notes | so, i was on a forum a few months ago, and they had a prompt for a character to have a writing assignment; this writing assignment should be anything that you, as the author, have written a few years ago, three to four, so here it is, :) i completely edited it and changed things up a bit but the original storyline that i wrote as a eleven year old is still there, so i hope you guys like this! please don't let the length scare you.
also, i wrote this on my phone SO I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR FORMATTING/SP&G ERRORS and just the horrible quality of this in general.
castle walls
dylan marvil, or a broken toy
Everybody thinks that I have it all, but it's so empty living behind these castle walls -—
It's a Friday; she's always hated Fridays.
Dylan blames her disgust for the fifth day on the week, due to the fact that that was the day when her mother died, four years previous to the current date, and resists the urge to think about the event, instead focusing on the psychologist in front of her; someone to talk to is apparently the best idea ever, just to make sure that little Dylly doesn't commit suicide. As if.
And people think that she's changed — underneath the ebony black hair, and the coats of eyeliner, a smirk and snark resides, trying to become castle walls to cover up the sweet little girl inside, but she's gone to the dark side, never to return. She crosses her legs, raising her eyebrows at the woman in front of her, "What do you want me to do?" The woman only replies, "Write something. Anything." Dylan rolls her eyebrows again, seeming to be making a habit of that, and blows at the latest coat of sparkles upon her onyx fingernails, which clutch to a glossy handbag. "Fine."
After all, it was a Friday night and she didn't have any friends left ( at least, not anymore ) and perhaps writing something would get her more money to spend on whatever she wanted. It wasn't going to change her, not one bit.
writing assignment; Castle Walls
There's a tornado; the spinning of dissonance and destruction, looming.
It's a typical third grade scenario, children rushing down to the gym locker rooms, keeping their heads underneath the bright pink and dark blue lockers, never really understand what danger is. They speak, and talk in hushed voices, silenced only by the sound of alarms in the distance, loud and earsplitting; children of the lower ages start crying, and suddenly it's chaos.
Dylan's the only one who's not bawling by now. Bawling in public is something that her mother has always been against, showing a weakness behind castle walls because Dylan is a Queen, and Queens are not weak.
She's never really had the option to be a princess, to be a lady in waiting; it's been decided for her since a young age, and being somebody else has never occurred to her mother as an option. And suddenly the wind picks up, and a window smashes, glass shattering everywhere, and Dylan finds herself swept away by the tornado, but nobody notices. Nobody ever has noticed anything. And suddenly, she's not Dylan Marvil anymore;
Dylan wakes up to the comforting sounds of blaring alarms, which echoes throughout the courtyard. Clutching her five month year old Schitzu, with the ever so creative name of Sprinkles, she started pacing in her room, jumping upon the sheets in a manner quite too excited for a eight year old girl, perhaps on a sugar rush from all the chocolates consumed the night previous.
"You hear that Sprinkles? Mommy's home!" She screams, speaking to the dog quickly, who barks loudly in response. her mother hadn't visited home in over two years, and she had been left to be taken care of with her relatives. They treated her nicely enough, but they weren't the same as her mother.
Sprinkles barks twice in uncontrollable joy, and Dylan ruffles his furry, brown coat that she had recently taken a habit to brushing twice a day. She decides to trim his hair the next day, a thought crossing her mind. After all, appearances would have to be spotless at her mother's entrance. A sound is heard in the hallway, the slightest clatter of a piece of armor falling on the hardwood floor. The sound wouldn't be so noticeable if the hallway hadn't previously been silent.
"Quiet! Lord Radley will hear you. Then what will happen to us?" She shudders, fearfully. Though Dylan knew that her dog couldn't have possibly made the sound, the Lord would find some way to blame at upon Sprinkles.
Dylan, like all the other children who reside in the Palace, have heard the tales of naughty children and their current landlord. There had even been rumors of a cret torture chamber hidden in the wall; Dylan doesn't believe that rumor, however; she's been through every secret passageway of the castle, knowing it like the back of my hand. Sprinkles hides underneath the wool blanket, but jumps out soon after, onto the window's porcelain panel. However, this time, Dylan doesn't reprimand her carefree dog. She follows him, instead. She's learned from experience that it's better to heed her Schitzu's keen sense of smell rather than her substantially weaker one. That's just one of the many defects of being human.
Even though it's not right for Dylan, being a lady in training and all, to scream past curfew (the Lord's rule, not hers), Dylan exclaims anyway. "Is it Mommy, Sprinkles? Is it—"
She's interrupted by the resonance of her door knocker's hollow sound. Dylan trembles, wondering if Lord Radley had heard what she had said about him. "Yes?" she says, hesitantly, her voice a whisper.
"Miss Marvil? The Lord has returned." The words are cold, spoken with a monotone voice.
The cold, steely voice of a palace guard is heard outside Dylan's chamber. She sighs, both heavily relieved and disappointed. At least it wasn't Lord Radley outside the door. However, her father, is a stranger to her. He's always away on "trips", as Dylan's mother calls them. Basically, he visits foreign countries and signs treaties, fights wars in a valiant manner, and the like. The last time Dylan had seen the Lord, she had been four. She is nine now, much older.
Dylan gathers myself in an attempt to repose her unsophisticated current look, and pulled an oversized red shawl over her nightgown. Gliding not so gracefully down the mansion's butterfly staircase and into the courtyard, she beholds the many figures gathered. A man in a large trench coat stood in the middle of the crowd, stone-faced, a large box in his hands. Hundreds of people gathered around the man, holding candles, and folding their hands together. Why were they praying?
Is the man the Lord? She thinks to herself. Though she had seen him five years ago, memories fade as time goes past, quickly.
People start turning towards Dylan, an angry look on their faces; she hears their mutters about an annoying disturbance. The man in the center of the courtyard also turns towards her, his eyes widening. Setting the box gently down, he starts walking towards Dylan, and before she can back away, the crowd makes a pathway for him.
"Daddy, is the box a gift for me?" She asks, tilting her head completely upwards. Dylan had remembered the Lord to be a tall figure, but never this tall, almost majestic in a malevolent sense. He doesn't reply and she tugs on his coat in annoyance. "Are you even listening to me?"
"How dare you talk to me with such impudence? I shall have you hanged for this!" Everybody else was right; the Lord is a harsh, bitter man with no feelings but selfishness. And, alas, she had hoped for so long, that this was not the case.
"Yes, Father," Dylan meekly says, biting her nails in anger. She's the princess, his own daughter, yet he treated her like a castaway wrench found on the streets, a beggar nonetheless.
