This is something I will be uploading soon, just wanted to give a preview
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My mother always used to tell me to stop dreaming because dreams would take a person's mind away from concentrating on reality. My father supported her and added, "Why dream when the world we live in is drama enough?"
So why did I dream? Simple; because I didn't like the world we lived in but I loved the places I dreamt of. I didn't have to live in any kind of drama but the one I could manage. I didn't have to care for anyone but myself. I could be selfish, carefree and no one would judge me.
I was a child back then and now at the age of eighteen I realise that my parents were right; dreams are useless.
"Julietta!" my mother yelled, yet again pulling me out of my train of thought.
I sigh and look at myself in the mirror again. I look so much like my mother that it makes me sick to regard myself as anything but a human being. I have her brown eyes, her high cheek bones, her long eyelashes, her soft, silky brown skin, her hands - I have her hands. I look just like evil.
"Julietta!" she yells again, from closer I can hear.
"I'm coming," I say more to myself than to anyone else. I take one last glimpse at my mother's daughter and I have to leave. Just as I open the door, so does my mother and I can tell from her eyes that she is a raging bull and I am red.
"Did you not hear me call you?" she asks not hiding her rage.
"I did," I simply answer.
"Oh," she isn't surprised by my behaviour, my tone of voice, my rigid stance, "I hope you won't be this rude at dinner."
"Only for you mother," I answer putting in as much sarcasm as I can muster and going around her to the stairwell.
She grabs my hand and I'm sure that my fragile skin will bruise, "Julietta Trulenne I will not have a daughter of mine disrespect me so blatantly," she whispers harshly in my ear, "You misconstrue my patience as feebleness; well let me make myself clear. If you mess up your father's chance of becoming a Statesman I will show you the true definition of discipline and bear this in mind; I will show no self-restraint. You will not make a single inappropriate comment, criticism, remark, gesture. You even breathe wrong and I will pour hells fire down your throat, do you understand me little girl?"
"Yes ma'am," I say simply to lengthen the distance between us, "now would you please let me go. I'm sure we've kept His Highness waiting for far too long."
She grudgingly releases me and I smooth my dress. I walk to the stairs with an enormous smile on my face and she asks, "Why are you smiling?"
"I've always admired fire-breathers," I'm at the bottom of the stairwell, "may be if I live after tasting hells fire I might be able to obtain such a gift."
I'm at my sisters' side before she can chastise me any longer.
"What have you done to mother?" Clarissa - my eldest sister - reprimands me, "I can practically see the smoke fuming out of her ears."
"I think she looks funny and it's refreshing," Anna - the second born - chimes in but before I can reply we are silenced.
I look at my sister and we smile at each other mischievously. It is refreshing, I must agree with her and I am beginning to think that I might just enjoy the evening after all.
Suddenly the room goes silent and I realise that we have been graced with the presence of an angel. Angel; that is the only way I can describe the man who has entered the room. I am mesmerized by him; no longer able to breath. What takes me out of my trance is the how my father receives him, "Prince Quinton."
"Trulenne," he regards my title less father by his last name. His voice is rough and deep, it captures my breath with a greater intensity than his face. If I had never laid my eyes on him, I would still follow this man anywhere he commanded simply for the sound of his voice.
"Welcome to our home your grace," my mother speaks now. She has a solemn look no her face, almost reverent, almost respectful and this surprises me for my mother is not one to revere straightforwardly. He has truly impressed her.
"These are my children your grace," my father begins and continues, "Clarissa she is my eldest at 24, Anna my award winning second born is 20, Juliette is 17 -." My mother whisper into his ear and he corrects himself, " pardon me Julietta is 18 and the twins Francine and Francis, my angles, are 14."
It doesn't bother me that my father holds no favour over me, he never has. I am not his eldest child, neither am I his award winning second nor one of his angels. I am Julietta, the third born nothing, the middle child, sandwiched between the slices of greatest is a bad piece of baloney. I see Anna look at me from the corner of her eye, I do not wish to catch her glimpse of pity; I have never taken well to it. I turn to Clarissa because it will be her smug look that will fuel my anger but what I see fuels my contempt.
Prince Quinton looks at her with eyes of wondering, like there is a mystery about her that he wishes to unravel. It is not desire, he is not coveting her; he is simply looking at her. Trying to understand her beyond the windows to her soul because they are not giving him the part of her soul he is looking for.
I look away because my heart has broken into a million pieces, because the way he looks at her is the way I wanted to know him.
