The Search for Paradise

When my mum first looked into my eyes, she actually groaned.

Dad says she hasn't stopped apologising since, but she still groaned, and I'm still pissed off at her. It's been sixteen years since the day I was born. My mum is a pretty 'unique' figure to look up to. For example, she wore jeans and a camouflage-shirt to her wedding day, while my poor father stood there blushing in his dapper black-and-white suit. Yet again, my mother has never had a day when she hasn't regretted that.

"Sorry, honey," my mum told me the other day, "I shouldn't have sighed. It's … just that, I passed on my brown eyes to you. How dull! I should have made CERTAIN that you'd have got dad's eyes … aren't they gorgeous?"

At this point, she winked at my father sitting on the settee next to her, and they cuddled and did other creepy stuff only couples do, so I went upstairs to tune my guitar. But she is OBSESSED with my dad. You'd have thought they'd get over being in-love and all around their daughter, especially since it's been four years since they married. I got to be the bridesmaid at the wedding. I was twelve. What a horrific memory to tarnish my life forever.

All credit to the bad parenting in question.

But, hey, whatever: I'm glad my parents aren't 'normal'. I'm glad my mum doesn't cook broth when you're ill (she smothers you with cushions until you recite the alphabet backwards for her), and I'm glad my dad doesn't go chop the firewood out back like my friend's see their dad do. Wouldn't that be dull? Just like my eyes?

"Oh, no, I love your eyes," mum laughed when I asked her about it, "Buuut I had been wishing for green eyes, that's all. Your eyes are beautiful – and so are you. Don't doubt yourself, Tamsin – you're gorgeous."

That's my name. Tamsin. It means 'Twin' and my mum thought I would suit that for whatever reason. But then again, my dad tells me that Tamsins are a 'powerful force to all whose lives they touch' etcetera, or that's what the Valond priestess told him when I had been born at the temple. I'm not so sure about that part. Does that describe me? So far, the only life I've been a powerful force on is Nelson, the cat (don't ask, mum named him) when I tried to drown him in the fishbowl when he tried to eat Admiral Plop (mum again) the goldfish. Mum wasn't best pleased, with neither the cat nor me. Nelson and I have never really made up. He scarpers for the curtain-rails whenever I'm feeding Admiral Plop, even though I was only three at the time. Dad's now in charge of getting him down, and I swear he's been getting to sleep later and later over the years …

But not everything's nice in this house. Not everything's funny, and not everyone laughs day-in day-out. You'd have thought that it would be my mum who cheered everyone up whenever 'it' happened, but how could she … when she's the one that 'it' happens to?

I mumble something inaudible as I roll over in bed. My eyes managing to open by themselves, and I check the sundial beside the window. Sunlight streams into the room through the open curtains, casting a shadow from the gnomon onto the number seven. Ugh – it's early on a Saturday, yet again. I think about closing the curtains and trying to get more shut-eye, but that's when I hear the scream.

And I know instantly, that 'it' is happening again.

All thoughts of sleep vanish as I clamber out of my bed, the mattress creaking in relief behind me. I snatch the dressing-gown slung over the doorknob of my wardrobe, tug it on, and tiptoe from my bedroom. I'd never be able to do such a task (especially at the weekend) if it weren't 'now' and it weren't for 'this'.

"Shhh … shhh, Ann, what is it?" I hear dad whisper gently, and something makes

me linger outside their bedroom door.

My mother starts gulping hysterically, and I feel she's retaining another scream.

"F-Flashback …" she says, her whole voice on edge, "W-With the Eagles. I-In the t-t-torture … room …"

She dissolves into raw pain and fear, crying softly but passionately. I raise my trembling hand to the rosewood door, but I cannot bring my hand down on a knock. This is their time, and this is something private. I cup my hand to the crack between doorframe and wall, and crouch down. It's wrong. I get that. But my parents have done worse, and they are the ones meant to be setting an example.

"It doesn't exist anymore. We heard the other week, didn't we? That they demolished that place. We don't have to remember it anymore," my dad says soothingly, and then it's all quiet, just my mother whispered 'Loren, Loren …' over and over again: my dad's name.

They never really went into full history about how they met. My mum once told me that she had an adventure, but that adventure's were evil things, and one musn't look for them. Be careful what you wish for was the only sane piece of advice she's ever given to me.

Eventually, I retire to my bed again, but I can't fall asleep. Torture room. Eagles. My mother was involved in that kind of thing? She never told me that, but I've heard fragments of secret conversation before. When she has the flashbacks. They happened about once every three months, but now they're increasing. My mum is getting paler everyday. I don't get how she can try to pretend everything's okay in front of me, because it is not okay. I would help her. If I could. I would make it so that everything was okay. If the chance came up, even for a brief moment, I would take it so recklessly that someone might get hurt. But I want my mum to be alright. I love her. She's so different.

When I decide I really can't get a wink more sleep, I stagger downstairs, probably waking up everyone in the house with my exaggerated moaning.

"THE SUDDEN CHAIR!"

I gasp, whipping around with my hand on the door handle, but it's just mum yelling something weird again on the landing. As ALWAYS. Her hand is outstretched, pointing at the chair balanced on the penultimate step. It wasn't there last time she went down these stairs.

"I put it there last night," I sigh wearily, rubbing sleep from my eyes, "There was a spider* on the ceiling. That's all."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously, but finally nods her assent and continues downstairs.

My eyes smart as I draw back the curtains in the living room. Sunlight glowers at me like I've killed the Moon or something. I stick two fingers up at it, glaring right back, until I notice Nelson watching me on the window-bay. He eyes me for another few seconds before waving his paw in the air and retracting two claws. I think he shares my dislike of bright light. I shut the windows and carry Nelson down (he's too fat and lazy to do anything by himself when I'm around (for some strange reason)).

But, hey. That's life. Or at least, that was my life … until 'that' happened …

**Hey guys! You liking the sequel? If you haven't read the sequel, then hey guys, you liking the story? ^_^

Okay – next issue roughly in three or four days – I'm travelling somewhere today and then next week is the school week, as usual.

* You hear that, Percabetheweston (Ellie), a BIG BLACK SPIDER THAT THE HEROINE IS NOT AFRAID OF!? Oooh … eight slender black legs, mincing along alternately, creeping up your FACE as you SLEEP!

AH HA HA HA HA HA!

Love, Lucy xx