She turns away, and as soon as she had left the vision of the overwhelming crowd, fled to her chamber in tears of frustration. Oh, where was dear Mother when she needed her? Mother. She should have been with the Lord, by his side, them being "the picture perfect" royal family.
/
The next time that Dylan spoke with her father, it was a Sunday. She had just visited the local church, paying condolences to the passing away of Duchess Wilterton, a woman who she had met many times in her life. The black dress was long, dreary in color, and the lace bottom almost ripped when Dylan sat down on the chair too quickly. Everything was wrong that day. The service itself did not seem proper. Duchess Wilterton was a cheerful woman, always finding the best in each and every person, no matter which social cast they were placed in. The funeral was full of mourners, standing in rows; the intermediate family stood in the first row, in a perfect circle. She would not approve of the deadly silence and fear that hung over the crowd, as she did not die of natural causes. Dylan could overhear their conversation, not being quite far away from the first row as the Lord was a close friend of Duke Wilterton.
The Duke was blaming the servant girl for the death, as it seemed as though the cause of the Duchess's passing away was of food poisoning. The servant girl had been the only person to give the Duchess her meals, besides the Cook. However, the Duke personally hired the best Cook in Estonia besides ours', and was quite sure of the fact that no food poisoning had occurred in the kitchen. The servant was to be hanged on Monday, in the Rolling Meadows Courthouse, where a fair trial would not occur, even though that was the law. However, this was a time of great grievance. And a great grievance of royal death leads to special circumstances, as Dylan has learned.
The horse carriage had just begun, and she sits across from her Aunt Stephanie, the woman that Dylan abhorred most in my life. In reality, she wasn't even Dylan's aunt, just one of the members of nobility that her father happened to favor more than the others. "Chin up. Shoulders back. Wipe those tears. Smoothen your dress. Put your legs closer together. Stop slouching! My heavens, there will be a time and place where you, Miss Dylan Marvil will be the Queen of Estonia. I fear for those times."
Dylan says nothing in reply, except meekly attempting to fix her many errors. The carriage came to a sudden halt, and she hears the horses rearing up outside. The carriage doors slid open, and a man stepped in. "Ladies, may I join you?"
It was Chairman Andrews. His rank was lower than of a noble's, but higher than that of a mechanic's or carpenters. He made a modest wage, about fifty units a month, being a famous politician. Chairman Andrews tipped his hat towards Dylan, and bowed deeply to Aunt Stephanie. She remained unflustered, and pretended as if nothing had changed. If my senses were right, Dylan thinks that Chairman Andrews was trying to flirt with Aunt Stephanie. It was in vain however, of no avail. Aunt Stephanie was a proud and uptight woman, and refused to marry any man lower than her station of Duchess of Cheshire.
While the carriage continued on its journey, she repositions myself to the back of the carriage and pulled out a compact mirror, examining her many facial flaws and wondering if one side of her face is fatter than the other.
"Why? Why can't I be normal?" Dylan asks herself. She knows that it's crazy, and considered absolutely abhorrent to talk to herself and she could be put into a bedlam if discovered, but talking to herself helps reveal her inner thoughts. Or, it's just fun. Yeah, something along the lines of that.
"You can't be normal because you're a princess, for goodness sake."
"But can't princesses be normal?" She frowns after seeing her many wrinkles on her forehead. Aunt Stephanie is right; Dylan does need to use more of that aging balm.
"Of course not! They are someday responsible for the people of their country."
"But how can a ruler be responsible for the people if Estonia is supposedly democratic?"
"Democratic? How is a society where people control each other decided by the people?"
"The people decide on the king through bloodshed and debates, therefore it is slightly fair."
"I doubt so. Anyway, princesses can't be normal. They control the country."
"Technically, no. They don't control their country. They influence it."
"Aren't influencing and controlling the same thing?"
"Of course not! How dare one think so? Society may influence your country, but the rulers control it in a radical way." She feels extremely strange, and she believes that she am insane. Maybe Dylan should be put in an asylum. No, no, no. As Aunt Stephanie says, Dylan's just going through a phase. It's a pretty long phase, however.
Once again, the carriage came to a halt and Dylan ends her thoughts to herself, closing her compact. This time, it had pulled up in front of the Lord's mansion, and she excuses herself politely. Dylan smooths down her satin black dress and feels her black dress shoes pinch her feet even tighter. Dylan had tried to explain to her dressing maid that binding feet to make them seem more ladylike was a technique used in China. And China was halfway across the world, still a major world power nonetheless.
Once in my chambers, she loosens her feet, an audible sigh escaping her lips. There would not be any lessons today; at least until Madame de Verte arrived for a weekly French examination. Dylan glances around the room, making sure that all the servants had scurried away, and pulls out my most prized possession from underneath my bed: the violin. Her violin. Placing the shoulder rest on the back and applying excessive rosin onto her bow, Dylan begins to play a simple melody after closing the windows. It would not do much good for the Lord or any of the servants to learn that she was performing an art in secret.
The door swung open, and Dylan realizes that she hadn't locked the handle. Thankfully, it was only a harmless maid who looked terrified as Dylan scrutinizes her dull attire. "Yes?" she asks, arching one of her light eyebrows.
"I'm so sorry to inform you of this news, but she's dead."
"What? Who?" Dylan is startled by this news, not knowing who she was, but by the tone of the servant's voice it was someone important to her, perhaps one of those so called close relatives who visited annually, staying in some of the guest rooms.
"Her majesty."
Dylan feels numb, not hearing what the servant kept on saying, trying to console her. She was dead. The only person in the world who cared for Dylan, the only person she cared for was gone. Mom wouldn't ever come back. It was better when she was off on trips, because those trips would always have an end. How could Dylan live without her? She feels her emotions bubble uncontrollably inside of herself. She blinks back tears, and then for a moment, she doesn't care about what anybody else thought of me. Running downstairs, Dylan ran to the Lord's office.
"What do you want know?"
"Is she dead? Is she dead?" she repeatedly asks, her voice dry.
"Yes. She died three years ago. Hasn't anybody told you?" The Lord lowers his spectacles, and for a moment Dylan sees a look of sadness and pain pass through his scrutinizing blue eyes.
She doesn't reply, and runs out of there, just needing to escape everything. Dylan doesn't know where she's running from, but anywhere from there. Anywhere from the place that reminded her of Mother so much. Why did she have to leave? She thinks to herself. Her emotions soon turn to one of a boiling anger, like the heat of churning milk in the kitchen. Mother knew that she was the only person who loved Dylan, she had even told her so. Then, why did she have to be so selfish and die, if she knew that Dylan's entire reason for living was gone.
