Soulwriter

Soulwriter Ch. 7

Ch. 7

Kiki was with me wherever I went, even as I traveled out through numerous countries, she was always with me.

Her intelligent blue eyes mirrored mine, and as time went by, we both had become attached to each other, and even though Kiki was not human and she could not speak, in many ways, I thought she was the one who understood me the most.

I treaded lightly up the marble stairs, the thick carpet feeling soft under my toes, I headed up to the second floor, passing by another winding staircase, to my room. I breathed a sigh of relief as I dove into my bed, clutching my soft pillow.

Kiki purred beside me, as she had leaped onto my bed, climbing on top of me.

I scratched her head, "I spoil you too much,"

She meowed happily, as if to agree with my statement.

Finally I clambered up from my soft covers, and brought myself to my desk near my room's large paned glass windows.

I loved this room, snug in the corner of the manor, it was cozily big room.

My favourite feature of my little sanctuary were the two large windows, each separate on different walls.

The room had a pretty high ceiling, and there was a cushioned window seat behind fluttering velvet drapes set in front of the large stainless glass that peered into the rose garden.

The other window had a view of the lovely little fountain beyond the balcony of the first floor, and I loved the higher view of the assorted dainty floral bushes, the flowers turning into detailed light specks from high up.

My desk was purposely set in front of this window, and I found the old and frequented scene quite inspiring, the quaint familiarity charming.

The work desk in my room was a sandalwood antique, and I loved it.

It had been a birthday present, and I still remember grandmother chuckling at a wide-eyed five-year old's fascination with the delicate carved brass knobs.

It had been quite an extravagant present, and even now, I still treasure this writing desk.

With all my travelling though, the times I've used the this desk have lessened considerably.

Nevertheless, during the summers I've spent in Rosewood Manor, half of my time was spent scribbling away stories at my little wooden sanctuary, and that was what made it special.

Already, the top was cluttered with scattered line paper, each filled to the brim with swishing words, and hundreds more of story drafts were carefully stored in the drawers.

My pen stand is probably a bit unlike the average 13 year old. Instead of normal pencils, it was instead filled with favourites from a collection of fountain pens, and a snow white quill stood proudly beside a covered inkwell.

I sat down, picked up a pen, and started to write.

Writing is so much more than just words. It's an amazing feeling, to see story being spun from your own fingertips, to know you're creating another world.

It was a somewhat private and exhilarating feeling.

But I had to be careful.

A lot of times, I would have to suddenly stop, and force myself to break away from my writing.

That would be when I got that "feeling".

When I could feel my birthmark starting to pulse and the atmosphere around me would turning icy.

When I could feel sparks flitting through my fingertips, and energy would be draining from my frosty surroundings, rippling onto the paper.

Those were the times when I knew that I would be unable to control my powers, and that whatever I wrote would become reality, matched with someone else's life as a sacrifice.

It was already evening by the time I set down my pen, and collected my new drafts on a neat stack upon my desk. My mind was still spinning while I absent-mindedly headed down the stairs for dinner.

The dining table was like always, covered with a heavy white table cloth, with the gleaming silverware and porcelain plates set in place

At the end of dinner, my grandmother announced "Next week will be the annual gathering, and I want to introduce you to everyone, it's next Saturday, so please wear something suitable."

The "annual gathering" or whatever, was basically a social gathering of the top society of people around the world, most of them came from U.S., U.K., or Europe.There were also people from Asian countries such as China, Japan, and South Korea.

I had never went to fancy events like this due to lack of interest, and I was never required to go either --- apparently, until this year.

Usually, the location is different eerytime, I noticed this because each year, grandmother would attend this "gathering" and our traveling schedule would always be set to accommodate that year's meeting.

In the safety of the quiet confines of my room I sighed and I muttered,

"Great. Trust her to tell me this one week before, I don't even know what to wear!"

Not that I actually cared about clothing, it was just common sense. The event next week would be counted as my first time stepping into any type of social encounter, and the future reputation of my name "Laurellele Marie Rosewood" would be dependent on me creating a good impression.

Also, I knew that, it was usually as of tradition, for any son or daughter (or granddaughter for that matter) to be formally introduced at the gathering when they were turning 14.

Which would include me.

I sighed.

Oh, joy.

"Goodness knows how many people I'm going to shake hands with, and no doubt I would have to meet with every single person interested in looking at 'Loriane's lovely granddaughter'"

I muttered all this, half-ranting, even though the event was days and days away.

Plus, as I continued the thought in my head,

I would probably have to meet and be introduced to just about every single idiotic son-of-a-multimillionaire oaf belonging to the "opposite gender".

That was a point which baffled me.

Why do adults always feel the need to do awkward match-making?

Despite the jumble of only half coherent thoughts, there was something else that was nagging me.

"How in the world will I be able to survive with so many people?"

In a large-scale gathering like what would be next week, there would be countless emotions trying to get in my mind. I solemnly prayed, I hope it would at least be an open space, so the thoughts would be easier to repel.

I shook my head, trying to get the anxious thoughts out of my head.

"Whatever, think about that next week, you don't have time right now, you need to worry about tomorrow."

I collapsed onto my bed, even though it wasn't even that late, lately, with so many complications, I didn't even know where to start worrying first.

And as I closed my eyes the last image to appear behind my closed eyes was the scene the Alex, still playing the violin.

As I lost my final thread of consciousness, it was as if I could hear his sad song playing through my head.