'You'll be crushed.'

Frank rolled his eyes and put his feet up on the dining room table, a glass of iced whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. 'What are you blathering on about now, Riff Raff?' Tired, irritable, and in a bit of a developmental slump, he was already bored with this conversation.

'When you remember,' the handyman replied from his post at the overhead cabinet, without turning around to properly address his master. 'When you realise who she is, and what you've done to her, it'll destroy you.'

'Sprite, are you even listening to me?

She looked up, taking one earphone out and rubbing her eye.

'So sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, just didn't get much sleep last night, that's all.' She pursed her lips before deciding to continue. 'Had to listen to my mother royally fuck another stranger and fight him out the house when he realised she wouldn't give him any of her money.'

In any other context, this blunt, emotionless disclosure of privacy would've caused disapproval, or at least a grimace, but here they just laughed. Running with the richest kids in the country came with stories much worse. In fact, hers were always the tamest of the whole school.

Truthfully, this was only half the reason for her bad mood. If anybody ever entertained the thought of rich kids actually having problems, they'd quickly find out that she was completely and unconditionally trapped.

She sat in school, second in the whole country for standards, education and extortionate bills every term, stifled by spoiled brats who'd never earned honest money in their lives, and neither had thier parents, no doubt. Sons and daughters of fashion designers, bank managers and music legends joined her every day for no reason other than to appear 'normal' and 'humble' to the general public.

Incentivised with two hundred dollars for passing every class led to a whole building full of ungrateful snobs. Even the lecturers had little time for their jobs - they knew every kid in the school would end up far better off than them regardless of whether they turned up for class or not, and this made them incredibly bitter, and they all got treated the same.

She only had three real friends - everybody else simpered and pandered to her every need to try and get some money, or even just to go to her house. She was disgusted by the materialistic nature of her house; all these years later she still refused to call it her home. Homes are supposed to be cosy, safe places to share your thoughts in confidence and have fun with friends. Five acres, three pools and cctv in every room achieved the exact opposite of that.

She'd give anything to go back to the simpler times, before her downtrodden, working class mother joined her friends to a trip to New York and somehow managed to seduce the manger of the tenth largest bank in the whole world. He bribed her extortionate amounts to keep the affair under wraps. She got the money and he kept his reputation. She didn't keep a word of her promise, the press lapped it up and to this day she still got recognised for being 'her' daughter.

The entitlement had gone straight to her mother's head. She was out partying every night, dining on oysters and caviar, waking up every morning with a hangover worse than the last. She didn't have a mother anymore. She was lucky if she saw her to be grilled about schoolwork or shamed for not having a boyfriend once a month. The usual bullying increased ten fold, a whore of a mother made her a much bigger target that she had already been for her ridiculous name.

Sprite was only a nickname - the story of which was too embarrasing to even think about. Only a handful of people knew her real name, and that was credit owed to her father, a man she'd never met. The last time he ever saw her mother was to sign the birth certificate, and Celeste Sanjati was born. Fucking ew. Celeste was bad enough, but Sanjati? She knew exactly why they'd chosen it. She could hear the conversation now.

'Give her something unusual, exotic, eccentric. Just like her father.' Followed by excruciatingly flirtatious laughter, in a last ditch attempt to cure his fear of commitment.

'She needs something that will help her stand out amongst all of her little school friends. Make them intimidated before they even see her. Something that will let people know who she is, and more importantly, whether they stand a chance with her.'

One quick Google search and it was all over.

Of course she didn't really know how it happened, but in her head that sounded just like the wet, desperate thing her mother would croon, followed by the egotistical bullshit that apparently spewed from her fathers lips. She certainly didn't stand out anymore, in fact her name was the most drab of all. Sorry, dad, she thought to herself bitterly.

She sifted through this melodramatic therapy session in just a few seconds, before turning her attention back to her friends. Just to evidentiate her point, her three closest friends consisted of a dark haired girl with big eyes named Zadie, a handsome, well read boy named Arlo and a girl nobody quite knew how she came to attend the school named Remi.

'My uncle's having a huge party tonight and I'm trying to rally a gang to accompany me so I don't go out of my mind.' Zadie widened her large eyes for emphasis, flipping her gorgeous sheen of black hair as she spoke.