The Lord ignored Dylan completely. She was constantly reprimanded and perhaps abused, perhaps treated improperly by the majority of her teachers and Aunt Stephanie. The servants feared her, but Dylan hears them gossiping about how they wished the bratty princess would go die in a hole. The other nobles thought Dylan was a brat, no matter her wealth. The whole world had hated Dylan except Mother. And now that she was gone, she had nobody left. She continues running, and only stopped upon bumping into somebody.
"Watch where you're going!" She had bumped into a boy, roughly around the same age as her: eleven. Typically, she would have reprimanded the insolent child for disrespecting royalty such as herself, but instead kept on running. Soon, Dylan realizes that the boy had not left her side. "Where are you going? Wait!" He seems friendly enough, but Dylan couldn't bring herself to care.
"What?" She bitterly replies, slowly down my speed. Dylan nearly keels over to the side; She hadn't realized how many miles she had ran out of anger.
"There's no reason to be bitter. I was just trying to help you. I'm Chris. Chris Plovert," the boy with a mop of messy red hair says, smiling broadly with his freckles showing, looking like they were sprayed with Cheetos. Permanently.
Chris reached out his hand to shake hers, and she hesitantly puts hers out. His grip was rough, and Dylan soon realizes that the calluses of his hand showed that he wasn't of a noble class. "I'm Dylan Marvil," she shyly replies, afraid of his reaction.
However, Dylan had a reason to be. Every time she had told someone her name, they reacted strangely, and started treating her differently, even though they had probably no proper reason to do so. "The Dylan Marvil?" Dylan could have sworn that his jaw had just dropped to the dirty pavement below.
"What do you mean?" She asks, feigning a confused expression.
"You're the Crown Princess of Estonia."
"Yes. So?" She tries to act all casual about the fact that she would be the most powerful woman in the country when she turned sixteen in a few years. Chris seemed like a person who could be a good friend, and Dylan didn't want to lose that mutual friendship just because of different statuses.
"Never mind. Do you want to be friends?" He extends his hand again, and spat on it. Dylan almost backs away in disgust, but then remembers that Chris could be the only friend she would have in a long time.
"Best friends," Dylan swears. The two walk away from each other, not knowing that they wouldn't meet for another two years.
/
nine o'clock
Dylan wakes up from what seems to be a dream, shaking the crust from her eyes, and standing up, realizing that scribbles had been written down on the page, almost in a haze, and decides to finish the dream. Her life seems wasteful, now. In a way, she decides to change things half way, perhaps making it a little more personal with a simple switch, first tense.
After all, it's what the creepy psycho lady had suggested.
/
I was thirteen years old when my life changed, without even a second chance for myself to regain my senses. The servants, the only people who took care of me, should have noticed something happening to me earlier. I had always had a strange fascination with water, a yearning to understand more about the very source of it all. The morn of my fifth birthday, I had sensed the water calling to me, beckoning as if it was a living creature, almost like the tendrils of algae at the bottom of Lake Placid.
The servants would scowl, talking strange about the little princess whenever I sat down on the floor, kneeling and observing the curvatures of water. But what would the servants do? It would not be befitting of their station to venture to the Lord and tell him of his daughter's bizarre interests. The servants ignored their princess's weird behavior, hoping that she would outgrow it with age. However, t'was not the case; as I grew older, my fascination with water expanded severely. Little did I know of what my fascination of water would turn into.
It was the celebration of my younger brother's birthday, a joyous occasion for all of Estonia, as we gathered in the courtyard. I had donned a purple satin dress, and had finally acquiesced to let the corset be tightened in a way that prevented my lungs to breathe. It was minutes past six hours, and it was time for the feast to begin, inside of the Grand Hall. Picking the bottom of my dress delicately, as so not to mar the surface with dirt, with one hand, I glided inside gracefully.
The feast had not begin to commence, as the courtyard's population started to ebb, as they all flooded into the room, gaping at the ornate decorations that had been set up. It was the middle of winter, December 16th to be precise, and the hall had been decorated by Miss Elodia Mahrenholz, the best home decorator in the World. I personally thought that Miss Mahrenholz had taken the decorations to an extreme point, but that was what the goal of a prince's birthday was for.
Prince Ryan the Second was a little, pompous brat who acted like the whole world belonged to him. And it didn't. When he grew up, only one fourth of the country would belong to his royal highness, if he was able to maintain integrity through the Coronation Examination. It had been many years since my mother had died, but I still remembered her every time I saw Ryan. He was not hers, and only my half-brother, from the new Queen of Estonia, Madame de Pompadour. It was a familiar name, and after researching it, I found it to be the name of a French queen, oh so many years ago.
I sat down at the royal table, in one of the chairs next to the Lord. The Queen had already been seated, and was engaging in pleasant conversation with the Lord, no the King. I was used to calling him the Lord for the longest period of time, but after the King had died, the Lord (his brother) had been promoted, as so to speak. Ryan was still outside, probably mocking the servant boys and girls with his group of royal bratty friends. I had met them all myself a few years ago, and their sisters believed that they were the most rude creatures ever to walk this World; I couldn't agree more. Ryan's best friend, Cornelius Buchanan Wallace Edwards had already been seated at the first row, practicing his cutlery skills along with his etiquette master Monsieur Vanad.
I approved of Cornelius, as he was the only one out of Ryan's friends who had some manners. However, he was a complete fraud. At the dinner tables and at the yearly royal court meetings, I could see him flattering all the ladies and the other members of nobility, in order to improve his standing. However, with Ryan, he seemed to sometimes terrorize naive children on the streets with play swords. I didn't understand why Ryan had to be of such of a harsh nature, because his mother, the Queen, was the most gentle woman I had ever met besides my own mother.
The first time I had met Ryan was when he was merely a babe, an infant of three weeks old, barely able to do anything but cry and wail. And cry and wail he did, indeed. For two months, the inhabitants of the Castle were unable to sleep during the nighttime due to the erupting wails coming from the West Wing. As he grew older, I wished that Ryan would start to have characteristics resembling those of a true prince, but my hopes were in vain. Just then, Ryan entered the room and within a few milliseconds, changed his jeering expression to one of the utmost disdain. At five feet, two inches, Prince Ryan was the least impressive ten year old I had ever met. His only skills were bullying and making other children's lives miserable; yet, he was an excellent commander. How else would he able to "rally" up his "troops"?
One day, I had spotted Ryan's mischievous acts as I was walking away from Sensei Bonhai's karate class on a Tuesday. They were sneaking up behind an innocent girl, who looked like she hadn't had enough food to survive in a long time. The girl, whose name I later learned to be Ella, was looking like she felt close to death. She laughed deliriously and inched towards a rotten apple, going painfully slow as if her limbs couldn't take the exertion of walking. The rest was history. Ryan had started to beat the girl up with moves that even I, a black belt, had never seen in my life.
