Broken Dancer Doll

WARNING!!! There's a reason this story is rated R! But it has no sexual content what-so-ever!

Reasons its rated R:

>Language

>Violence

>Addiction to Porn (dont leave comments about this please, if you have a problem message me. It dont get too intense anyway.)

>Drugs

>Alcohol

Thanks for reading this, now heres the story...(:

Bright Skies filled the horizon, making different hues of blue, soft pink, and orange shift across the sky. My young chubby fingers press against the window pane, making small imprints that will soon fade away. We have arrived at our new home in Rustrel, France. The house is mournful and gothic, and quiet frankly scared me. The interior is made of dark red satin, and black cotton. Nothing bright gets past these gates.

Our new home has eight bedrooms, and twelve bathrooms. My father said that when we got to go, we only have to walk two steps and presto!; you can releave yourself. Mom didn't laugh, but I did. She said it was innapropriate. I take my now cold fingers off the windows and start up the staircases; all five of them. Mom said that as soon as we get used to the new home, Father would drop all his extra weight. Father didn't laugh, but I did. Father said that it was innapropriate also.

I have no interest looking around the rooms, I am smart enough to know there is no hope I will truely remember them. Mom, on the other hand, will. She picks things apart, spliting them into catagories, and studying them while they shift and squirm in their group. Unique names will be given, such as "The Honest Room", or "The Annoyingly Yellow Room". Father will only use four rooms; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and office. Mom will dust every one.

Each staircase has thirty-two steps, I counted them out of boredom. It's way to boring to recall, but I will try my absolute best to make it sound interesting and colorful. The paintings were less than perky, displaying aweful scenes such as adultry, forinication, sex before marriage and stuff like that. One of my personal favorites was the guy who hung himself because his wife was sleeping with another man. Mom calls that room "The Things A Nine Year Old Shouldn't See Room". Father laughed. Mom glared.

"Andre, how do you know about that stuff? I mean, we sent you to a catholic school. You should learn about Mother Mary and good pure stuff." Mom wrung her hands nervously. She hated stuff that had to do with sexual content.

"Mom, I am nine. It's basically impossible to not notice the definition. Even religious kids get curious and ask questions." I simply explained. And that's how I became home schooled.

"Come on, Gwendolyn. The boy gots to know somehow." Father said once Mom hauled in the school supplies.

"But, Emory. Not that way. He's too young." She shook her head from side to side, her charcoal hair swishing just below her ears. Her dark green eyes were pulled together in anger.

Father just grunted and picked up the paper. "It's better than explaining it to him ourselves." Mom just stayed quiet.

Once I made it to the fifth floor, panting no less, I noticed an awkward looking wall to my left right beside a candle holder. It had a different set of paneling, lighter grey ones other than the pitch black surrounding it. My curiosity was only fed when I recalled the guy who lived here before, my great grandfather on Mom's side, was obsessed with things being perfect and symmetrical, and he wouldn't have stood for this obserdity. He reminds me of Mom.