Horse Star

Prologue

It's been two months since my parents left Canada. My father lives in New York now. He had called me the other day, saying that he found a nice, somewhat isolated place to start his new training ground construction.

He was still trying to convince me to go to the U.S. to join him and become a junior trainer as soon as I graduate. I declined. Canada is home to me. I don't know why he's trying to change that.

On Mom's end, I still haven't heard from her since she left. Her divorce might have sent her in a strong state of lonliness. Dad wanted the divorce, for he found another woman that he found interest in. I felt bad, because as soon as the divorce ended on January 18th, she vanished to Paris. She left nothing but a note that read: Farwell. Hello, Paris.

At first I didn't understand what it meant. Father seen the note, and he was beyond furious. He was rigid as pain and hatred grew in his cold, blue eyes. He was well over 6 foot, and he was frightening against my 5'8" form. I was a spitting image of my mother with my waist-length, brown hair and warm brown eyes. My father's raven black hair was short and thick.

He stormed up the cottage stairs, and dragged three packed suitcases and two extra large duffel bags out, throwing them into the back of his pickup truck. His new girlfriend wasn't with us, so I'd imagined that he picked her up along the way to New York. How they made it to New York was beyond me, but a man brought the navy blue Ford Raptor back.

"You're dad says it's yours now," the man had told me. I didn't know the man, but he did say that he was a worker buddy of his. The first time Dad called from N.Y. he asked if his buddy got the truck to me. I did say yes while yearning for my mother's words as well.

"Are you all right, Dear?" Grandma's voice severed my thoughts. Grandma gave me sympathetic eyes when I glanced up from the table.

I had stopped eating the pancakes Grandpa made, and it worried them when I stopped eating. It means I'm distracted by thoughts that pulled me from the real world. Looking out the window, the snow was falling from the sky above.

Grandma had thick (but not too thick), shoulder-length, brown hair and the warm, brown eyes. If you put an image of her in her teen years, an image of Mom in her teen years, and an image of me now, you would swear that we were triplets until you learned our real connections.

Grandpa on the other hand had short, more thin, mop of brown hair with the bluest of blue eyes I've ever seen. They usually had a twinkle in their eyes. However, they aren't so beautiful when he's angry. The most angry I have seen him was when Mom and Dad abandoned me without a second thought to go to Paris and New York.

"I'm fine," I muttered. I try my best not to be consumed by my thoughts, but half the time they still take over.

Grandpa changed the subject for my sake, "High school will be starting up in August. You should get ready for that." I pondered, my eyes trained to the beautiful flakes hitting and melting on the window before their droplets glided down.

"Yeah," I finally agreed.

"Which high school do you want to go to?" Gram quizzed curiously.

"Zyaire Academy." They were both silent, sparing each other a glance in my peripheral vision. "Mom went to that high school. And so did you two. I want to continue our lineage."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" My eyes shifted to hers. My brown eyes are the same warm brown they've always been, but they seemed harsh when I looked through her pupils. She smiled longingly. "Your mother looked the same exact way." My eyes widened slightly at the sudden confession. "The same exact confidence. My own mother said the exact same thing to me years ago."