"Stop!" I yelled, pinning Ryan's arm up behind his back.
"What do you think you're doing here? You should be learning French," Ryan jeered, trying his best to keep on breathing after I started to choke him with my right hand.
"For your information, I can already speak French quite well, thank you very much."
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Look, I won't tell "Mom" about your behavior, and you won't tell her about my karate lessons. Deal?
"Deal. Wait, you take karate lessons?"
I ran out of the sultry night air and into the palace, in fear that Prince Ryan would go back on his promise.
As I snap back to the present time, I look out the window. For the sake of the safety of the royal palace, I really hope that what I'm seeing isn't truly there. But along with the gasps of the crowd, and the King pushing his chair back suddenly to stand up, I know, that for once, I'm sadly right. But why is there a sandstorm in the middle of a relatively normal climate?
Chapter Two: Sandstorms and Secrets
I watched in horror as the whirling pile of sand came closer to the castle, picking up debris and horrified people along with it. The castle is directly in the pathway of the storm, and I can't help but think that this sandstorm wasn't caused by natural forces. The peasants and members of nobility gather backwards, sending forth their valiant knights forward whether those knights are ready to destroy a storm or not. However, the storm must have been created by Mother Nature, as our court magician detects no magical forces without the sandstorm. I do not recall an event ever such so in my life, and how can a sandstorm occur in a country without an arid climate?
"Come on! We can't stand here much longer!" The King pulls me along with his wife and Prince Ryan, and we retreat to the back part of the castle, running as fast as our legs will carry us.
"What about everybody else?' I pant out, trying hard to breathe and maintain a steady pace. I know it's impossible to run away from a storm, due to this one measuring about fifty knots. Seeing the court meterologist recording the storm's movements and jumping in fright showed that this storm may be one not seen so severe in a long time.
"They don't matter. They're just a huge lot of peasants, we've got to keep going. I know Prime Minister Li in China, he can take us in for a few days. After then, we'll be left in the wild," the Queen muttered.
I pretend not to hear her last few years. What does the wild mean? Would we be poor? Though not being much of the stereotypical royal brat, I hadn't ever lived in a place where I didn't have servants around me, bowing and beckoning to my every wish and desire.
Suddenly, the storm came through the hallway, and the sand starting filling up the hallway. We run even faster, our breath hitching and sweat drops falling down my face. I feel my heart pace increasing, and my legs turn to jelly, not being able to move any farther at this current speed. Ignoring the King's commands, I sneak into a deserted corridor, lifting up a silk tapestry and hiding beneath it, hoping that the tapestry does not let any of the sand in. Thankfully, it doesn't, and I start going backward until I bump into an object. Surprised, I try to stand up and hit my head on the extremely narrow ceiling.
"Dylan! I'm so glad you're here!" A familiar voice exclaims. It's Chris. Even though I haven't seen him in over two years, I never forgot the voice of my first, and only, true friend.
"Chris! I haven't laid my eyes on you in such a lengthy time." It was true; every since our meeting about two years ago, we hadn't met each other, due to our highly differing social statuses.
"You know you can talk normally now. Your etiquette instructor isn't going to show up anytime soon," Chris said, snorting and picking up a piece of debris the storm hadn't destroyed.
"I know." I suddenly remember about the sandstorm. I crawl forwards and peek through a hole in the tapestry, wait a hole in the tapestry? "Run!" I scream, as sand starts gushing in through the small hole and into the narrow corridor. It's nearly impossible to run, and I'm reducing to crawling. I understand how turtles and sloths feel know. Chris and I soon reach the end of the corridor. "What do we do now?" I ask Chris frantically, rummaging through my dress's pockets for any item useful. Gosh, being a girl is so pènible, as the French say (a real pain).
"I don't know! You're the princess; you're supposed to know what to do!" Chris yells back at me. I can hear the nervousness in his voice, though he's trying to conceal it.
I join my hands, praying, as the sand approaches nearer. I never imagined dying this way, dying because of drowning in sand in the back of a narrow corridor. I imagined dying of old age, happily leaving the world. However, it's just my luck that I'm dying young. God, I know that I'm not the most faithful believer of you, and I don't pray with the other young ladies in the chapel every morning at Mass, but please. I promise that I'll do anything, absolutely anything, if I survive. Please, God, please. Mom used to say the world was amazing, and sometimes- very rarely- impossible things just happen and we call them miracles. I could really do with a good old-fashioned fairytale miracle just about now.
I open my eyes and blink, sand flooding into my eyes. I can't open my eyes anymore, otherwise I'll be overwhelmed. Knowing that I only have a few seconds left before I die, I push with all my might backwards and fall. The sky looks so black right now; black as midnight, black as the mantle that shrouds the blind. I feel my body being disconnected, and I let go.
"Dylan, we're coming for you."
My eyes flutter open slowly, taking in the setting slowly. An old, haggard looking man with eyes as blue as the sea was standing above me, clutching a few books about baseball in his right hand. Wait, what's baseball? I didn't ponder too long on the fact, and looked around my surroundings. The sky was still as dark as midnight, but nightlights surrounded the street, bringing a sense of hope and literal light to the area. A pond was located not too far from here, and its cerulean blue water reassured me that I wasn't dead. Not yet, at least. Inside the pond was the strangest creature I had ever seen.
I walked over to the pond, my mouth gaping, ignoring everything else going on in the scene. Because that's what this felt like, a scene, not something real. A gaggle of tourists was surrounding the other side of the lake, reminding me of paparazzi, an old concept I had heard of. The sea creature had a smooth looking light colored back that seemed to be translucent. Its two fins were also translucent, but seemed to have a blue tinge to them. I couldn't see any eyes or body parts that symbolize humans, but a bright purple spot in the middle of the creature was strange enough. I suddenly remembered the sea creature's scientific name from my marine biology studies a few years back. They're Platybrachium antracticum, more commonly known as sea angels which are actually predatory se snails. The "paparazzi" didn't look like they had a care in the world as they continued snapping photos with their cameras as thin as paper.
Honestly, how much film did they have? They mostly live in the deep Antarctic waters which are down South, so it seems confusing to me why they are in the Northern region of Estonia. Or, what if they aren't in Estonia?
The thought strikes me that I don't even know where I am. The thought of it all scares me, then I've been so enwrapped in the thoughts of the glamorous sea creature, that I haven't even started screaming for help in fear yet. Maybe that's the trick of wherever I am, and whoever is controlling this random place. But this surroundings look too similar to Estonia to be foreign. Oh my gosh. I suddenly remember the sandstorm. What happened to Chris? The King? The Queen? Prince Ryan? Everybody else that nobody really cares about?
