Bittersweet (Book #1 Evening Wings Trilogy)

Chapter 1

1

Once upon a time,

In a faraway land, there lived a princess. She had eyes of glittering round emerald and skin that shimmered like the most polished amber. Her parents were the king and queen and they ruled their empire with decisions of iron and judgments of stone. The princess spent her time at the bottom of the garden, among the masses of beautiful flowers, listening to the songs of the seasons while her parents looked on.

Her life was perfect…

I wish.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life was actually a fairy tale, and wishes were real and not anecdotes conveyed by adults to amuse young children? If dreams actually had meanings and purposes instead of just being illusory trances woven in our minds?

I guessed everyone thought that, wondered it, pondered it. Tried to make some kind of reason why the Bogeyman was not in fact under the bed, or why fairies did not live at the bottom of the garden, beneath the bushes, entangled in their branches.

Maybe dreams, wishes and imagination were all just a slow element of being human, a place where we could escape the hardships and manic of real life.

I sighed and looked out of the window.

The small settlement of Pembroke, New Hampshire was an immense expanse of gargantuan trees with the occasional sight of a houses or buildings. The sun shone brightly here, almost blinding, and the clouds rolled across the wide expanse, poufy and immense in nature.

This was where we were moving.

My mother, surprisingly sober for the first time in three months, beamed at me and her jade eyes sparkled in the early afternoon sunshine.

Our vehicle, a Queen Mary sized SUV that I had dubbed the Rust Bucket, turned sharply through a hidden avenue and rolled up a desiccated driveway toward a plain house, a carbon copy of the image we had seen online.

From what I remember reading on the real-estate website, the home had one bathroom, a one car garage and two bedrooms. The paneling on the outside was yellow and the US flag hung from a post at the side of the house. It was completely normal and all American.

I hated it.

I hated living with my mother, the definition of what Alcoholic Anonymous aimed to resolve, who was as needy as newborn infant.  I hated moving to a new place every time she screwed up. It made me feel like a package to the four corners of the earth. I hated that I was behind in the syllabus and the semester had only just begun. I hated this small, insignificant town. Trees went on for as far as my eyes could see and the sun was blistering hot. It scalded my skin and chafed my bones through the glass window I leaned against.

My mom cut the engine and got out of the car, and my Pyrenees—Brucie, hopped out behind her. She was staring up at the house, with its pale yellow exterior paneling, pale olive shutters, a small front porch and chimney. 

I heaved a sigh and picked up my mediocre set of belongings and got out of the Rust Bucket and went to stand beside my mother.

Her jade eyes glittered with excitement, and a pleased smile saturated her features. I could tell exactly what she was thinking.

New things meant new beginnings for my mother; she was like this every time we moved to a new place. However, that logical sense of thinking never seemed to stay with her because she always sent her foot crashing down on the sandcastle.

It was frustrating.

I wondered why she loved this house, when she knew we would be leaving in a few months. When she became an alcoholic again and we had to move before it ruined her. I hated to be so negative, but it was spot on.