Have you ever wondered why it rains? You know, beyond all that science mumbo-jumbo about evaporation and condensation. Why does the bright blue hue of a sunny day suddenly disappear and leave elated children playing hopscotch to slump in sadness at the looming presence of cumulonimbus clouds overhead? Why do these ominous storms cast not only the city, but our bodies in darkness as joints begin to ache and minds grow weary? Isn't it strange- even a little? You see it all the time; gloomy clouds drag their bodies into view and suddenly it's, 'Man, I wish I could stay home' or sometimes even, 'This weather is so depressing'. Maybe it's superstition, but I refuse to believe it's just that science crap.

Something is coming.

Something is happening.

Something.

I can't ignore the dull ache throbbing in the space between my temples and ears, the strange wave of restlessness crashing against the walls of my stomach as lightning illuminates bizarre shadows in my room and thunder booms a little too loud for my comfort. I've tried explaining these feelings of apprehension to our housekeeper, Linette, but she recoils at any mention of superstition, or really at any word with 'super' at the forefront. I blame our house; it's far too big to not follow the creepy trend.

With no one to properly express myself to, I usually resort to our trusty pup, Nola. Nola is a great listener, at least I like to tell myself that when she sits patiently as I pour my heart out to her. She's been a great furry companion for the last 10 years. Unfortunately, she's a big dog, and you know what they say about their age at those sizes. I think she feels self-conscious of the little grey hairs growing on her muzzle and extra flab hanging from her tummy, though, so I try to reassure her of her timeless beauty as much as I can nowadays- she needs the encouragement. A dazzling doll such as herself should always believe in her worth.

Gazing up at the vaulted ceiling lined by a string of twinkling star-shaped lights, a deep frown tugs at my lips. The clouds were getting upset. What are they thinking right now? Rain drops fall like angry confusion against the window; it's almost resembles static, mimicking the sound of a TV on the wrong video input. Turning to face the window beside my bed, I peel back the curtain and watch in amazement as pools of rain splatter against the glass and create flowing streams. The thousands of little droplets find familiarity with each other and form brotherly bonds to give the illusion of a waterfall cascading down the glass. Drowning in the comfort of the momentarily soothing storm, I barely register the squeaky voice of Linette coaxing me to get out of bed.

"I know it's a stormy day, but piano lessons aren't held outside- so up, up, up!" she called out from the doorframe, her small voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain.

Sighing inwardly, I nodded to show my understanding and lift my torso to sit up, looking a lot like I rose from the dead. I hear Linette scoff just barely loud enough for me to hear- because she indeed meant to- and shuffle back out the door.

Piano lessons with Ms. Domingo were nice; she has a sweet smile, the kind that shows her age a little as shallow imprints of crow's feet crinkle at the corners of her eyes. She also has patience with me and doesn't scold me harshly like my last instructor, who was indubitably fired, but not for scolding me, of course. Mother just didn't like the way she dressed; she thought it was too butch and kept making up strange assumptions and even stranger scenarios based on said assumptions. I certainly could not, for the life of me, correlate one with the other. Either way, she was gone after only a month.

Slipping out of my cotton night gown, I change into what Mother usually likes to see me in: a button up blouse with a knee-length pleated skirt. I look into the mirror and frown. I understand that she wishes for a modest and conservative look, but I am 18 years old. It's tiring dressing myself according to someone else's demands; but, for as long as I live under her roof and with Beaumont tied to my name, I have no choice in the matter. I give the top of my foot one last tap against the floor in adjustment to my loafers before heading out for piano lessons.

Our estate is large- too large, in fact. Especially for three people. Although I am in no position to write a complaint, I've always felt strange here. The halls are too long, the staircases are too winding, and the décor is too expensive; I get anxiety every time I walk past something breakable. Not to mention, strangely the air always smells excessively of floral perfume- my Mother's doing, no doubt. We already have a fruitful garden in the backyard, we certainly don't need the inside to smell the same.

I slide my hand down the marble banister as I traipse down the stairs. Maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe I'm just an ungrateful brat. But, it would be nice if my home felt like… home, for once. When I think of a home, I think of warm, home-cooked meals by my mom and not by chefs who I think worry more about expensive ingredients and presentation than comfort and taste. Or maybe comfort in knowing my parents are just down the hall if I feel upset instead of two floors down in either a research lab until morning or up badmouthing with irritatingly cynical friends about so-and-so's failure of a salon. I want to be able to walk in through the front door and feel the accumulated stress and worry in my conscious to dissipate as I'm lovingly embraced by the unconditional and unadulterated security of my home.