I laugh inside my head at my last question. It seems like something Mom would have said, if she was still around. Then, a pang of sorrow strikes my heart, opening up a fresh wound that has recently healed. I try to ignore the pain, but it just doesn't ever go away; all the pain does is get number.
Every now and then, I remember my mother. She used to tell me, "Nobody can be perfect." I always think about Mother when Aunt Stephanie hurts me with her whip, saying that I'll never be good enough to be a princess. That I don't deserve to be here, and that I should have been left on the streets as a child. Her words hurt me, but nothing hurts me more than the fact that my mother will never be there in my time of need. I blink my eyes, loosing focus, as being dragged into the "dreamland" of the sea angel.
"Dylan. You must turn away now." A gentle voice tugs me away from the scene, and I force my body to pivot, even though it just wants to continue looking at the pretty sea angel. But why do I have to turn away? I like watching the sea angel jump in the water, and the double rainbow with the real pot of gold at the end of it, which I can actually see from here. Watching all of this is like a dream, a wonderful dream. But I can't stay here forever, can I? I'll always be pushed back into the harshness of reality.
"Dylan, darling, you don't have to go. Stay with us, and play. Play! Play! Play!" I see a woman in the water, stroking the sea angel gently. Next to her are a group of young children, swimming, and flinging each other with water. It looks like they're having a good time. Maybe if I play with the children, it will be fun. Much more fun then returning to reality.
Suddenly, out of the blue, I'm pricked with a sharp needle on my upper arm, one of the more sensitive parts of my body. I yelp, trying to muffle my sound of surprise with my white silk glove, but the sound is still audible enough to me.
My body and mind turns backwards, towards reality, but my eyes and heart look towards the magical world in front of me. It looks so picturesque, but when I move forward and touch the too soft to be real green grass, I see that the perfection of it all isn't faked. Somehow, it's all real. It's not a five year old girl's dream: this is real. As real as a heat stroke on a balmy summer's day, and as real as the stars of a midnight sky. But, strangely, it just doesn't feel right. A part of me wants to return back to reality, and a part wants to move forward into dreamland. Yes, dreamland, that is what I shall name this new, undiscovered realm. I feel as though my body is torn within, a raging battle between my mind and heart over a small matter of no blatant significance. I try to lay out the reasoning of what could happen if I go either ways.
The Pro's and Con's for going to Dreamland:
PRO: You could lose your memory, and forget about your mother dying and your father obviously neglecting you.
CON: You could lose your memory, and forget about all the good memories and all the nice nobility who always took care of you in your time of need.
PRO: You could make new friends, and have a fresh, new start. Isn't that what travelling is about?
CON: You could die.
PRO: You could have a better life then you did being a princess.
CON: You could be dirt-poor, because the dreamland could just be an illusion.
There are obviously a lot of more options, but after being repeatedly poked with a sharp needle for over two minutes in my arm, I decide to step backwards. Before I can even sit down on the much less green grass, a voice enters my head, creating a throbbing headache.
"Mark my words, Dylan. You will regret your decision."
As if by magic, the night appears even gloomier, and the sky darkens as "overdrops" do in dramatic plays by Shakespeare, my favorite being perhaps Hamlet, a great novel, though the death of Ophelia was rather tragic in the end. Sheesh, I get really sidetracked, I think to myself. Where was I again? Oh, yeah. Creepy voice enters my head, insert annoying headache and Shakespeare reference.
I almost laugh when I think about my head's voice. Seriously, nobody can do any harm to me. I'm the Princess, the Crown Princess of Estonia, for the Lord's sake. I may talk like a commoner, and act like one, but it doesn't mean I have the same security privileges as one of them. The old man sticks another needle, this time, through the center of my medial vein, causing a little blood to spurt out painfully. "Thou miscreant of such foul nature!" Oh, yeah, I swear in Old English whenever my true irate side is brought out.
"I was just trying to help you. I'm Harrington, Derrick Harrington." When I look at the person again, I realize that Derrick isn't that much of an old man; actually, he looks like he could be around the same age as me. However, his eyes have this sort of experienced and wise look to them that you would only see from a young beggar child who sees the world's problems daily, even much before the royalty do. However, Harrington is a royal name, at least noble at the very lowest; so is Derrick. Not to have much chauvinism in my thoughts, but you wouldn't find a commoner with the name Derrick. That's just not how life is.
I blush suddenly, realizing that I've accidentally zoned out again for thirty seconds, causing this Derrick person to start smirking. God, have I stated previously how much I hate people who smirk? It just gives them this haughty, know-it-all expression that isn't really true, because nobody really knows it all besides the Lord, if you know what I mean? If you don't, yeah, well, never mind. "I am Dylan Marvil," I say cautiously. "But please don't treat me differently!" I blurt out. If I am anywhere close to Estonia, then Derrick would recognize my royal status and bow. However, judging by the somewhat bored expression on his face, I'm not even on this planet.
"Yeah, so?"
"I'm Crown Princess Dylan Marvil," I repeat, putting more emphasis on the word princess.
"Princess like in Disney? My little sis's obsessed with those princesses," Derrick says, doing a "half-nod" that's actually an insult in Estonia.
"Disney?" I make sure to put even more confusion into my
"Disney? As in the theme park that all little girls go to in Orlando, Florida?"
"Orlando, Florida? Okay, the only Orlando I know is Orlando Williams, the Duke of Williamsburg, which is about thirty and a half miles from the heart of Estonia's capital. Interesting factoid about Orlando Williams, he doesn't actually own a pet frog, only thirty pet king cobras. Frog's are so much more deadly; that's why I keep a few in my bedroom at night," I continuously blurt out, suddenly feeling self-conscious as a silence spreads across the room, if you can even call it that.
"Well, I'm just going to call you Cam, because Derrick is too much of a mouthful," I decided upon randomly.
"That's not fair! I can't exactly call you Dylly, now can I?" I start laughing after Cam's ridiculous comment.
"Of course you can't! I'm the Crown Princess! Unless you're the Crown Prince of China or Slovakia, then you would have to call me Your Highness, or Your Majesty Crown Princess Dylan Marvil. Don't you at least understand the basic rules of social order?"
"Social order?" He snorts. "What kind of world do you live in?"
"A much better one than yours," I mutter underneath my breath, hoping that he doesn't hear. I shouldn't be judging anyways, because I've only visited a few other universes, like the Andromeda Galaxy. But, I have to say that they were an extremely polite society, and respected me as they would do to their Queen, who might I add, was the most proper woman I had ever seen. I guess thirty years of etiquette lessons do pay off in the end. Not like I would want to end up as the Queen, even though I will some day.
