Before The Storm ( wlw / lesbian )

Chapter 1

The redhead sat, the antagonizing-ly bright light ambled above her head as she drew. The rose velvet of her sketch book had been slowly growing wearier and wearier as the days passed. Her HB pencil drawing aimlessly on the lined page; allowing her mind to draw for her.

She couldn't afford a new sketchbook; well she theoretically and in practically every way, could. A perk that came with being the daughter of two of the wealthiest people in Clairfield, but rather frankly she didn't want to. The thin paper held together by tired binds, aching to be set free and let her pages roam around the room like an aerial dancer was what gave her life a purpose. It was one of her only escapes, and if her parents knew she'd been drawing such... deviant things, they'd never let her out of the house again.

But the risk of the pages she had were priceless.

Drawings of women; (her first ever school crush, mainly), pictures of her beloved older brother taped in to keep her inspired on her off days, sketches of provocative things so lightly drawn out of fear if she pushed her pencil in too deep, the ink would seep through and manage to show it on her skin like a tattoo for everyone to see and poke at, like an enclosed wild animal.

Her house was quiet this time of night except for the sound of wrapping paper crinkling and the near inaudible song she recognized as one from the nutcracker. It was an odd night where her mother, too bored of her negligence and troubles, was actually home. To be quite frank again, Grace was sure her mother had been entertaining some of the more lonely men in Clairfield for the times she wasn't home, and her father most likely knew. However, Catholics didn't get divorced, let alone the most notorious pastor and his equally as notoriously respected wife so they stayed as horribly dysfunctional as they were.

Christmas was the only time of the year her parents were both around, as appearances simply called for their annual holiday card with well-wishes that never meant more a than mass marketing scheme to ensure they were still equally well feared and respected in the eye of the public as the perfect family. Hysterically, the wrapping paper crinkling the floor beneath was probably their maid, wrapping up some god-forsaken dress Grace would never actually want to wear, but was acceptable wear. A not so subtle dig that she wasn't good enough, yet again.

She heaved a heavy sigh, sitting up in bed and rubbing the palm of her hand against her face, stilling a yawn. With a glance at the clock on her bedside table, it shone 4:51pm in almost a mocking way. She couldn't escape at night like she usually did, because on the off chance her parents noticed the scars buried deep within her wrists, the ever so lovely beatings would get just a bit worse, and the grotesque yellow bruises coating her skin from a week ago were almost finished healing.

She wasn't even allowed downstairs to join in on the Christmas festivities her parents merely observed as most families loved gathering together to do, like setting up the Christmas tree, hanging of lights and mantle pieces, or even just drinking hot chocolate (because that had the jingle of calories). She hadn't received a thoughtful gift during Christmas in probably 10 years, since every year since her parents reminded her they had given her the life of dreams.

But how was being confined to a cold house built off lies and manipulation a gift? Hell, the only present she wanted that year was a swift bullet to the head. Maybe then the pain would stop for longer than a fresh wound she inflicted herself.

Since her brother died the summer past, she slowly was becoming more and more of a nuisance to her family, who definitely wished she had died in his place. And she wished more than anything that upon herself, too. Christian Lawrence was kind; the only one who cared about Grace and would protect her despite everything their parents would try and instil in her mind from an early age. He was too good for life; too good for the life he was given and so harshly taken from in the form of a drunk driving dickhead from the gang across the tracks. She had loathed them with all her heart since, cradling that hatred right next to the candle she held for herself.