Cecilia

Untitled Part 1

"You've been growing up in a world

in which I no longer exist...

Cecilia..."

Day One

Day breaks on the frigid November morning in Timber. Light shines through the window and shines on young Cecilia's face. Her eyes expand as she slowly widens them, showing her light grey pupils. They shut once more as she inhales a great yawn. She raises her petite arms above her head and gives a groan. Pushing her light rose hair out of her face, she lifts herself out of bed. She walks out to the frosted window and her large eyes glimmer at the sight of snow. Finally! The first snowfall she thinks to herself with a giant grin on her face. She rushes to the cherry coated wooden dresser, pulls the brass handle and rummages through the disorganized clothes. Hmm...this one. She grabs her favorite outfit, a cream colored jacket with a weathered buckle around the waist and a pair of aquamarine jeans that hug her legs. She rushes down the stairs, holding the engraved handrail on the way. Snatching a loaf of wheat bread, she places one slice in the toaster and puts on her boots hastily. Cecilia begins tapping her nails on the table and sighs. Counting in her head the seconds it took for the bread to finish each morning, but always forgetting how long it took with each new day, had became a game for her. The sound of metal springs shooting upwards becomes audible as she grabs the dark brown toast and runs toward the door. She wraps her fingers around the chipped door handle when all of a sudden she hears the lady of the house has awoken.

"Cecilia! get over here!" Madame Farron calls. Cecilia takes off her boots and quickly shoves the toast in her mouth, trying to erase all evidence of it ever existing. Do I need to be lectured at every day..? Sulking, Cecilia obeys and trudges through the kitchen and walks through the hall, passing the bathroom and study until she gets to the end of the hall, and to the left of her Madame Farron lays. Her hair lays messy on her shoulders, her face glares at Cecilia lacking makeup. "When I call for you, I expect you to come. Absolutely no dilly-dallying."

Yes, your majesty. "I'm sorry Madame.." Cecilia replies, as she shies away, her eyes glued to the ground. "I was just excited to go out in the snow, is that such a crime?"

"It really is." Madame Farron comments, "What with all those gosh darn atrocities running around." She raises her pale hand and points her bony finger out towards the window. Cecilia steadily paces herself over and glances outward, spotting a few boar like creatures. Staring, she observes their formidable tusks protruding from the front and back of their head.

"Y-you're right, as always Madame.." Cecilia admits. Her stance shifts from her strong sturdy self to a slouch. What gives her the right...

"Back straight! If you're going to live in the Farron household then you're going to proudly represent my name!" Madame Farron beckons. Staring crossly at Cecilia, Farron grimaces while Cecilia starts to withdraw. This has gone on for too long... Having enough of her suppression for one day, Cecilia dashes out of the room. Running back to her room, she hears Farron yelling. She slams the door and sits back on her bed, pulling out an album from under her pillow. She begins feeling the fabric photo album with Cerise stitched across the front in a royal purple.

Mom... Cecilia thinks to herself as she opens the binder and begins flipping through pages. She passes photos of young men and women, her own birth, and a page filled with Madame Farron. Then she finds it, the page she's been looking for. It shows a strong, fair woman in her mid twenties holding a black chain knife affixed into a yule. The beast lays lifeless, with its Vandyke red eyes open. Its fur covers the entire body, except for the long, razor-like tusks. Her companion holds the horns upright, one to the right holding the back horns, one to the left holding the tusks. They all look so proud... Cecilia ruminates Why can't I do the same?? I can be strong. I can be successful. I don't need her. I can do it. Besides, she's not my mom. What would she care? In a surge of energy, Cecilia rips open the oak dresser drawer, grabbing her mom's "Sleipnir" rope knife and rushes out of her bedroom. The blade feels cold in her grip, but she feels a slight power and sense of control. Her palms sweat as her grip tightens, the sharp steel falls swiftly into her leather bound sheath while she slides her hand up the blade to the iron chain. Rustling as she stomps downstairs, she rubs the chain and grips it until the circles are indented into her skin. Although her socks are muffling the sound, thumping is still audible on the cherry hardwood floor.