"Um, oh yes, I nearly forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"If you're Dylan Marvil, I've been asked to give you this note."Derrickpulls a small envelope out of his pocket, and reads the label out loud. "To the Crown Princess of Estonia."
"Do you know who it's from?" I ask excitedly, jumping up and down. Then, I see the royal crest of Estonia on the back and stop my excitement. It's probably a letter from the King full of faked worry about how he needs to know where I am right now. Yeah, right. I'm pretty sure that the King only keeps me around for public image; I'm not exactly considered ugly, more of a true Estonian with my ski slope nose, light red hair, and an extremely petite figure (not in the height way, though).
"I guess you can figure out for yourself,"Derricksays, chuckling lightly. He hands me the envelope and watches me strangely as I carefully take a knife disguised as an ornate hairpin out of my intricate bun, and open the envelope gently, holding it up to the light.
I take away the satin covering of the paper and read the letter to myself.
My dearest Dylan,
If you are reading this now, I am long away from the glorious world of Estonia. It has been quite a time, and some disaster has happened to the castle. You're probably thinking that this is your dear Mother, and it is. I wrote this letter before the Battle of Armani, which is where, as you now know, I will die for a reason you cannot know of. Being away from you has made me sad. However, I understand what you're going through right now, and don't want to seem egotistic, but altruistic. Darling, I believe that one day, all this impediments of royalty that have separated us from each other for so long will finally end. Then we will return to the normal path, where mother and daughter are together, forever. If adverse circumstances have led me to leave in your time of need, I can only beg you to be patient, because everything has its own time. You are in my heart every day of my and your father's travels, and when the time comes for us to be together again, it will make up for the days we were forced to be apart.
Love, Mother
I don't know what happenned to me after reading that letter, but I feel as if my heart as breaking. She really is dead, and she really did care for me, and everything stupid, old Aunt Stephanie said about her being a malign woman is all wrong. I just wish that I had been a better daughter, then I would have been allowed to travel with Mother, and we could have been together more often. After her death, we were so cruelly torn apart, without even a second glance or a goodbye. And to think that I was mad that she never said goodbye to me. I can't even imagine the pain she might have gone through, dying so valiantly. I don't understand how she could have died, and still don't know why I can't understand why. I am to be coming of age in a mere four years, and still cannot now how my own mother perished. How is that fair, at all?
My heart completely breaks, like glass vases shattered into millions of tiny pieces that cannot ever be fixed together, not even with adhesive solution. Tears fall from my eyes, and for the second time in my life, I don't hesitate to let them fall. The sobs wrack my frail body, and I feel weak and fearful. If Aunt Stephanie lied to me about my mother, what more could she have lied to me about?
"Hey, it's okay," Derrick reassures, patting my shoulder hesitantly. I try to smile. Cam's just the same as most of the lads in Estonia, having no idea what to do when a girl is crying. Lads in Estonia. Chris. Chris!
I quickly stand up, and my leg immediately falls over, having become numb during the duration of my improper sitting position. "My Lord!" I exclaim loudly. "Chris! Chris! Cam, have you seen a boy named Chris?"
"Chris who? Chris Johnson? Chris Hamilton?"
"Yes! Chris Hamilton! Dark brown hair, emerald green eyes, tall stature, has a slight Northern accent."
"Chris Hamilton is an eighth grader at the Rose."
"The Rose? What's that? And what in the world is an eight grader? Is it a grading system with eight grades total for each class?" I ask, confused. I had never heard the term in my life, but tried to use context to learn the definition. Judging by the amused expression on Cam's face, I was doing something wrong.
"Well, Dylly," he starts. I groan internally; I hate the nickname Dylly, but he deals with Cam, and you can't have everything you want. Well, technically I can, but I'm not the typical twelve-year old lass. For starters, I'm a princess. Actually, I was a princess. I don't even know what I am anymore, not even where I am. "You have to learn a lot."
"Where am I? Who are you? I don't even know these simple facts. Why in the world are you helping me? Where are we? What is this place? What was that voice inside my head? Where's the sea angel? Where's the sky? You don't even have any idea of who I am! I'm the Crown Princess of Estonia for the Lord's sake, and I don't even get the tiniest bit of respect around here. Even in the far-off galaxy of Andromeda, I was given the utmost respect. You don't even know my name, who I am, what my favorite shade is-
"Your favorite shade?"
"Yes, my favorite shade. No offense, but how ignorant are you?"
"Actually, how ignorant are you? You don't even know what an eighth grader is!"
"Just one question. Where am I?"
"The United States of America," Derrick says slowly. "Earth, 2012. Where else would you be?"
I chuckle nervously, and Derrick looks at me like I should belong in an asylum for the extremely insane. "Estonia, the year of our lord 2033." The last time I've ever heard anything so bizarre and erratic, was when I was reading "fantasy" novels in the Silent Library. This didn't even feel real; it just felt like a story.
"What is that strange place you speak of? Personally, it sounds like you made the whole rubbish "Estonia" country up," Derrick admits, scratching his head.
"How dare you accuse me of making up my own country's name!" I exclaim, being the patriotic princess I am.
"Jeez, lighten up Dylly."
"Dylan."
"Whatever you say Dylly," Derrick says, smirking. Lord, I really hate that smirk.
"So, what are we going to do?"
"Oh, so we're us, are we?"
"Yes, us. It's a pronoun. Do you have a problem with pronouns?"
"No. Never mind. Well, then, we're going to a party."
/
Now, this is what we were talking about. A full, blown-out, grand scale party with ball gowns and tuxedos, famous orchestras courtesy of the King, and proper entertainment for the ladies, including magical tricks "dans le jardin", as our court entertainer Monsieur Baton likes to say. Used to like to say. Monsieur Baton was the first person I saw who was killed by the sandstorm, or drained, as I would prefer to say. Killing is such a harsh word to use, especially if one doesn't know if the other person is dead.
Anyway, after Derrick (now, he insists on me calling him Derrick if I don't want to be called Dylly, which I seriously don't) and I leave the "white spots" as he calls them, we venture to his abode.
"White spots?" I question again, my face scrunching up.
"That's what everybody else calls them. You never want to go the white spots; it's basically a suicide mission."Derrick(he can't control my thoughts) puts his hands in his pockets dejectedly, having the thinking look on his face.
"Then why were you there?"
"Oh, I was just thinking."
"Your mother died, didn't she?" I ask, bluntly. I've learned over the years that people accept bluntness over sympathy, especially if they're members of nobility, because it's more common to hide your tears than to openly show them. There are some exceptions though, but I'd rather not get into the elaborate schemes of widows trying to woo rich bachelors.