One thing she couldn't complain about was the parties. Every day someone's family member, no matter how distant they may be was having a huge blow-out, and there was nothing better than the prospect of getting completely smashed. Now, she was never one for generalisation, but literally every party she had been to featured grown men and woman who were perfectly happy serving alcohol to anyone who walked in the door. In fact, that's how she'd gotten her nickname.

The first party she'd been to (or 'gathering' as she was instructed to call it, lest her mother threw a fit - until she stopped caring, that is), was when she was twelve years old. A middle aged woman had taken her by the arm with a promise to look after her and offered her a drink, to which she'd confidently asked for a Sprite. The entire venue absolutely rioted. There was no worse way to let everyone know how clueless she really was. They laughed about it all night, and the name stuck.

'I've been looking for an excuse to get hammered all week. What time should we get there?'

Zadie scrolled through her phone. 'Well he said he still has most of his guests there from last night, so we could probably just go there now. After we change of course.' They all looked down in disgust at thier mustard yellow uniforms. She looked to the front of the classroom. The obnoxious grandfather clock told her it was twelve o'clock, and she noticed that the lecturer wasn't even there - she vaguely remembered hearing the door close as she absentmindedly drew on the back of her hand.

On the way out they passed two teachers and four cleaners, and not one of them even looked concerned.

'Complete waste of fucking time being here.' Zadie muttered. 'All four of us could die tomorrow and they'd probably read a poem in tutorial.'

Sprite snickered into her sleeve, but she kind of had to laugh, otherwise she'd cry. She couldn't imagine ever living a life where she wasn't just 'coping' all the time. It was slowly crushing her.

They didn't live too far away from the school, or from each other, so they all went to their separate houses. She entered the code to open the gate and dropped her Balenziaga in the doorway, before checking the cctv in the kitchen. She didn't check it properly, or as often as she should, she knew that. She climbed two flights to her bathroom and stepped into the shower. Powerful jets of water soaked her from all sides as she massaged her scalp and shaved her legs. She stared dejectedly at her wardrobe: racks upon racks of designer clothing picked out by her mother.

She knew these parties were never formal affairs. One time Arlo had woken her up in the middle of the night and they'd literally turned up in thier pyjamas. So why the fuck was it still so difficult picking out an outfit?

She pulled out a slightly oversized grey t-shirt, denim booty shorts and sparkly trainers. The outfit alone probably came to over a grand, she felt quite sick as she slipped it over her head. She dried her hair and re-applied her makeup and called her chauffeur to come and pick her up.

She cracked open two beers and downed them one after the other. There was an unofficial competition between them to see who could end up worse at the end of every event. She knew it was really bad, and pre-drinks were supposed to be a group affair to nobody could cheat, but for some reason she was determined to win tonight.

It was another fifteen minutes before she heard the lamborghini crunch the gravel outside. She grabbed a clutch and headed out, entering the code to lock the gate. Her chauffeur, Ralph, was one of the only members of staff that she actually liked, and Sprite smiled warmly at him as she got in.

'Morning, Celie.' He'd affectionately shortened her legal name, and she loved him for it.

'Morning, Ralph. To the Elwood manor today. Actually quite looking forward to this one.' She confessed.

'Another party?' He asked, raising an eyebrow at the rearview mirror. 'Didn't he just have one yesterday?'

'Yeah, I think so. Probably not even another one, just last nights never finished.'

She secretly dreaded asking to be taken to the manor. A huge country estate in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and it was near impossible to find. A good forty five minutes away the last quarter consisted exclusively of dirt roads and hedges, no signs, other cars, or even other people to help you find it. There's no sign of civilisation anywhere, it suddenly just appears right in front of you.

She felt awful for Ralph having to find his own way back. It was just past one o'clock when the pulled up alongside the Mercedes and Ferraries and Morgans. Zadie was just getting out of her car when they arrived. Sprite thanked him and told him she'd be getting a lift back. She lied, but really didn't want to make him come out there at stupid o'clock in the morning. Her mother would have no problems making such demands.

She got out and hugged her friend. They looked practically the same, except Zadie's makeup was a lot more dramatic. On the pull tonight. Zadie reached out and rang the loud, ominous doorbell. The door flew open in seconds to reveal the most wonderfully eccentric man she'd ever known.

