Temperament

Chapter 1

Part #1

SHE BOLTED AWAKE, a sharp, stinging, tear-inducing, crisscrossed her chest. She tried to keep her breathing level, and took deep yoga-styled breaths, clutching at her queasy stomach. She flopped on her side, with the weight of that ever occurring dreams, on her shoulders. At the corner of her eye, she saw her so black, that it was almost purple, cloak taunting her. She squeezed her eyes shut, as loneliness uncased her heart.

When her breathing finally slowed, she slowly slinked out of bed, and slugged over to her bathroom. And she stopped at her mirror, lifting her eyes to it. She saw her multicolored eyes looking back at her. She saw her scar that went across her left eye, that left her eye gray and unmoving. She, then, peeling off her clothes and went into the shower. She programs it to waterfall with a touch of her temple. When she finished, she got her towel and wrapped it around her chest. She went into her bedroom and got dressed. Her dog nips at her heels, reminding her of her other duties.

When she finishes dressing, she slinks into her hallway. She felt the presence of her dead mother, as she passed her mother's room, and before she could stop them, she started sobbing, her nails digging into her hands. And she collases onto the floor. Then a shadowy figure appeared behind her, digging it's fingers into her shoulder, and hissed into her ear, sneering , "Aw the little baby misses her mooom, well TOO BAD,” The man growls, “she knew the price of loving,” the figure shudders, "humans." Then she suddenly stops crying, and she rises up so fast, that the figure's fingers left deep gashs in her arm, that forthwith healed. "I'm ok, dad.” Exotica says, glaring up and down at her father “I. Don't. Need. Your. FUCKING. SMPATHY." She yells, her spittle flying onto his face.

The figure adjusts into a man, ash black skin, long horns, and long nails, with a pitch black suit and tie. "Ooh feisty, are we." He says, crossing his arms and sneering and laughing. Her anger boils over and she punch the wall, so hard that a crack appears in the plaster. "Uh-uh-uhhh." Her dad tsk-tsks, "Control that anger, little one." He says, cupping her chin, and wagging a claw in her face. She huffs, childishly, a strand of hair dancing on her nose. “Awwwww. ” Her dad taunts. “Is the whittle ghurl mad?” He chides, flicking the hair from her cheek. She sighs, and continues walking to their kitchen.