Exceptional (On Hold)

Chapter Three

        The person was a woman, dressed all in black—by now, I recognized this to be the norm and I felt no surprise by the dreary monochromatic scheme she wore. In a floor-length gown of black silk, the skirts just barely brushed the ground, falling in rustling layers of taffeta and silken fabric. The dress, cinched at the waist, emphasized the woman’s petite figure and delicate build. She wore a veil over her face, shading her features so that I couldn’t discern anything—she might be young, old, ugly, pretty, in no way could I tell. I glanced down at whatever Jill had shoved into my hand, a lump forming in my throat when I saw her favorite toy, a threadbare and well-loved stuffed rabbit. I clutched it tightly and cleared my throat. “May I—I will take this with me,” I said, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. I felt a disapproving stare, quite a feat with the heavy black veil in the way, but the woman remained silent. She merely beckoned me forward. I hesitantly stepped through my doorway and shut the door behind me; the door clicked shut with a thud of finality.

        The woman led me down my own driveway and to the massive black draft horses, each one’s coat shining like onyx. Their dark, liquid eyes remained impassive, unaware of the suffering of so many people within the carriage they pulled. Under happier circumstance, I would have found the horses quite beautiful and impressive. I strained to catch a glimpse of the carriage-driver, but, like everyone else in the world, I only managed to sight a pair of white-gloved hands. Wordlessly, the woman opened the left door of the carriage for me, a clear indicator for me to stop dawdling and get in. Refusing to look at her, I had no choice but to comply, so I sat and placed Jill’s stuffed rabbit on my lap.

        On the inside, the carriage was unsurprisingly black. The seat was made of black leather, the floor was of black carpeting; I was growing rather tired of the color black. I felt a sudden urge to bite my lip until it bled just for the sake of some brighter color greeting the dismal stagecoach. The door on the opposite side of the carriage opened and the woman gracefully sat down beside me, voluminous skirts rustling. The horses began a steady pivot to get back onto Birchwood Lane, picking up into a steady trot. The carriage jostled accordingly, responding to the uneven cobblestones and the horses’ bouncy gait.

        Normally, I was a very patient person. I could wait for however long was required of me before doing something or hearing news; however, I was also perpetually curious and needed to understand events and circumstances and… I suppose just life in general. My usual patience warred with my curiosity as I sat with my hands clasped, Jill’s rabbit resting near my hands. Finally, curiosity won out and I simply could no longer contain my questions.

“How did you find out?” I asked the woman. My voice, very calm and even, surprised me with its steadiness and strength of volume. Then, I heard rustling; I turned my head to find the woman facing me with her eerie veil still in place. Sheer willpower enabled me to stare back unflinchingly as I felt her gaze burning through her veil and into my eyes. After several lengthy, loaded moments, the woman reached up and carefully pulled the veil free from her face. She let the veil drop to the floor unceremoniously, that fervent gaze still burning into my eyes.

        Much to my surprise, she was a rather plain-looking woman with a rather timeless face, certainly not younger than twenty but no older than middle thirties. She had straight blonde hair and muted gray eyes set in a thin, almost pallid, face. Her pale pink lips curved into a peculiar tender smile that touched not her eyes; she had no laugh or smile lines etched in her face. The smile somehow felt much more sinister than did the black veil. When she spoke, her voice was an unmelodic, rather husky voice that sounded almost flat to my ears—on the whole, she had an entirely unexceptional voice. “An interesting first question,” she mused in a papery voice. Her next sentence, however, she spoke in a strong but flat cadence. “Most children sob pitiful things such as ‘Why me?’ or ‘Why did you take me?’” Her pale lips smiled coldly. “Such a trivial, wasted question! They know the answer, oh they know; nothing escapes notice, it was simply their choice to practice something extraordinary.”

        The woman’s aura unsettled me greatly; everything from her black mourning dress to her strangely detached demeanor was unnerving. The way she spoke so callously and unfeelingly of children whose lives she had torn asunder seemed nothing short of sinister to me. “Nevertheless, your question still is quite unremarkable. You know the answer already, my dear.” I rubbed my bare arms, suddenly conscious of the fact that I still wore my nightclothes—a simple white shirt and soft gray pants.

        I did know the answer; I hadn’t been careful enough. I never had been careful enough; if I’d been careful enough, I’d have padlocked my curiosity away and never once sang a note in my life. “If not how, then who?” I amended.

        Those pale lips curved into a smile once again; the woman’s muted gray eyes flashed with some strange sort of… of fascination, or pride, or warped approval. “Ah, who, wouldn’t we all just love to know who?” she said lightly, catching my gaze. “There are always people willing to sell a secret, if you know the right price.” I frowned at how my question had been dodged, but decided not to pursue the matter farther.

        “What will become of me when you discover my considerable lack of talent?” I queried, rather petulantly—it was a juvenile tactic to employ, but I felt not desire to be agreeable. “After all, it’s not as though I have ever sung properly.”

        Once again, that queer, unnervingly offhand smile twisted into place; the woman said, “Oh, I don’t doubt your abilities. Lessons will do wonders.”

        I pressed her again, suddenly desperate for answers simply because I wasn’t getting any. “Lessons cannot possibly create talent where there is none,” I pointed out.

        “That is true, but lessons can create ability.”

        “I thought the Web took talent, not ability. Anyone can practice and acquire an ability; that is the purpose of school—we develop abilities as we are taught skills.” Truthfully, although I simply argued out of nervousness, I was considerably proud of my line of reasoning there. There was indeed a difference between talent and ability—talented people seemed to have an innate understanding of, or natural inclination for, an ability; those with talent took a skill above and beyond. An ability was commonplace. An ability was nothing special. Skill was proficiency; talent was expertise and finesse.

        For the first time, the woman showed signs of human reaction and emotion. She sighed impatiently before speaking again. “We do take talent,” she said brusquely, her voice still a measured paper-thin intonation. “Unfortunately, the very best of all seem to have a certain knack for rebelliousness and defiance. Now, we won’t have a problem like that from you, Charlotte, will we?” Her voice suddenly softened into a dangerously quiet murmur, as intense as if she had shouted in my face. She locked eyes with me unblinkingly, staring me down. I lost.

        Choosing not to answer—for, in all honesty, I wasn’t sure how I felt just then –I turned my head to look forward. From my peripheral vision, I could glimpse the woman who sat with rigid posture to my left. To my right, I turned my eyes to peer out the window. The landscape passed in an indistinct blur. Those horses sure could move quickly, they were just as uncanny as the woman beside me. I slid closer to the window to watch the environment change; buildings began to have cleaner, sharper edges and a large city loomed in the distance. Everything took on a more modern, advanced appearance; things were uniform, more consistent and unvaried here than at home. With that thought, I suddenly pondered the meaning of home until I realized that I had never had a home—a house, yes, but not a home. I had never felt comfortable or felt as though I belonged back with my family. It felt like years since I’d seen my family or heard them speak; they almost seemed like someone else’s family, the family of a friend I used to know many years ago. If it was possible to be homesick for a home you never had, then I certainly was. I missed the mismatched array of houses down Birchwood Lane and the unkempt park I used to sing in. I clutched Jill’s rabbit in between my small hands and pushed back the tears that continuously threatened to fall.

        I would not cry in front of the spider beside me.