"Yeah, she did. Just last week, in a mining accident. It wasn't her fault, it was her partner's: Jackson Abrahams. He was taking the day off, and my mom, well being benevolent, took over her night shift. We could always use the extra money, though. Mining's never been a safe industry, ever, and well, there was a dynamite explosion. The rest is history, so,"Derricktrails off. I don't see tears running down his cheeks, but a flash of pain crosses his eyes; I know the feeling.
Cam just kept on walking around the area, finally glancing upon the envelope I had so angrily thrown down on the floor. "Can I-"
"Sure," I interrupt.
"Who's this?" he asks, picking up the letter and finding a photograph inside the envelope, something I missed in my inner fury and sadness.
I froze suddenly, not sure how to explain without receiving a lot of sympathy. Biting the inside of my cheeks, I realize that I'll have to let out the truth toDerricksome time, anyway. Why not now? "My mom. She died in a battle."
Cam didn't say anything, he didn't apologize for my loss, he didn't pity me. I was glad for that, sick and tired from all the condolence calls of the nobility who were all so pleased that they might have a chance of becoming the Queen sooner. He put the picture back down.
"Your dad?"
"Dead," I confirm, not giving my thoughts a second chance. He was probably flooded in by the giant sandstorm, what else could have been his current status? "What about your family?"
"Mom, as you know, dead. Dad, well, he got tongue cancer, and eventually died."
"That's why you were here," I declared softly. It was a statement, not a question asDerrickdidn't hesitate, only nodding his head slowly. Just like him, I didn't give him a bit of sympathy. What was the point? Neither of us wanted the sympathy, the condolence calls, the "I'm so sorry" gifts. Nothing could help with our pain anyway. "So, how about this party, then?"
Cam seemed to brighten up at my question. "It's the biggest party of the year."
"Oh, let me guess. Everyone who's anyone goes, and anyone who doesn't is a social reject."
"How do you know that much, and not even what an eighth grader is?"Derrickdemanded, terribly confused. His face looked strange scrunched up, due to the wrinkles on his forehead.
"Shut up."
"When is it? Where are we now?"
"1. It's tonight, at around five o'clock. 2. We're in le joli quartier, de Barrington, Illinois."
"Ah, j'adore France. L'année 2012, et les personnes dans cet monde parlent français. C'est génial!" I exclaim excitedly; French has always been my favorite language, but nobody besides Madame La Verte spoke it fluently; apparently French is not a royal language, even though it sounds much less harsh than English.
"Geez, princess. I was just using a phrase. I'm not French, or anything. Not yet, at least," he jokes around, then having a grave expression when he says not yet. It seems like a touchy subject, but being an unruly princess, I've learned to approach touchy subjects, not beat around the bush. I've found that the commoners like it better that way; the nobility hate it, though.
"Oh, really? Are you moving there?"
"My uncle's going to adopt me in a few weeks, and then, it'll be good-bye Barrington, Bonjour Lyon."
"You don't seem happy about it."
"Okay, imagine living in a place your entire life, and then being completely uprooted and separate from everything you've ever known. How would you feel?" I don't know what to say, and remain my silence to be a negatively posed answer, and continues.
"Exactly! And Uncle Harris-"
"Uncle Harris?" I manage to blurt out through laughter.
"Yes, my Uncle Harris."Derricklooks heavily disgruntled that I've managed to interrupt him twice already. I can read his facial expressions, and he looks cute. Like a little puppy being given a small bone, and then having that bone taken away.
"That doesn't even sound French!"
"So, what? Anyways, he thinks that he's so high and mighty, and just because Mom and Dad are gone, it means that he can adopt me and take my fortune away?"
"You're rich! That exclaims your name!"
"My name? Seriously, my name?"
"Yes! Have you ever known a beggar on the streets with the name Derrick Harrington?" When Derrick remains silent, I continue gleefully (I like proving people wrong; it's fun!) onwards. "See, exactly!" A thought enters my head. "Do you know of any nearby castles?"
"Yes, of course. There's a castle right down the street called the Glencole Chateau. I'm sure that they'd be delighted to have you," Derrick said that with a completely straight face, so I knew that he couldn't be joking.
"Thank you!"
"I was joking!"
"Seriously?" My mind feels numb. I feel so nervous now, and I can't seem to find words to speak. All my life, the commoners/peasants have hated me, throwing rotten apples towards my direction whenever I passed their cobblestone houses, if you could even call the tenements that. Nobility only respected me due to my royal status, and the fact that most of their children thought of me as their role model (quite a horrible choice, if I may add). The other children wanted to be just like Prince Ryan, also a horrible choice. At least the nobles respected me, and would give me a place to stay.
"You okay?" Derrick awkwardly pats my shoulder. My face must have looked strange, a mixture between sadness, nervousness, and hate.
"Yeah. If there aren't any castles around," I begin, grinning. "What kind of places accommodate people?"
"Hotels, mainly."
"Hotels?" I scrunch up my eyebrows, having only heard of this funny word as hotel, as in hostel in French class. "I don't want to go to a hostel; I've heard that they have extremely poor sanitation and malnutrition results in severe cases."
"Hostels? No, no, no. Hotels, are like a place you can stay for as long as the rooms are available."
"You rent out rooms?"
"Exactly! Or you can buy them."
"How much does it cost?" I ask curiously. It seems like a pretty good idea.
"Depends, usually about ninety dollars a night."
"A night? What is that supposed to mean?"
"As I already told you, Dylly, you have a heck of a lot to learn," he continues, smirking.
Gosh, what is with him and smirking? Is it similar to an addiction, or something along the lines of that? Because addictions are severely unhealthy, as I've been told. We walk onward slowly, towards a tall glistening building in the distance. There are small abodes on the sides of the roads, too small to be considered castles or anything close to what a noble would reside in, but too grand to be considered tenements. I decide to call them canements, a mixture between the two types of abodes I have seen in Estonia. I wonder what has happened to my grand world, and what the sandstorm has done to the other majestic empires; how many casualties, deaths, the like. Not dwelling much on the saddening matter for much longer, I continue walking, examining the objects around me. There are not a great number of people outside their doors now, due to the hour I see in the horizon, the sun in the exact middle of the sky, almost precisely above my head.
The sun's rays are ever more radiant, framed by the picturesque light blue sky, its bright yellow unwavering though shutted out by the wispy altostratus clouds in the far distance, about ten thousand miles up. A loud noise sounded in the close vicinity: that of a cat yowling, stuck on the high branches of an oak tree. Though the noise was quite blatant, there was not a single person who came out of their houses to help rescue the cat. The only sign of a person was one opening their front windows, hoping for an imaginary breeze to come flooding through their windows. Though it was already the middle of Oak, the harshness of a frigid winter had not yet come to greet this world in an icy manner. The ground was still balmy, and my ice heels melt in heat, leaving my feet to succumb to the boiling, black concrete.
