Sing!

Prologue

A/N: Okay, so this is just a test. I'm writing this story with AWPine. I''ll be writing from Brook's point of view and AWPine from Alba's (whom you'll meet soon enough). This is somewhat of an experiment so we'd be very glad to hear your opinions, any hints for improvement – should they be necessary – and anything else you might want to tell us. If you like this story please vote, comment, fan. Mmm... if you don't like the story and want us to know, then please don't be rude about it ;) That's all I can think of for now,

Love all of you!

Grace (Nettle)

P.S. copyright: Attribution (creative commons)

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Prologue

Scarlet Brooklyn Grace

My father. He had taught me to sing away my worries, to sing to make my happiness stronger. But one day I stopped singing to make things better, because when I sang, things got worse.

My father was my idol, my everything. I remember the time a supposed best friend betrayed me. She’d told everyone a secret. The secret wasn’t very important, but the fact that she’d tell everyone just to be popular had hurt me deeply. I’d gone home crying, and my father had hugged me until the tears had stopped falling. Then he had sung with me, and all my worries had disappeared.

Later, when I sang, my poor mother would burst into tears and I’d be overwhelmed with pain and guilt. It was my fault that he had died. My mother knew that, and still loved me, even though I hated myself. What was there left to love?

But because Dad had always said that singing would make everything better, I tuned out my mother’s crying and sang.

Dad was wrong though. The only thing that could make everything better now, was him. And my singing couldn’t change the past, couldn’t bring him back. So I made up my own definition of singing: it didn’t make anything better, it didn’t make my pain go away. Instead, it intensified my emotions, especially the bad ones.

I used to lie awake in bed, fighting sleep, because sleep brought nightmares. And when I did fall asleep, I would wake up screaming for my dad to step on the brakes. Finally I decided to stop singing. My mother couldn’t bear it. And neither could I.

I had been well known at school for my singing. People I had thought were my friends abandoned me after I stopped. They had only wanted to share my fame.

Soon after, I discovered that if I ran fast and hard until my legs cramped and I threw up, the physical pain would distract me from the grief. Running became my new singing, because that at least gave me relief from the overwhelming emotions.

None of that matters though, because I no longer care the way I once did. That girl died along with her father. The creature that filled the shell left behind by Scarlet is a sullen thing that snaps at everyone. That thing goes by Scarlet’s middle name, Brook. Scarlet was what Dad had called me.

But this isn’t a story about how running heals me, or how I don’t care for fake friends, or how Scarlet died and Brook fell deeper into depression with each passing day. This is the story about how I make real friends who help me rediscover the music within me and sing it out for everyone to hear. This is the story of how Brook slowly becomes Scarlet once more.