The Devil's Son *DISCONTINUED*

UNU

  She always came up with such wild stories. As a child, she spent hours in the backyard, inventing worlds with complex plot and always it ended with her lying in the grass staring at the clouds. As the breeze pushed the fluff across the sky, her eyes would scan eagerly.

Naturally, such a spontaneous child brought attention to herself and the people around her; not always intentional and not always positive. Her parents would sit by idlely and watch as onlookers would criticize and jest, but they knew better than to limit her creativity . Unique and outspoken, she brought light to all around her.

There were only two times tears ever crossed her cheeks. The first, when her grandfather passed. With most, the first family passing is ard on a person, but she cried only tears of joy. When her mother asked the day of the funeral why she was smiling, she simply responded, This is the way it goes. I'm excited that grandpa is moving on to another great adventure. As a parent of a six-year old young girl, her mother was shocked at the deep truth in her daughter's words.

The second time was only a handful of months before now, when she left her hometown – and her parents' grave – to start her new life in the big city. With a rusted truck, she packed her belongings and her small acquired fortune, and went west. Her first glance of the Californian coast was breathtaking, and she spent the afternoon pulled over on the side of the road, running barefoot up and down the narrow beach. To this day, she can remember the first time she felt the soft grains of sand squish between her toes' the first time she felt she could fly.

Here she was, three months later, working at a busy restaurant making minimum wager. The small fortune from her parents' life insurances feeding into her rent and food bills; she lived a quiet life –surviving, but not really living.

Each day, she would spend eight hours taking orders and pouring coffee before she trekked through the streets to her small apartment. Fixing dinner and cleaning filled the white space in her schedule before she sat down and pulled her guitar into her lap. Then, slowly, music would fill her apartment – happy, sad, and any other emotions she felt would seep through into the notes – and then, she would sing.

Stuck in an endless repeat, she would spend her nights dreaming of performing in front of large crowds; stages across the country. Yet, waking up in the morning, she would put on the dingy pale blue uniform and work another long day.

Today started out just the same. Hair pinned up into a loose bun, she greeted the old store owner with a polite smile.

"Good morning, Rich." Her voice, cheerful as always, brought the man out of his thoughts. His wrinkled, grey eyes looked up from the menu he was editing and smiled kindly; revealing the old, grey teeth.

"Mornin' there, Effie. Lookin' good," his cracking voice dragged out the flirtatious tone in the way he spoke. She ignored it, and moved into the back, grabbed an apron and started a pot of coffee. In the big city, nothing was more natural than the pedophilic old men, with the musty scent, whose eyes follow the thin legs of young women.

When Effie first moved to the great Los Angelos, it was not creepy, old restaurant owners she planned on, but the artists – the musicians. To be a part of the festivals, the parties and lifestyle was her dream. A dream that proved harder than she knew.