Birds fly in the distance in their ever so majestic manner, floating higher and higher and following each other in a V shaped pattern. I get distracted easily, and refocus my attention on an eagle. Its talons and body swoop closer to the ground, picking up an innocent animal from the ground about three hundred feet away from me (still in visible distance), and then the eagle floats up higher. Another bird, this time a Scarlet Tanager flies from branch to branch on a nearby Evergreen. In Estonia, they're considered a good luck symbol, and if one sees them, they're suddenly blessed with a better fate.
The rumor is thought to arise due to the fact it is extremely rare to see a Scarlet Tanager in Estonia's colder climate. The bird falls down to the floor, and I run over, kneeling to pick up the delicate bird gentle. This scarlet tanager isn't even scarlet at all, and is of medium height and size, perhaps a year old, no more, no less. The color of the bird is yellow on the underparts and a gorgeous olive above, with an olive-brown wings and tail, therefore making it female. It must be true luck, because even in Estonia, there are only male Scarlet Tanagers, known by their bright red body, a pair of black wings, and a glossy black tail.
Standing up again, I catch up with Derrick. "Wait, where do you stay?"
"A foster home. You could live with us if you want to." He said it more as a question than a statement, but it was reliving to know that I could live somewhere, even if it wouldn't be a glorious castle. I only had thirty pieces of gold and about thirty diamond bracelets, necklaces, anklets, and earrings. Diamonds and gold were valuable back in Estonia, but I wasn't sure if they would hold their same value in this place.
"T-thanks. That would be great," I stuttered. I'd never said "thank you" before; it just wasn't proper for a princess to thank anybody, unless it was their King or Queen. I was too young to speak when Mother was around, and I barely approached Father unless there was a desire situation, which there barely was.
We walked a few more "blocks", as Derrick calls them (I just think that he's making up words now), and stopped before a small house. It was made out of white stucco material, something quite expensive, so I was pleased that I wouldn't be living in conditions quite close to a tenement.
"Well, this is it. The Rose Estate. I'll talk to Mass about you." Derrick sighed, a smile lighting up his face as if this was where he really belonged.
"Mass?" It made sense that I didn't know who anybody but Chris and Derrick in this new world, if Chris was even the same person.
"Oh, she's my friend. Massie's her real name. Her parents died in a car crash when she was seven, but ever since she turned thirteen, she's been allowed to accept the family estate as her own. She houses starving children, and treats them like family." I could tell by the way Derrick's eyes lit up, that Massie was a truly nice girl, which was good.
"Shall we enter then?" I asked, hesitatingly.
"Sure. You know, this is your home now. You don't have to ask if you can enter your own house. Wouldn't that be slightly ridiculous?"
"Yeah, I guess," I replied, grinning broadly. I had never felt at home at the Marvil Estate, but here, I had a good feeling about the Rose Estate.
However, as soon as I rang the doorbell, my opinions were dramatically altered. The sound of heavy footsteps and children screaming came closer, and two young boys opened the door.
"Riley, Danny." Derrick ruffled each boy's hair, and stepped inside, not even taking off his shoes-oh. I realized that he didn't even have shoes on, which would explain the grubby state of his blackened feet. Well, I didn't have shoes either, but my feet were completely clean.
"Who's the pretty girl?" The boy in the blue shirt asked. I blushed, not used to receiving compliments; in Estonia, the best I was ever called was plain. Don't even get me started on what remarks jealous members of nobility call me whenever my father's not in sight.
"Oh, that's Dylan. She'll be living with us now, lads."
"What about Massie? Is she okay with it?" the boy in the muddy green shirt asked, tilting his head completely upwards. He reminded me of myself when I was younger, and when I would always have do the same action, as I was extremely petite in height from a young age.
"She will be. Oh, by the way, who ate the chocolate cookies?" We were inside the kitchen now, and Derrick had just spotted an empty glass jar, which had probably had cookies in it before he had exited the Estate.
"The cat did it!" One of the boys shouts, muffled by another cry of, "The cat hid the cookies in her secret lair!" I laughed inside my head; everything about this world, this dreamland seemed to be getting more and more ridiculous by the second.
"We don't have a cat," notes Derrick, looking suspiciously down at the assembled crowd. It was at that time, I realized how many children were living in this comfortable room; the number made the house seem even smaller.
"That's how sneaky he is! You don't even know that he's here."
"Where are the cookies?"
"I already told you, Kemp has them!"
"Kemp?"
"That's the cat's name."
"Okay, I'm giving you one last cha—
Derrick was interrupted by;
.
.
.
Dylan wakes up from a dream, perhaps thirty minutes after it occurs.
Tears are rolling down her cheeks, and she tries closing her eyes, to escape to that Wonderland once more, to be a five year old girl with parents and a life and a family and people who adored her, to be that same innocent child that she used to be, but she's not that anymore. All Dylan wants is to go back in time, to fix all of the mistakes that she made, to still be daddy's little girl, to be Chris's girlfriend, to be young and innocent, unaffected by the troubles of a time of always wanting to be the best, and somebody always pushing you down; castle walls grow higher, daily.
And now, she will never be young.
When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose -—
Chirps and an unusually loud ringtone comes from her cellphone; Dylan decides to ignore it, simply because she couldn't bring her stubborn mind to care about anything involving Chris Plovert and breakups in the middle of the boat because she's long past caring about somebody who brings you out into the middle of the pond of Westchester and tells you that he can't do this anymore — no, after all, falling in love wasn't meant for someone like her.
The phone rings again, and Dylan takes a deep breath; she shouldn't be doing this. Nobody's told her that this is the right thing to do, and they would tell her that it wasn't the right thing to do if anybody even knew about the two of them, or what they used to be. "You better make this quick," she presses the green acceptance button, and puts it on speakerphone, lying down on her terribly uncomfortable mattress.
Though she trained at the Academy, Dylan had expected better treatment than this; nevertheless, when the wars started — because she would be in the wars of course, that was what military school was for, but, Dylan could never imagine the end like this.
She had imagined the end of killing Chris, herself, slowly and painfully and making him regret every single time he had made her heart break, every single bone that he had broken or bruised during a training session, every single happy moment that had led her life to this fateful moment. And Dylan's stumbling around the graves, about to fall apart when she holds his hand and says, "I love you," and there's never going to be a reply but no, THIS CAN'T BE THE END— but she's the strong girl, not the one who falls in love;
And this is the end.