"I'm watching you, always watching."
I woke with a start. My heart beating at 90 mph, I whipped my head around, frantically searching for the source of the strange noise. But to no avail. I abandoned the pathetic attempt. Every night for the past month, I was awoken by the same vague yet terrifying phrase. I grew even more paranoid by the minute. The all too familiar sickeningly sweet smell of roses overtook my senses once again. Almost hyperventilating, I made the extra effort to get at least some sleep before my dad's big art show tomorrow. Every since mom disappeared, dad threw himself into his art, which meant going to art galleries and shows and meeting artists almost daily. It was tiring, but I did it for him. Anyway, I guess now is as good a time as any to introduce myself. I'm Scarlett Blake, and ever since my mother mysteriously disappeared one night in November, 2005, things have been...different, to say the least.
*********
The next morning, I awoke in a haze. dread began to fill my stomach along with a giant mass of anxiety, which pooled in my throat and hardened into that all too familiar lump. Scowling at the sunlight that intruded through my window, I forced myself out of bed, took a shower, and then followed my usual morning routine: the one thing that has stayed the same throughout my life. As I was cutting up my waffles, I heard my dad clamber into the kitchen.
"Morning Red!" Souring my already bad mood, my scatterbrained father greeted me with that worn out nickname that he knew I hated. Emptily, I gave him a quick peck on the cheek before handing him his breakfast. "Look at you being all motherly and making breakfast," he teases and shake my head, shooting him a glare.
"Shut up and eat your waffles, we need to leave in a half hour," I gripe on my room. I hear him mumble an "ok grumpy-pants" as I walk away. I quickly dress myself in a stupor as I mentally prepare myself for anything enthralling dad gazing at canvases sporadically spattered with random lines and blots of color that barely pass for what critics call "modern art". It's more like the finger painting I did in preschool. Taking the stairs two at a time, I clambered down them and tugged my dad out of our apartment, down the porch steps, and into the car.
"Honestly Scarlett I don't understand why you're in such a rush. The gala doesn't start for at least a half hour." My dad huffed, obviously very upset that he didn't get to finish watching some documentary on owls.
"Yeah--a half hour. It takes at least twenty minutes to get there--and that's not countering traffic--and it take you at least 15 minutes to set up." He pressed harder on the gas. "Honestly dad I don't get why you're so laid back about this whole art thing; it's our only source of income." I winced at the last snide remark, but it needed to be said.
"That's not true, we have your monthly paycheck from the record store." He shook his head and made that parental sigh, the I-can't-believe-how-ridiculous-my-kid-is-being sigh.
"What about me dad? I only got the damn job to have extra spending money! But suddenly mom disappears--probably because young treated her, both of us--and now I have to support us? I'm only 16!" I screamed, exasperated. I could feel the anger that was bubbling up inside me slowly trickle out as venom in my words. I took a deep breath. "I just can't take this anymore. I can't do it."
His hands clenched into fists around the wheel as that familiar darkness clouded his eyes. I felt the urge to jump out of the moving car right then, but restrained myself. I'm no longer that scared little girl that ran and hid. I braced myself for his booming voice to scream at me until I was half deaf, he was half mute, or both.
Instead, he chuckled. A low, almost animalistic noise. "Classic. You and you're mother--you're almost identical. Everything's always my fault and you-you guys are the freaking saints aren't you? Should I bow down to you? Should I start repenting and asking for forgiveness?" He mocked me and I shook my head as pure anger in liquid form rolled down my cheeks. Roughly, I wiped my eyes.
"Stop the car."
"Excuse me?"
"Stop. the. car."
"Are you freaking crazy?"
"If you do not stop this car right now I swear to God I will call the police and tell them everything. Maybe that'll give them a lead on mom's case." My voice was an eerie calm. The car slowed to a stop. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and began my trek back home from Interstate X.
A small hope lingered in the back of my mind like an old, flickering light bulb. I slowly rotated my head to see if daddy dearest had stayed to get me back. Nothing. It was a stupid idea. Shaking my head, I began to sprint, losing myself to the sound of my feet pounding against the asphalt.