Or maybe I've just been reading too many fictional novels lately.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Are you ready for this week's lesson?" chirped the ever-so-animated Ms. Domingo as I take a seat next to her at the studio piano. I offer a shy smile.

"Bonjour, Madame Domingo."

"Have you finished your piano lessons, Giselle?"

My thick head of ginger locks tilts towards the direction of the voice. Sighing inwardly, I close an enthralling book on the first Titan battle and dog-ear the page I reach; it was getting to the good bits too. As the sound of clicking heels echoing down the hall grow louder, each click pounds like a hammer against my temple.

'What is it now?'

"Just what are you doing in your father's library? Did you attend your lesson, Giselle?" comes a voice that is sharp like diamonds and cold as ice:

My mother, Camille Beaumont.

"We finished early, Ms. Domingo said there was no point in beginning next week's lesson since I got the lesson down quickly," I explain as politely as possible, though the barrier wedged between my patience and annoyance feels as though it's getting smashed by a giant log handled by big, burly men.

Eagle eyes cut into rabbit eyes. "Ridiculous. We're paying her for the full three hours, you should never be let out early unless we've arranged it beforehand. She will be contacted about this immediately."

'She'll probably fire her. Too bad, I liked this one,' mused the young woman sadly.

Camille strides towards the door, her walk full of refined dignity, grace, and power. Me on the other hand, incapable of handling such intense qualities in my bones, shift my eyes away at the sight of such a commanding presence. "Giselle?"

I peer up through my dark lashes. "You are aware of what next Monday holds, correct?"

Next Monday… What is next Monday? Piano lessons are on Tuesdays while violin lessons are on Thursdays. Ah, it must be about my academic studies on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. A test maybe? Or a quiz? I reach toward my school pack to retrieve my planner. A disapproving click on a tongue stops me short.

"Forgetful girl," she scorns, "Do not tell me you truly forgot about the TEA representatives' visit?"

'TEA…?'

Frosty blues narrow daggers at warm golds.

'What is she talking about…' I mull over hastily, shifting uncomfortably under her penetrating stare. I freeze.

"Wait, Mother, you weren't being serious about that, were you?"

"Of course I am serious, why would I joke about something like that?" she raises a calculating brow, "You aren't ungrateful for your 18th birthday gift; are you, Giselle?"

My heart drops to my stomach at her tone. It's always the disappointed tone with these situations. "N-no, of course not! It's just… I feel strangely about it, is all."

"It feels as though everyone in Mitras has one already. We couldn't dare fall behind on the trend, could we? Especially since we have the easiest access to them of all." She crosses to a tall bay window wedged between two bookshelves, meticulous eyes examining the tall vases of flowers positioned dutifully on either side like a pair of knights. "I'm sure you'll like it, Giselle; stop complaining."

Trends, image, status: that's all Mother ever cares about. I suppose it's done her well as she's practically feared as a top-tier predator in what I like to call, 'The Game'. The Game isn't quite what you'd think; it's not a public event that is outwardly discussed. It's unspoken, though indubitably present. Everyone is painfully aware of The Game, if you're a contender, and like a battle of natural selection through the food-chain, the objective is simply to survive- with their social status, that is. I never liked the idea of it, thus I try to isolate myself from anything that may involve it. However, Mother is an insatiable predator on the prowl for challengers. One of her favorite methods of attack is throwing me out in the clearing as bait as she lurks in the shadows, waiting to pounce on any challengers. Sounds a bit exaggerated, but that's what it certainly feels like when she brags about how many languages I'm studying for 15 minutes at a salon.

"Besides, it would be nice to have one around the house. We could always use an extra set of hands," she muses with a satisfied nod at the flowers, eyes traveling to the view of our garden from the window.

'What?'

"Excuse me?"

Dammit, I said that out loud. "I'm sorry, Mother, but weren't they created for… military purposes? It feels strange to have one doing house chores," I blurt with an overflow of respect, a means to repent for my insolence against her authority. She glares nonetheless.

"Yes, they were. You forget we haven't seen war for centuries, Giselle. When the time comes, they will answer the call. For now, they will be made useful while they've been created to test their abilities. They're incredible machines."

War machines mowing the lawn, huh? Inwardly, I sneer disdainfully at the thought. These weapons, otherwise known as Protectors, aren't news to me. In fact, I like to think I'm quite familiar on their subject, as our family takes the title as one of two leading researchers responsible for their development.