Zadie's uncle didn't exactly do well for defying stereotypes. He way gay, promiscuous and completely insane. Anyone who's brave enough to spend the night knew he liked to scare the shit out of you - mostly after you'd fallen asleep. He'd leave horrible Halloween decorations hanging from the ceiling fan and shriek at the top of his lungs, pour crickets on you in the shower and leave buckets of green slime teetering on the shelves in the wardrobe.

Today, he wore an obnoxiously bright, multicoloured woolly jumper, peacock patterned loose trousers with suspenders and no shoes. Complete with pince-nez glasses, mad scientist hair and a comedy sketch moustache, he was the pinnacle of rich weirdos.

'Sprite, my darling, how are you?' He cried, yanking her through the door and into his chest. She clutched on to him to steady herself before she was practically shoved out of the way. Zadie received the same treatment and they giggled breathlessly into the main living area. Stone floors, high ceilings and portraits that watched you wherever you went had been modernised by the huge bar, multitude of rugs and a small army of party guests. Some weird rock opera track blared from the speakers (embedded in the wall somewhere no doubt), and Sprite had to scream to be heard as she greeted her many acquaintances who were already too smashed to care.

They explored and found thier friends quickly. Arlo was in the attic intensely making out with a girl, and Remi was crying to a sympathetic older man in the bathtub about getting the white Rolex for Christmas instead of the black one. Zadie pulled Sprite back downstairs and poured them each four shots of tequila.

'Cheers.' Zadie clinked her glass against hers.

'To one in the afternoon.' Sprite toasted, and knocked her drink back.

All five of them clambered into the Mercedes, sopping wet and smashed beyond comprehension. Sprite had never felt so ill. Her head pounded and swam lazily, ears ringing and eyes too heavy to keep open for more than one second at a time. She screamed until she could sit down, had enough common sense to wear her seatbelt, opened the car window and vomitted out on to the floor. She heard a distant roaring of laughter, and despite the state she was in, she couldn't bring herself to regret anything she did.

Remi desperately tried to put the keys in the ignition, but was just stabbing them aimlessly at thin air. She was vaguely aware of the other three in the back, shouting, singing, moaning. Arlo's girl had taken her top off in his arms. It was midnight: eleven hours of non stop drinking has rendered them all useless.

'This isn't even my car, isn't it funny?' Remi slurred, burping loudly as she laughed. The smell of alcohol and pizza hit Sprite in the face and she threw up a little in her mouth. 'I just found the keys on the floor, so they obviously wanted someone to use thier car to get home, isn't that thoughtful?'

The engine roared to life and they meandered down the dirt road. Now, even in her state, Sprite knew this was incredibly dangerous, not to mention illegal. No one had a clue where they were going, the slut was on Arlo's lap and Remi wasn't even looking at the road, she was crying about having dried sick on her top. She should probably say something, but was too tired to really care at the moment. Maybe I'll take a nap and address this in the morning, she thought to herself, yawning deeply.

They bounced along the road horrendously, three in the back screaming and laughing like they were on a roller coaster. Zadie was sprawled out across them, half asleep and groaning. Arlo tried to play with her hair but was almost sick on her instead. They bounced so hard the slut fell into the door and it opened. With no support, she tipped forward and came this close to falling out on to the road at however many miles an hour. She hollered and slammed it shut, almost breaking the window in the process. Sprite put her hand on Remi's sweaty shoulder.

'At least wait until the rain stops.' She wasn't sure what actually came out of her mouth, but that's what she'd intended to say. She was right, though. Fat rain drops hammered down in sheets, and it was only then she realised they'd gone the whole way without wipers or lights.

Remi sighed and let go of the steering wheel. In the blessed silence, Sprite leaned against the delightfully cool window and fell asleep.

A huge crash of thunder woke her with a scream. She'd jumped a foot in the air and her chest hurt from the speed of her heart. It was two in the morning: she'd slept for over two hours.

Everyone in the car had gone. Instantly she felt a sinking feeling. She checked her phone - dangerously low battery - and saw the usual texts inviting her for a Starbucks, asking her opinion on designers, and one from her mother, sent at five which read: Hosting. Don't come home. But nothing from her friends. The lovebirds probably went to fuck and Remi probably went with Zadie to piss somewhere. Another fifteen minutes passed before she started to get worried.

