Wildest

Aristo-brats

"Number twenty-one...Trousdale." Clutching her rag with things in one hand, the ticket and the song in the other, Scar races up the street in the most unbalanced of wobbly runs, making out the numbers of the villas as they blurred past. Trousdale was a pool with a shallow end and a deep end. The larger the houses, the further one was in the deep end. There it was, in all its glory, peeking out of the water more majestically than the tip of an iceberg. Scar's house. She couldn't bring herself to call it home, since the Darrington already filled that place in her heart. It was excruciatingly whiter in the sun that had come out. Its symmetry was very exact, the two main parts of the house mirroring each other were joined by a symphony of arches and columns, creating the swooping balcony to her father's room at the top. Another construction of columns to the very right of the building sheltered the familiar light blue Rolls Royce; a shade that was custom-made for her father. He must be home then! She thinks to herself, holding in a squeal. Her heart still pounded hollowly, however. There was no familiar sign of Pete being there. She reassured her lost eyes with the words of his song. And there it was, as a response to her belief, one she almost tripped on: a brown cigarette butt. She could still see the light brown triangles in its design. Without a doubt it was Pete's. He must really be asking for it. She shook her head, picking the butt out of the plain sight of the front doors. They kept the same glossy black color since she was old enough to remember it. Her father was always fond of wealthy England.

"Now Scarlett," he'd explain to his six year old daughter, pacing the grand hall of the villa with her perched on his shoulder like a squirrel wearing a velvet dress, "Wealth will never mean happiness. Wealth is like happiness, however."

"That doesn't make sense, daddy!" she'd point to one of the oil paintings masking the immaculate wall's shyness, defensively.

"It does too, my dear. If you are unhappy and you force yourself to smile, you soon will be truly happy. Money isn't very different." Scar would say that with him, and pretend she forgot all about her lecture the next day just to hear it again. There wasn't anything in particular she took from it; just the way she adored hearing her father lecture her. If only he'd follow the advice he'd given her himself. Tears had probably dug the wrinkles in his face much deeper than when Scar had last seen them. Shaking off any other propellor to memory lane, she brings her finger up to the doorbell and presses it long. She hears the bells on the other side of the door, ringing in their classical symphony striving to reach some sort of harmony but the third one was always off key. She anticipated its beat and cringed once she heard it. The doorbell was built to be boisterous enough for whomever was standing on the other side of the door to wallow in the uncertainty as to whether or not their entrance would be approved or not. Scar looks up at the peephole, noticing that flap thereof was lifted. The black door pans open slowly, producing a soft groan in protest to being put to work again. He was wearing the wine colored robe, his striped boxer shorts, and nothing else. The belt to his robe was never to be found, and never to be looked for especially after noticing how much it bothered aunt Sharon. His skin glowed in the white background of the marble interior; like honey being stirred into milk. His hair was just as white. Scar felt covered in frost from head to toe. She could not move. Or speak. She just gaped. He gaped too, then drew his eyebrows into a furrow.

"Are you...lost?" Pete questions, remembering the cigarette he was holding.

"L-lost? Pete, it's me!" Scar's tongue was developing a mind and speed of its own in the situation of building up panic. It's the red hair. I knew I should've asked Andy to return me to my usual color. But even so, she didn't use to sport a nose ring, smudgy eyes, her side hawk, and the tattoo of three small stars under her right eye. "It's me, Scar..."

"Scarly...?" no matter how tough the suspiciousness of disbelief inside of Pete was trying to make him seem, there was an unmistakable softness in his tone, one that she had never heard before. "No." he dropped the cigarette in front of her, stepping on it to put it out. "I'm not in the mood for sick jokes. You really should get a li-"