Starsong

Prologue

Monroe never understood why they had to move. She had lived in their Louisiana home her entire life. She had scraped her knee on the ottoman corner edge, the same corner her childhood pet, Robin, chewed on when he was teething. At nine, she had cried when Robin got hit by a car on Oak Street after he had escaped through a hole in the fence. She cried even harder when the vet put him down shortly after, but she never wanted to leave. There was never a need to, she felt. There was only a sketchbook, some pencils, and feelings poured out onto a page.

So, nine years later, when the doctors pronounced her father as dead, two hours after he was hit on Oak Street, Monroe had to wonder why her mother wanted to move up north, thousands of miles from their Southern home. Why did she want to leave? Wasn't that something you did when you experienced a loss? You stayed strong. You stayed. Death wasn't something from which you ran; you welcomed it so that when you hoped and prayed that your loved ones were at peace, Death ensured they truly were. To run from death was to impose the foulest of slumbers onto the deceased. It was disrespect on the highest level, and Monroe's mother could not understand that. Monroe did, even if she invented these sentiments herself.

On the plane ride north, Monroe slept a good two hours. Her mother shook her awake when an attendant walked down the aisle with refreshments. For once, Monroe couldn't remember her dreams, so when she flipped open her sketchbook, she drew a blank.

After observing her daughter staring at the blank page for a few minutes, Deborah Lancey leaned over and patted Monroe's hand in comfort. "It's okay," she said, her breath laced with the bitter smell of wine, "we all experience a block sometimes."

Monroe felt like running, as neither the pencil nor her mother's hand was offering any semblance of solace.