A Ride on the Bad Side

Chapter 1

A Ride on the Bad Side by unoriginalkatia

I blame it on the chocolate muffin. I mean, all big things have to root from a small problem, right? And my chocolate muffins are not something you should mess with. Its delectable, sweet drops of heaven, mixed into the warm, soft batter make it so delicious, that it could kill. And, well, mine almost did.

 You see, each morning I have a plane fly in freshly made muffins for breakfast from my favorite French bakery, Joie de Vivre. Of course, I’d like them to be fresher, but really at the moment, living in Paris isn’t an option. I mean, ever since my father’s company was moved to New York, we had the flying worked into our negotiation.

 My name is Gemma. Gemma Marie Lilac Winton Anderson. I know you’re all probably extremely curious as to what my parents were thinking when they decided to name their child that. I guess if your father is a multi-billionaire, they tend to make exceptions.

 For as long as I can remember it has been this way. The excessive money spent for any trivial thing I wanted.  To sum it up basically, I was spoiled. I mean what teenage girl in her right mind wouldn’t be? With the custom made wardrobes, flights anywhere at any time, and the second I asked for something I got it; not being spoiled is pretty hard with a deal like that. Other than that though I’m not your typical rich girl, I mean I do have to live up to my name right? 

 “Gemma, please come down, it seems that there has been a bit of a... complication,” Whitmann, our butler said through the intercom in an almost wistful tone. I wonder what it is this time. There’s always something he needs me for, but it’s always different each time.

 “Alright, I just hope my muffins will be down and ready to go. If not, well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” I say with a tight smile, even though he couldn’t see me.

 There was a silence on the intercom and I know that Whitmann hung up. Dammit. I was hoping he would bring it up… Oh well. Guess I have to actually move. Leaving my furnace abyss of a bed, I slid out from under the plush covers and reach my toes towards the neon pink furry rug spread throughout my room.  Of course, that’s what I attempted to do, but as usual things didn’t go as planned for me.

 Suddenly I slipped, reaching out in some vain hope to catch myself. The floor loomed closer and closer and I closed my eyes bracing for the jarring impact to come.

 “Ooof,” I let out a puff of air, my body landing with a large thud. I cracked open my eyes a bit trying to see if I had in fact made the trip to heaven this time.

Instead I got a very personal look at what excellent weaving my carpet was made out of. Sighing and then slowly untangling each and every one of my limbs I surprisingly made it out of the room in one piece to go see what Whitmann needed.

My house is made up of several light pastel color schemes, but most of it is just plain white. With wide, arched ceilings and alabaster colored floors, it was always filled with a bright light. All in all, I’m surprised that it wasn’t larger, but I guess my mom liked the simple elegant look. Not that I would ever really know.

 When I was three, we found out she had been diagnosed with cancer, and she died shortly after that. I remember it as clearly as a three year old could; the fuzzy images of the pristine white lab coats, her smile, and bright diamond eyes. For a while my father even kept up the charade that she was away on a vacation, but the thing about vacation is that you have to come back eventually. One day she simply didn’t. 

Or that’s what I would like to think. I took a deep breathe in, feeling my lungs expand and try to steady my vicissitudes of breathing. Hesitantly wiping my eyes from their misery I continue on my way to the grand staircase and walk down it in a collected manner. A single, tear that enveloped all of the sorrow and pain within, trickled alone down my cheek. Sometimes it just hurts so much. It hurts, but being rich everyone assumes that everything is perfect. But it’s not.