Four in the Attic, One in the Kitchen

Life As It Is

When I woke, the sun was high in the sky, and the small alarm clock on my nightstand read that it was two in the afternoon. I shot up. The night's events flooded back like a tidal wave, sending shivers through me. Looking around, I took everything in. The room was how I remembered it, but with the early morning shadows melted away, I was able to fully take in the surroundings. Light green walls, yes. Dark stained wood floors, of course. The bed frame matched it exactly. Everything was neat, down to the sepia toned photographs of family I assumed long dead.

I stepped out of bed, feet contacting with cool floor. Stepping into the bathroom, I stared myself in the mirror for a long time. My face was both a blessing and a curse; a saving grace from staying in a tiny attic, but the factor that tore me away from my family. Closing my eyes, I recalled our biology lessons. Dominant genes were the traits that showed most often, and when two parents have similar features, there was a seventy-five to one hundred percent chance that they would be passed on to the offspring. Blonde was obviously the dominant trait. By the same token, recessive traits were the least common, and when dominant traits are present in both parents, there is a maximum twenty-five percent chance of the recessive trait appearing in the offspring. It was simple mathematics. Cathy, Chris, Carrie, and Corey were the seventy-five. I was the twenty-five. I, by some miracle or curse, was the recessive traits; brown hair, dark, almond shaped eyes, and freckled skin.

As if to wake me from the constant loop, I splashed cool water on my face. Then, I noted, I had to make a good first impression. Quickly, I went to my suitcase, yet paused, grandmother's words echoing in my memory. They were improper. I pushed the suitcase under the bed, and then tidied said bed up. The four poster had curtains like Cathy's, though thicker and velvety. Another sign of wealth. I tied them to the posts neatly like they were the night before.

The closet, left of the bed and next to the bathroom door, was closed, and I pulled the doors open. It had clothing, all conveniently my size, within. Obviously picked out for me while we dropped momma off. I picked out a summery dress, a soft yellow, proper as the creamy dress, but a thinner, cooler material. Then, as I knew would be a proper decision, I bathed. The bath was nice, warm, and there were a number of flowery soaps. I didn't care what I picked. All I cared was getting it over with. And so I did. I cleaned. I dressed. The opal necklace was clipped around my neck, and with a final check in the mirror, I hoped I was presentable.

Once I slipped on stockings and shoes, I opened my bedroom door. On the floor, I found a tray, cold coffee, toast, and dry looking fruit lying on crisp white china. Frowning, I picked it up, bringing it in. I ate the toast, as it was still a little buttery, but dumped the coffee down the sink regretfully and tossed the fruit. As a polite measure, I brought the tray with me as I strode downstairs.

As soon as my foot hit the landing, a maid took the tray wordlessly, taking it to a set of swinging double doors I assumed to be the kitchen, as I appeared to be in the foyer, near a dining hall. Another maid paced to me, anxious looking.

"My Lady Foxworth is in the study, Miss Winfield." She said softly, a sense of urgency lining each syllable. "Down the hall, third door on the left." She informed, and then hurried away as if speaking to me was forbidden.

I followed her instructions, and found the door easily. It was closed, but I could hear soft speaking and the rustling of papers. I knocked.

Grandmother answered the door a moment later, a frown causing wrinkles to deepen around her lips. "Come in." She instructed, and opened the door. I did so obediently.

The room was less a study and more a makeshift hospital. There were a number of nurses all scurrying about, and medical equipment was on every surface possible. At the desk sat a younger man with dark hair and a moustache, writing down what was dictated to him from the figure in the center of the room. My eyes made contact.