Heartbroken

Chapter 4: Milo

The old car drove away, and I watched as it turned the corner, the engine loud. I rested my shoulder against the sill of the window, my mind more of a jumbled mess than usual. Why was my father -- a very influential man -- wanting to be a psychiatrist for Allegra's little sister, now of all times? Sure, he studied psychology in High School, but not enough to help someone. He's a businessman, not a person who helps people. He makes people trust him -- no, not him; his facade -- and then takes something from them, something valuable and worth his time. What does Allegra and Mercy have that are worth my father's time?

I took the marble out of my pocket, rolling it around my fingers, focusing and feeling the smoothness of the toy. But I stopped. I put the marble back in my pocket, and let my hand rest to the side. And I let my thoughts come.

My father has never done something without an end goal in mind. Why is he doing this for Allegra's sister? I've never known him to be nice and I don't think I'll ever understand, but my father is not up to anything good.

It was a good thing that I was leaning against the wall, because the sharpness of the words would have sent me staggering. My head pounded as the abundance of words pained me more than I would like to say.

My father has never been good to anyone, especially me, so why would he be doing that now? He's a businessman: he makes you trust him and then takes what he wants and forgets about you. He thinks that I don't know that, but he also doesn't know how smart I am. He doesn't even know who I am. What I've become. He doesn't care how I feel or how I want him to notice me.

The thoughts rushed, winding and turning, a vortex in my mind. The sad thing was that it was all in my head: no one could hear it but me. I quickly grabbed the marble again, wishing the thoughts to stop. The marble held a comfortable weight in my hand, and slowly, the thoughts melted into the background where they belonged. The constant hum and rhythm made it hard for me to focus, but focusing was a skill that had been developed long ago.

I was breathing heavily, and a drop of sweat rolled down my forehead. I pushed myself away from the wall, and started walking unsteadily. I felt my head, though it was still pounding. My foot hit the baseboard, causing me to stumble, and lose the marble in my pocket. I watched as it fell, almost in slow-motion, and rolled away. Focus. I focused on the ground that my feet were planted on, the clothes on my back, the blackness of my closed eyes. But there's nothing you can do to stop a tsunami.

The first wave was too much, and I fell to my knees, pounding my head and trying to make it stop. Thoughts bombarded my mental barrier, hurting my senses. Before long, I couldn't pretend any more. My eyes rolled into my head and my body went limp.

"Daddy?" the small boy stood on his tiptoes, clutching the edge of the desk, trying to see over. The man glanced up from a pile of papers, but the look he gave had nothing to do with love.

"Daddy?" the boy asked again, an excited look crossing his young features. "Can we play hide and seek?"

This time, the man put his pencil down, resting his head on his arms so he could see into the boys eyes.

"Son, I am busy. We can play another time."

Those words melted the boys heart, but he didn't want to show that. His father would say that he was weak. He looked back to the father that had already continued working, ignoring the child. Instead of crying, he just hurt inside, so that no one could see.

The boy walked out of the room.

The loud festivities from the entrance hall tempted the boys ears. Loud music, gourmet food, people laughing. There were more people downstairs then he had ever met. He didn't like people. But something tugged on his mind, made him want to be down there, dancing, smiling.

He jumped off his bed, making his way to the door. He turned the knob. It was locked. Just like his father's heart.

My eyes opened. I could feel my heart beating under my hot skin, my forehead warm and feverish. I was still lying on the ground, my arms to the sides and my ligaments weak. I pushed myself to my knees, and a sense of nausea swept over my eyes, causing everything to go blurry. I forced myself up anyway, leaning on the wall for support, my legs slightly shaking.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed that the light had changed: the sun was almost below the horizon. I coughed, a bruised feeling spreading throughout my body. I left the wall and began walking to the library.

I saw no one in the halls: my father preferred to only have one butler, but I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe less evidence to accuse him of anything. The library was also quiet, lit with the large chandeliers hovering above your head and the bookshelves. I shut the door, resting my head against the wood. It had been so long since I had my first panic attack like that. I remembered feeling so alone and forgotten: no one knew that I had them, and no one knows now that I have them still. I've accepted the fact that it will always be like this.

I've never felt at home in this place. I didn't belong. Ever since my mother died, I haven't belonged anywhere.

I remembered when I was three, and had already learned to read and write in two different languages. I had decided to write a poem, which I have kept my whole life.

Dark hair, dark eyes,

Dark soul, dark lies,

My mom has died.

My dad has tried,

To be a good person,

But he's really bad at it.

Ah, the innocence of children. If you don't believe that I wrote this when I was three, I don't blame you. I don't either.

I paced to the desk, pulling out one of the smaller drawers and withdrawing a single marble from my secret stash. Its presence was a comfort, and it allowed me to search the shelves effectively.

The book that I grabbed was of mythology. It was large, the pages counting to at least a thousand, its red cover holding the words 'The Book of Abramelin The Mage' in fancy text.

I dropped in on a table with a thud, and opened to the first page. It smelled of aged parchment and old newspapers. I flipped to the index, following the lines with my finger, searching for anything that might give me a clue about Gifts. Pencil marked the pages in dark lines, my notes spread completely throughout the book. I had studied this book around two years after I started being... different, and so far I had not found much. I tried to study it as frequently as possible, but nothing has ever really stood out.

The reason that I have studied this book in particular, is because it talks about a magic system that allows someone to gain powers. But apparently, finding the origin of a strange power that no one else has is just a little bit hard.

I stared at the pages for another five minutes before sighing dejectedly and shutting the book with a thud. Though I didn't find anything this time, I carried the book under my arm back to my room, shoving things away on the desk to make room for it.

I fell onto the bed, emotionally tired, but physically awake. I laid there for a while longer before pushing myself up and then laying down on my back. I stared up at the ceiling, blankly. Unable to bear the stillness, I bounced off the large bed, hopping into my swiveling chair and sliding over to my desk. I unlocked my computer and clicked on my dad's files. His files consisted of everyone that he's done business with, and all of their personal information. He also recorded anyone who seems of importance. Normally these files are secret, but my father let me see them because it's a way of showing that he 'trusts' me.

My mouse hovered over the folder labeled with Allegra's name, considering the pro's and con's. I pulled my hand through my hair, conflicted, though I already knew what I would do, or rather, wouldn't do. My hand left the mouse, and the file disappeared.

I leaned back in my chair, sighing. I looked out the large window, hearing the patter of rain before I saw it covering the streets of our city, the sidewalk glistening.

I don't understand what's going on, but my father is up to something bad - worse than normal - and I'm going to find out what. When my mom was still here, she would tell me to trust my gut; and that's exactly what I'm going to do.