Protectors have been around for decades, though they haven't been formally introduced to the public until as of late. My great-grandfather, Aloïs Beaumont, along with a fellow scientist, Lodovica Grünewald, began the development of these war machines about a century ago and since then, it's been passed down to my grandfather, Olivier Beaumont, and since a decade ago, my father, Vincent Beaumont. I used to be thoroughly interested in my father's work, and I remember spending many days in his lab as he enthusiastically taught me subjects I couldn't dare process even today as the mere thought hurts my brain too much. I was rarely allowed to watch him work on the machines themselves, but I've seen my fair share of completed prototypes. The first time I saw one, my fascination grew sour. It was brief and for visual purposes alone, but something about how human they looked made my stomach turn. The thought of 'owning' one for 'trends' sake triggered a sensation of bile to crawl up my throat.

Mother seemed to notice the sickly pale of my face and clicked her tongue disdainfully. "You will meet the TEA representatives and you will accept your gift with open arms. Do I make myself clear, Giselle?"

All I can do is nod mechanically under her burning gaze.

"Very good. Now, I must make arrangements for our escort to tomorrow's salon. I do hope you didn't forget that at least," she calls with a hint of ridicule sharpening her tone as she heads back towards the door.

Ah, right. The salon at the Dupont estate. "I haven't forgotten, Mother," I murmur with a downcast of my eyes. Her stare is intimidating.

"Good girl. I'll have your dress ready in the morning. And darling?" Terrifying authority meets terrified timid. "Do leave this library every now and then. Try something less depressing than isolating yourself in this depressing weather."

Depressing weather, huh?

There's something comforting about a fire at night. I watch as wild flames lick and seethe at the burning log below, as if to assert dominance. The black metal gate keeping guard of the stone prison keeps a watchful eye as I observe from the rug only a few feet away. The orange and yellow illuminations cast a golden glow on my face. The passionate heat warms my face nicely.

Beside me lays Nola, fast asleep with the occasional dream-induced kick or scrunch of her lips. I smile at the sight and allow my hand to run freely through her black fur. Twirling a few curled ends on her chest, a deep sigh expels from my lungs.

The rain hasn't let up today, let alone for a few moments to catch its breath. It's not necessarily angry like before, but more of an empty sadness where tears pour down your face with no indication. I hate that kind of sadness, it makes me feel like crying is all I'm capable of. A low rumble denotes a potential change in mood.

"The forecast said there should be no rain tomorrow, let's hope that's true," murmured a soft voice from behind. I jump a bit in surprise.

"Hi, Linette. What time is it?" I hadn't looked at the time in what felt like hours, too emerged in the sedative atmosphere I've blanketed myself in.

"About 9 o'clock, have you been in here since you finished piano lessons?" she inquires with a touch of incredulity coloring her squeaky pitch. I smile sheepishly with a nod, earning a roll of the eyes from her.

I hear her footsteps approach before they stop short a few feet away, the sound of sinking cushions signifying her settlement on one of the plush chairs. Minutes pass in comfortable silence, the sound of pattering rain drops taking place of conversation. Linette's presence is heartening. It isn't usual that I spend time with others, unless it's appointed by my Mother. As a child, I attempted to play with the other kids, but I always felt out-of-place. It was strange, I grew up in the same setting as them, but it never clicked for me. They ended up annoying me with their haughty demeanors and selfish indulgence. I found myself frequently slipping away in hopes of finding a library like my father's, and more often than not, I was successful. Thus, I spent many salons leafing through books and emerging myself in a world that wasn't my own. Is it pathetic? To erase my existence in this world and find solace in fictional ones printed in leather-bound books, if only for a few hours? I suppose. Though I learned to find comfort in these worlds when mine felt bleak. Call it a cope mechanism, if you will, but it's a damn good one at that.

"You look like you're fighting a losing internal battle. Are you okay, Giselle?"

I snort lightly. "Sheesh, Linette, no faith in me? I had just turned the tides too." I feign sadness, eliciting an amused chuckle on her part.

"Oh hush, dear. I've noticed that your mood tends to turn sour on rainy days, so tell me, what are you thinking?" she urges, issuing a slightly uncharacteristic, though deeply welcomed display of kindness. I scoot my butt until my back hits her knees and lay my head back onto her knees. She picks up on the action quickly as she begins running her nimble fingers through my wavy tresses.

My eyes wander back to the fire, its smoldering heat charming me like a spell. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, I really don't. I appreciate everything that's been given to me in my life, because I know there are many who have much less," I pause, gaze faltering for only a second. "I just want to belong."