Judgement clouded by alcohol, she got out and began to look for them. She trekked through the mud, raining harder than ever for a few minutes before she took her shoes off. They were Louboutin's, she was not about to wreck them. Her bare feet squelched in the wet mud, fighting to keep from vomitting at the feeling of the mud squeezing between her toes.

She stopped counting how many times she'd slipped after seven. She'd been walking for ages and still had no sign of them. They were probably in the same situation as her. Her hands and knees were slimy and caked with mud, wet hair plastered to her face. Just as she was either about to throw a tantrum or call the police, she saw a castle. Beautiful, grand, and most importantly, warm. It made sense; this area was full of rich weirdos. There were no lights on and no cars parked in front, but it was worth a try.

She gritted her teeth and pixie danced across the gravel on her bare feet. She leaned against the door and it swung open. She dropped to one knee in the doorway and scrambled upright. She stood there for a moment, contemplating whether she should go in. Another crash of thunder sent shivers down her spine and she stepped in, closing the door behind her.

At first glance someone definitely lived here, but on closer inspection perhaps they didn't. It was extremely cluttered, but in a nice way, antiques crammed on to every surface, china plates in the sink and faded ornate rugs - but everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, as if the owners hadn't been here for quite some time. It wasn't uncommon for their kind to own many homes across the world, she assumed that was the case here. But then, why was the door unlocked?

It was dark, spacious, and fucking terrifying. Candelabras created dark shadows that concealed the furthest corners and threw menacing shapes on the walls. She couldn't relax, waiting for something to jump out at her. Or at least, a very angry home owner to shove her back out in the rain.

She could barely stand on the smooth wood floor, and she was too scared to explore thoroughly so she slowly ascended the carpeted stairs. The dark wood banisters gleamed in the dim light as she walked, shaking terribly. She walked as slowly as she could on the second floor corridor, terrified that it would creak under her weight. A bright yellow line shone from the crack under one of the doors. She crept closer and leaned her head against the wood. She heard very loud creaking and laughing and moaning. The fucking sluts had snuck off to have a threesome at the neighbours.

She slammed her fist against the the door, took a deep breath and screamed 'I know you're in there!' In the way only a drunkard could. Sprite half fell back down the stairs. She wasn't sure where she was planning to go, but just as she pulled the door open her phone sounded.

Went to get you a blanket and some water. Where are you? R.

She stared at her phone, dumbfounded. All that time and they'd been finding her something to drink? Five minutes longer and she'd be sat in the warm car with Remi. Sprite's drunken mind questioned one crucial thing: who was fucking upstairs?

She felt like she might cry. She tried to tell herself it wasn't that bad, but it really was. She'd pounded on the door in the middle of a passionate exchange between two completely estranged lovers. The man and wife of the house, no doubt. How was she going to talk her way out of this one? She decided to at least see if they were bothered or not and went back upstairs to find the door open and the lights off. Oh, shit.

She felt blindly through the rest of the dark house, using the walls for support. She was too scared to use the torch on her phone incase she gave herself away. She wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if she didn't at least try to apologise, but every door she'd tried had been locked. Finally the third floor corridor offered some salvation as one of the doors opened at her push.

She couldn't see anything, but she knew she was in a very grand bedroom. As her eyes adjusted she could just make out a four poster bed and a very large dresser with a huge mirror, and she found the wardrobe by nearly killing herself on it as she raced in.

She went straight to the dresser, searching in all the drawers. They had her shoes, (she'd accidentally dropped them on her way down the stairs and no way was she going back out there barefoot again). Her sobriety had increased significantly, and she decided to scrap the apology and get the fuck out of there. She desperately searched through the piles of women's lingerie but couldn't find anything of hers. She hissed in exasperation, grabbed her hair and straightened up.

She felt a sickening numbness spread throughout her entire body when she saw the dark figure leaning against the wardrobe.

'Are you lost, little mouse?'

She fainted.

Cause if nobody hears that tree fall down,
Does it make a sound?
And am I even here if I'm alone?

Team Player - ELIZA

A/N:

Hello there, unconventional conventionalists.

I don't have a deep, heartfelt reason as to why I'm doing this whole fan-fiction thing.

I'm a huge fan of the show and wanted to get back into writing again, thus the love child was born. Thank you very much for reading, I hope you all enjoyed and I'll see you soon.

Alma Oakley