Golden Melody

Chapter 2.3

Miexha Verra

Her Pov

As we made our way to the ballroom, I felt a sense of displacement settle over me.

The grandeur of the Event hall, with its gleaming floors and opulent decor, seemed to mock my inner turmoil.

I longed for a moment of simplicity, a respite from the chaos of the world around me.
But as we entered the bustling ballroom, I knew that escape was a luxury I could not afford.

"Miexha, this is Mr. and Mrs. Garcia. They're dear friends of ours," Dad said, his voice laced with a practiced warmth.
I tried to smile politely, but my heart felt heavy.

I didn't know these people.
I didn't want to know them.
I just wanted to disappear.

"Happy birthday, Miexha," Mr. Garcia said, extending a hand.
I shook it mechanically, feeling like a puppet being manipulated by invisible strings.

"It's nice to meet you, Miexha," Mrs. Garcia added, her smile a bit too wide, a bit too forced.
I nodded silently, trying to avoid eye contact.
I felt like I was being scrutinized, judged, and I didn't like it.

My parents introduced me to a parade of people, each one more important and influential than the last.
They were all successful businessmen and women, their faces etched with the lines of power and privilege.
I felt like a small, insignificant creature trapped in a cage of gold.

"Miexha, this is Mr. Wov, the CEO of InterMall," Mom said, her voice filled with pride.
I looked at Mr. Wov, his eyes cold and calculating.
He was the man who had taken my mother away from me so many times.

"Happy birthday, Miexha," he said, his voice a low rumble.
He extended a hand, and I shook it, feeling a surge of resentment.

"It's nice to meet you," I said, my voice barely whispering.

I wanted to tell him how much I hated him, how much I wished he would just disappear, but I knew I couldn't.

"You're a beautiful girl, Miexha," he said, his gaze lingering on me for a moment too long.
I felt a shiver run down my spine.
I wanted to run, to escape this suffocating atmosphere, but I was trapped.

I wished, with a desperate longing, that the stories I'd heard as a child were true.
That monster Zenips, the one who snatched up disobedient children, would swoop down and swallow me whole.

Anything to escape this moment.

They'd asked me to play and sing, and I couldn't say no.

I went up to the stage and sat in front of the piano.

My fingers trembled on the ivory keys, my voice catching in my throat.
The melody of "Ironic" spilled out, each note a tear I couldn't let fall.

As I sang,

"An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day,"

I felt the weight of my unspoken pain pressing down on me.

"And isn't it ironic?
Don't you think?"

The piano notes echoed through the ballroom.
They were oblivious to the storm raging inside me.

"It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
And who would've thought? It figures"

I watched the guests talking around me, their words a blur of meaningless conversation.

They were so caught up in their own worlds, unaware of the raw emotion I was pouring into every note.

As I sang,

"A traffic jam when you're already late
A "no smoking" sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife"

I felt a surge of frustration.

I was trapped in this situation, this performance, this life.

But the music was my escape, my solace, a way to express the emotions I couldn't articulate.

"And life has a funny, funny way of helping you out,"

As the last note faded, I felt a strange sense of relief, the weight of my unspoken pain momentarily lifted.

I had poured my heart into the song, and for a brief moment, I felt seen, understood.

I excused myself from my parents, saying I needed to use the restroom.

As I walked away, I could hear the faint sound of my own heartbeat, a rhythm that seemed to echo the throbbing pulse of the crowd.