming like a nonsensical blur of pandemonium.

That leaves me with pretty much nowhere to go.

Stopping where I am, I clench my hands, feeling my nails dig into my palms. How much longer? When will all of this simmer down? When can I forget? Alright, it's happened. I'm not trying to deny that anymore. But that doesn't mean it's all I want to think about every second of my day.

Forgetting is one thing, but forgiving myself for not seeing the signs is another. I don't have what it takes. I'm not bulletproof, and I feel like I'm bleeding out to die after being shot.

In the next moment, notice that I hear nothing. Nothing too loud, anyway. Maybe if I go upstairs I won't be troubled by the authorities and whatever ongoing investigation they're carrying out. But without warning, then I hear voices, several of them, and I feel the greatest confusion as I realise such voices are coming from... the door. The sirens have quietened—much to my relief—yet now there's another kind of disturbance. But what?

I abandon the notion of upstairs, drifting towards the front door. Hesitating for only a second, I open it, only to get a peek. That small glimpse turns into something else—before I can react, I am very nearly run over, pushed back by a surge of people. People who don't look like inspectors, or anyone who ought to be here.

It takes exactly five seconds for my eyes to take it all in.

It takes exactly five seconds for the panic to bubble up again, stopping up the rational thoughts.

Ugly, incredibly bulky cameras. Handheld tape recorders, notepads.

Reporters.

I believe them to be perhaps the most unfeeling, awful human beings in the world. Yes, it's a stereotype, but some are true when you've seen them for yourself. I remember, I was only little when I first heard of even the existence of such. They came to the Home, apparently wanting to write up a news article on what it was like to be, well, us. They wanted us to lie and act miserable, practically shoving their stupid tape recorders down our throats and prying for information like a swarm of insects or a hungry pack of wolves.

They didn't stop till they had their story.

They didn't stop till they got what they wanted.

Wouldn't stop them, wouldn't listen then, so why would that have changed?

I look back in a frantic search, glad to see Katherine emerging from the doorway after me for once. "What on earth is?" She stiffens noticeably, her face hardening. "They shouldn't be here," she says, almost to herself, the expression of concern shifting into a weary dread. How many times has she encountered them? All too many times with a family as important as hers, no doubt.

Perhaps the most unnerving thing is that for a tick, all is still. I would prefer if I could just stand here and watch.

Somehow I feel I won't be granted such a luxury.

A woman at the front of the group sets her sharp gaze on me, and I bristle. Her hair is done up stylishly, curling in all the right places, and her skirt and blouse are well put together. But more than anything, I wish she would fall over in her kitten heels and break her nose. She's the only one who doesn't seem to be equipped, but of course, there's no need. She has her entourage of intruders for that, after all, and she's quite obviously the leader.