"Golden Melody" is a tale of love, dreams, and resilience, exploring the power of music and memory as Zatariel fights to bring back the melody of their hearts amidst the challenges they face.
Will their shared passion for music be enough to bridge...
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Miexha Verra
Note: *Hiiiing*= missing words
Medyo mahina pandinig ni Exy~
December 25, 2011
Verra Mansion
Her Pov
The morning after the Christmas Ball, I woke up feeling like I was in a fog.
The vibrant lights, the music and Ron?- it all felt like a distant dream. I tried to recall the details of the night before, but my memories were fragmented, blurry, and incomplete.
"Where am I?" I whispered, my voice hoarse from sleep. I sat up in bed, my head throbbing, and looked around my room. It was familiar, yet somehow alien.
I remembered the fireworks and the strange boy who had comforted me. But I couldn't remember his face.
"Who was that?" I murmured, my voice filled with a growing sense of unease.
I tried to remember the details of the ball, but my mind was a blank slate.
"Miexha! Nasaan ka?! MIIIIEXHAAAA!!!"
Kuya Diaspro's booming voice echoed through the house, a blurry roar like a distant thunderclap. I jumped from my bed
"H-Ha? Kuya? I- I didn't touch anything!" I stammered, my heart racing, unsure of what I'd done this time. I was always so scared of making him angry. I wished I could just disappear.
Even though I couldn't fully hear his yelling, I could feel the anger radiating from his voice. My chest tightened, and my pulse quickened. What did I do wrong this time? I wanted to scream, to tell him that it wasn't fair, but my voice was lost in the fog of my own fear.
He stormed towards me, his face red with fury, and threw a stack of papers at me. They hit me square in the face, scattering all over the floor. I recognized the sketches right away-Kuya's precious artwork. The same sketches I never even touched, now crumpled and torn. I felt a wave of panic rising inside me.
"Fuck! *hiiiing* Why do I have a useless sister like you?!"
The sting of his words, harsh and unforgiving, echoed in my ears. My body trembled, a wave of despair washing over me. It was always like this. No matter what it is, it was somehow always my fault.
"Bakit lagi na lang ako?" I wanted to scream, but my voice was lost in the fog of my own fear. My throat tightened, and my chest ached with a suffocating sense of loneliness.
I remembered the days when Kuya Diaspro was my protector, my confidant. He used to tell me I was his favorite, his little princess. He would build me castles out of blankets and tell me stories of brave knights and magical creatures. But since Ate Saya died, his beloved wife, those memories felt like distant dreams, faded and unreal. The warmth of his affection had been replaced by a cold, unforgiving anger, and I was left to navigate the treacherous terrain of his grief alone.
Ate Saya, her belly already rounding with the promise of new life, insisted we go out that day, despite the risks.
The city was a dangerous place for our family, the Verras, a name whispered in hushed tones among those who sought to exploit our wealth.
But I craved a day of carefree laughter, a day of browsing through bustling markets, indulging in delicious street food, and escaping the weight of our responsibilities.
We envisioned a day of vibrant colors, the chatter of vendors, the aroma of sizzling food, the feel of silk against our skin.
As we walked through the crowded streets, our laughter echoed through the narrow alleys. We were a target, but for a few precious hours, we felt safe, surrounded by the ordinary chaos of life. But as the day drew to a close, a sense of unease settled over us.
The shadows seemed to lengthen, the crowds thinned, and the laughter died in our throats.
We were ambushed. A screech of tires, a flash of metal. Their faces were masked. They were shadows, a nightmare sprung to life, and they surrounded us, their weapons glinting in the fading light.
In those terrifying moments, I clung to Ate Saya, her hand warm and reassuring against mine. The fear was a physical thing, constricting my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. "Run," she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hand. "Run, while you still can."
The air ripped apart with a deafening crack, followed by a series of staccato pops that echoed through the alley. I felt Ate Saya's hand tighten in mine, her grip desperate, a silent plea. Then, she stumbled, her body crumpling like a discarded doll. Her maternity dress stained red, a dark pool spreading beneath her. Her eyes, wide with pain, met mine for a fleeting moment before they closed, the life draining from them like water from a cracked pitcher.
My breath caught in my throat, a scream trapped behind a wall of ice. My legs refused to obey, rooted to the spot by a primal terror that threatened to consume me.
The world narrowed to a single, horrifying image: Ate Saya, her life ebbing away, and I, a useless shadow, unable to do anything to stop it.
I woke up three months later, the world a muffled blur, the sounds of life distant whispers.
The trauma had carved its way into my soul, leaving me shattered and broken.
