My very first story. It's un-beta'd (if you're interested, let me know). Also, it's very skeletal, by that meaning, there could be a lot more going on.
Anyway, let me know what you think.
Should I continue or not.
A dark and rainy day in Derbyshire was nothing new. Standing on the balcony of Grand'Mere's study, you could see the puffy grey clouds consume the sky at an achingly slow pace. The acres of green meadow and forest that surrounded the ancient estate lost their glow the moment a soft clap of thunder roared in the distance.
It's been told that even on the most thunderous of days, Chatsworth House, the residence of the family for the past several decades, is still so very silent. No rain was to be heard hitting the roof or windows, no wind was heard rattling the walls, and no rustling of trees could be heard even outside the balcony nearest to the forest.
I often sat on the cold, white marble until a servant or governess came to find me. When I was younger, the uniformed women would fluster about, screaming my name, and dragging me back inside the large doors before a drop could hit my pale nose. They'd drape me in a clean towel or blanket and rub their hands up and down my forearms while mumbling some prayer or lecture. I would keep still and silently nod. They'd catch the vacancy in my eyes and I could almost see the pity flood their faces.
And to get them away, I'd mutter a few words of thanks, though it only ever sounded like I was choking on words. Sometimes they'd kiss my forehead and warn me not to go outside during a thunderstorm because of the threat of illness; and sometimes they'd just shake their head and lock the large French-style doors before leading me back to my room
As I grew older, their timing slowed, and soon, they just waited by the doors with the warmed cloth prepared to cover me as soon as I entered the room. The mumbling turned to whispers and the whispers turned to silence. But the pity did not fail to cross their expressions, though now it was more for my warring sanity. And with their act of obligatory comfort complete, they'd slowly leave the room.
By the time I was by myself again, the rain would already be beating at the window panes and darkness had overcome the library. A bolt of lightning would quickly light up the large room, reminding me of my surroundings. Shrugging off the cloth, I'd regain my composure and slowly make my way across the dark oak floor.
The light from the hallway, just beyond the library door, seemed blinding, as it was enhanced by the white manor walls and ceiling.
My room was in the west wing on the third and top floor, of the eighteenth century palace my Grand'Mere called a home. It was once my mother's room, and nothing has likely changed since the day she left. At the end of a long white hallway, with single doors leading to unused bedrooms, powder rooms, and various other rooms, two large detailed white doors, with golden handles, stood. Upon opening them, I would step inside, what could only have been a ballroom as a first purpose. A grand dark wood bed stood before me upon first sight. Deep blue woven linens and pillows complimented the nearly black frame. To the left, the ominous darkness of rainclouds could be seen through the wall of glass window pane. On the rare sunny day, light would stream in, kissing every surface in its reach and erasing the misery that was strewn around the room. The Victorian wallpaper, a spectacularly embossed navy blue design, would almost seem magical.
But it was not one of those days. Today was a day that was mirrored by the torrential downpour outside. It was thirteenth anniversary of my parents' death. An unholy anniversary that reminded me of my status as an orphan and my grandmother's perpetually broken heart.
At four years old, I lost my parents to a bombing of a hotel in Gaza. They are two people I can vaguely recall their appearance by memory, but still feel the burning sensation of my mother's soft pink lips on my forehead and my father's strong arms wound around my body. I couldn't describe their voices, nor even their personalities. But I could sing you the lullaby my mother sang to me every night before I went to sleep, or copy my father's graceful signature from the postcards they'd send me.
On anniversaries of deaths, people ought to be sad and mourn the loss of those they loved. But I'm not sad or mourning. Since that fateful June day, this manor has been in an eternal state of mourning. If anything, I am sick and numb. My entire life has been filled with private tutors, governesses, therapists, and servants. Upon first glance, it seems such a privileged life, but all things come with a price.
The price I paid, I was not loved. No, I did not have a governess who saw me as her own child nor friendly wait-staff that allowed me to play around. My life has been filled with sympathetic glances, heartlessly fulfilled requests, and strict guidelines. Since my parents' passing, Grand'Mere and I only see each other during dinner, during which no one speaks. She'll sit in various rooms around the manor, staring out the window with the same vacant stare that hasn't changed in over a decade.
Six years ago, I learned to escape the dread, at least momentarily, by taking up horse riding and dressage. There had always been an active horse stable on the property for various reasons. Security would ride around the property, guests would use them for afternoons around the vast property, and the occasional polo match or hunting game would occupy the estate.
I became enticed immediately. There were so many reasons I fell in love with the sport, the freedom, the agility, the excitement, but mainly the control I exercised over another living being. It was so thrilling. To receive an immediate raw and honest response to my command made me feel alive. This large beast gave into the sharp pain of cool leather directed from the hand of a young girl.
It was a thought so complex and yet so simple that I could not help but entertain in the back of my mind.
I'd really love to hear back from you all who actually read it.