There it is, that stinging pain in the back of my eyes. I roll my eyes in annoyance. 'Stop crying.'

Linette stay silent, though her fingers do not stop caressing my locks. She means for me to go on.

"I guess I'm just reaching that age where I can reflect on what kind of life I have. And honestly… it's so lonely, Linette. It's so damn lonely."

Saying my deepest thoughts is harder than I thought. I feel an instinctive pull at the corners of my lips and my eyelids vibrate, like tremors indicating the beginning of an avalanche. "I'm not necessarily sad that I don't have friends, or that my parents are always busy. It's more… I feel different than them. Than everyone. Why is that? Didn't I grow up just like them? How come I'm the only one who doesn't care about stupid fucking salons? Why does anyone even care about that?" Suddenly, there's anger; hot, searing anger. I've never met this feeling. It's big and looming, with a presence that can cause earthquakes and storms. For some reason, I don't run from it. I want to meet it.

"There's way more going on this godforsaken world, Mother and Father can't possibly think I'm stupid enough to think it's nothing but fucking sunshine and flowers out there. But no one will fucking tell me. It's always vague or opinionated explanations that don't give any sort of substance or truth. I feel so suffocated and strange here. I just want to leave."

I'm crying hard now. Fat, hot tears stream down my face and down my chin, some coating my lips with its salty taste. I feel my shoulders shaking and fingers trembling, as if I caught hypothermia. It doesn't come close to the sensation in my heart though; cold, clawed hands rise from the pit of my stomach and seize my heart tightly, sharp nails digging deeply and menacingly. Linette's sudden appearance in front of me startles me awake, and, for some reason, make me cry harder. She doesn't say anything as her thin arms wrap tightly around me, as if in understanding. Why does it feel like she understands? Has she noticed all of this?

Tears and snot wet my face and her shoulder, though she shows no sign of disgust. She only holds me tighter and gently rocks us back and forth, humming an old tune she used to sing when I was younger and concerned more about monsters under my bed or the eerie darkness of my open closet door. Then, she speaks.

"I cannot give you the answers you seek. I cannot make all your sadness and frustration disappear. But, I can tell you this; right now, you're confused, lost, and angry even. You might be for a while. This isn't permanent, though, Giselle. You will find enlightenment, some way or another, and you will find peace, even if it comes in small doses. You're a bright girl, and incredibly perceptive. I mean look at you, you're finding out a lot about yourself right now, even if it's more bad than good. It's all part of the journey; consolidate with patience, wear your resilience inside and out, and most of all: stay true to yourself. You hear me, Giselle Beaumont?"

I sniffle and let out the breath of air that hitched in my throat while listening to her. My tears are gone, save for the dried-up remnants streaking my face. Pulling back, I rub my puffy lids and slump with my hands knotted in my lap. "You're right. I'm sorry for this mess, Lin, I've just… never talked about it. I'll keep your words locked in my heart, promise."

Her smile is warm. "Don't fret, dear, we all have our moments. Do not bottle in these feelings, you understand? You can only do so much on your own. I know you don't have many outlets, but I am one. Come speak to me whenever you wish. I like to think I serve more than just an old housekeeper."

"Of course you are! You're my best friend, Lin," I blush at the admittance. "And thank you, Lin. You really helped me out of a tight spot. I promise I'll remember what you said and look forward."

"Good! Should get it printed and framed while you're at it. I don't offer my divine insight for just anyone," she jokes lightly, a smirk playing at her lips. I giggle and roll my eyes.

"Divine? Hah! Yeah right," I shoot back with a grin. The grip on my heart is melting away. "Oh, looks like we woke up Nola."

Eyes drooping with sleep, Nola peers up with curiosity. "It's nothing, honey. C'mon, let's go to bed!"

Her ears perk up, familiar to the command as I say it every night. "Good night, Lin. Thank you again. You're the absolute best."

"It's no trouble. Now, get some sleep! You've got to be up bright and early for the salon tomorrow," she says as she uses my forearms to heave herself up from the ground.

I nod before patting my leg at Nola, indicating our departure. "C'mon, sleepy girl!"

'Crying really is a sedative,' I muse as I poke at my swollen lids, ready to submit myself to the alluring hypnosis of sleep.

Tomorrow I am to attend yet another salon with Mother, where I'll most likely wear a dress too tight for my waist and forced to mingle with people who only wish to see if their kids are better than me or not. I shake my head to rid myself of any irritation. Sleep comes first, my heart deserves that much, at least.