Zyanna

Chapter 2

Too much stuff is in my hands. I try to walk as fast as I can home. I need to be on time. Crossing the road I didn't see the curb and I stumble over it. Seeing a waterfall of books and school supplies tumble down on the ground. I look at it blankly. It's not the first time I dropped something in front of my house. It's like I can't hold it together when I catch the sight of my house. It's like my hard armour breaks, right before I'm in the safety of my house and right in sight for everyone to see. It's like God wants the people too see how unalive I am. Dropping down I see my notebook had fallen open. I read what I see, out loud, out of habit "Music flows through the halls. My eyes close automatically at the sound that sets emotions lose in my being. My back against the cool wall, my legs crossed before me, my head against the wall and my eyes still closed. The boy in the room behind my back begins. The music so powerful it stings my heart as the ach of it hits me. The pain and sorrow in the voice. The words don't exist but the emotions are more clear than the words. I feel tears on my cheeks but I don't know where they came from. My heart is pounding hard, but my breathing is silent not willing to miss a single breath of the song. My body frozen in time. And he sings in a language I do not know. But it feels like I know the lines anyway. How much he hurts and loves. And with every line my heart breaks again and again. And it becomes too much. I have to get away, but I have to stay. It's like this battle between love and hate. And I can't decide whether I love this song or this voice or if I hate it. So much that I never want to hear it again. I have to leave, but I can't. My body is paralyzed and my mind is fighting to take over. But every time my mind takes over I decide that I don't hate the song and every time I become paralyzed again I want to leave. And it hurts to think about leaving. No I can't leave. I have to go in and comfort the boy and tell him to never stop singing. Tell him to take me in and sing to me. Where did it even come from? I would never think to leave? The boy hits a high note and it feels like my heart is being teared in two in slow mothing like the killer didn't have a rush and didn't mind being caught in the act. But the pain was unbearable. I threw open the door and screamed." I felt like screaming, but I held it in. By the time I was finished reading, I had everything organized on my arms, but the notebook. It still lay motionless on the floor, the words staring up at me. I left it there, my arms were too full to take it.

"Miss Zyana, welcome back home. Your dress is upstairs and your father is in his study. You have to leave in an hour." The servant said, not bothering anymore with the sweet nothings she used to say, knowing I wouldn't hear her. But today was different. She took all the books from my arms and in her arms it looked like my notebook could have easily fit. She didn't have any trouble holding them as I had had, since she took an empty washing basket extra from the floor and walked up the stairs. I must have really small arms, if I can't take my books. Leaving my bag pack next to the staircase, since it was too heavy to take upstairs. I went to put on my dress.

The mirror down stair was a very fine piece of art. I could see my full body and gold was adorning the edges or the mirror. It was a very fine mirror one that... My dress was too big. The black hung dead on my limbs. The shape lost with weight. How was it possible? The servant bought it a week ago. My eyes were too sunken. 3 black lifeless butterflies escaped the pit of black in my eyes. I see them fly to the ceiling, its wings not as powerful as before. They were weak, like its owner. As they reached the ceiling, they flew strait into it, falling down hard on the floor before my father's feet. Bringing my eyes to him. Taking a step forward, to warn him not to step on the butterflies, but it was already too late. His feet had crushed them. Sucking the life right out of us both. His eyes were dark and black, surrounding his eyes as well. His tie was askew and his shirt wrinkled. He looked dishevelled and so out of place in this palace, that my mom made for us. He looked at me with lost eyes and then walked to the door next to me. I lean to the other side looking behind him, my hair falling of my shoulder. The black butterflies lie there, there wings still fluttering. Barely alive. Black can be a beautiful colour, it seems. If these butterflies can survive a crash, why can't my mom?

"Let's go," My father says to our servant in a business like voice. He used to always say her name, but now all he could do was look at the front door with a frozen expression. Sorrow was all he felt. He couldn't utter a name that my mom loved. The servant winced a bit, her eyes almost watering.

"Yes, Mister Lancaster" She answers. She opens the door, letting us pas through. A butterfly flies past and far away. Escaping this house as it does. I follow it with my gaze and I take a few steps in its direction. But then I see a mob of black hair and the butterfly disappears in the blue sky. He lives next door? It seems. He is kneeled down on the grass. Planting flowers. Digging a hole in the ground and putting a flower in it. Blue adorned to green shoots. Beautiful irises attract butterflies. More of those creature that will haunt my mother's memories. She loved butterflies. In her paintings and in the gardens around us. The once neatly organized gardens have become a growing forest. What a week can do to nature is unbelievable. I leave the boy to plant as I turn to the car. The door to the BMW opens, my dad steps in but not before taking a long look at the withered garden and heaving a sigh. I hear him mutter under his breath. "Sorry Helena."

Finished