"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace." Chuck Palahniuk. My mother used to tell me this often, after she married my father. I sighed and leaned back into the cushions, trying to find someplace to sit that was comfortable. I'd always find one, and then I'd have to move. It'd be uncomfortable again. 'Why can't peace come easily?' I thought.

I closed my eyes and pricked a note on my guitar, letting it ring into the air and fade. Then I'd play another one. And the cycle went on. At least I never grew tired of this.

My father knocked on the door and I jumped, my eyes snapping open. "Brigette?"

"Yeah?"

"Your uncle's here. He wants to see you."

Normally when I heard those words, I would smile, but I didn't think I could smile right then. Chuck Palahniuk is right. It's nearly impossible to forget pain. But he was wrong about happiness. I could remember every happy moment with my mother, and each memory cut me deeper.

I lay my guitar carefully on the ground and followed my father out the door and down the hall to his office. My uncle was trying so hard to hide his tears, but when he saw me, they began to fall. He ran to embrace me. I gripped his shirt and he pressed his hand against the back of my auburn curls.

He cupped my face. "We're going to be okay. It's what your mother would have wanted."

I bit my lip and smiled sadly, nodding. "I know, Uncle." He hugged me again.

"Oh, when did you get so grown up?" He pulled away and squeezed my shoulders. "Last time I saw you, you were this tall!" he gestured to his hip.

"Undoubtedly, people will be coming over. Put on a good face. We all have a long day ahead of us. Go relax for a while Bridgette before the people come." My father ordered.

I nodded and went, glad to leave the impending glare of my father and closed the door to my room, sighing.

I squeezed my eyes shut, yelling at myself in my head.

"Where are the tears?" I asked myself.

I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to force them to fall. None came.

I loved my mother so much. I'm heartbroken without her. 'Where are those damn tears?' I asked again.

I heard car doors slam shut outside. And I ran to the window. There was a white van and a camera crew spilled out. I ran from the room and down the stairs past my father.

"Brigette! Stop!" My father swore, running after me.

The door rang and I whipped it open, my father following closely behind. He smiled once he was in view of the cameras, putting on a 'good face'.

"Brigette Johnson? How do you feel about you mother's death? How was she killed? Mr. Johnson? Are you still hosting the benefit concert without your wife?"

My father smiled and tried to sidestep in front of me.

"Of course, for my wife, the benefit concert will be tonight— ."

"We have no comment." I stepped from my door and cameras flashed all around me. "And get your damn car and your damn cameras off this property or I'm calling the cops!"

I slammed the door.

"Brigette!" My father instantly yelled. "This family has a reputation to uphold and the people need to see us handling this well—."

"Is that all you care about? How you look? I know that's why you married Mom in the first place! You didn't want this lovechild to get out to the public, so you married my mom like the good 'family man'."

"Watch your tongue, young lady! One more word and you're not seeing your friends again."

"You don't have the right to tell me what to do anymore! Mom was the only reason I ever listened to you! She's gone!"

"Brigette!" another voice boomed across the house. I looked at my uncle at the top of the staircase. "You've said enough. You've gotten your point across. Your mother's death is hard on all of us."

"You mean two of us." I mumbled under my breath. I glared at my father for a moment before pushing past him climbing the stairs.

Uncle embraced me and then I went into my room again.

After a few moments, my father walked past my room. "Look what I have to clean up because of that little girl!"

I began to continue my process with the guitar, but instead playing chords, going from deep to high and then back again. The doorbell rang again, so I got up and turned the lock on my bedroom door. I can't keep them away from my house, but at least I can keep them away from me.

I heard my father's deep voice as he greeted the unknown guest. I glanced out the window, but the car was a limo, so I couldn't guess who it was. There were many limos that ended up parked in front of this house.

The doorbell rang again and again and soon more people came. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would have to show my face. I touched up my makeup, pinned my hair back, and opened the door.

The ground floor was buzzing with voices, most of them soft and comforting. I walked up to the banister and saw my father with his head bowed in fake pain while one of his coworkers patted his back. I turned around. There was no way I was going to put on a 'good face' for a bunch of my father's 'friends'.

I went down the back stairs and escaped through the basement. The cool air hit me and I inhaled deeply, reveling in the pleasure of being outside that house.

"Where to, miss?" the chauffeur asked when I approached the car.

"The studio."

He nodded and pulled the car out of the driveway.

I walk a lonely road

The only one that I have ever known

Don't know where it goes

But it's home to me and I walk alone

My hands ran across the keys of the piano as I played. I sang, the microphone turned off and barely whispering the words, but it felt good to sing.

I walk this empty street

On the boulevard of broken dreams

When the city sleeps

And I'm the only one and I walk alone

I played an incomprehensible note and lay my head against the piano. My eyes closed and suddenly I was very dreary.

"That's not a very happy song."

I didn't move, not wanting to move because I already knew who it was. "I'm not a very happy person."

"Your father asked me to come pick you up. The chauffeur told us where you were." My uncle placed his hand on my back. "Let's go. Everyone's gone at the house."

"And he couldn't come himself? He knows damn well that he owes me an apology."

"As do you." I followed him back out to the car. "Your father has what's best for you in mind. He cares about you."

You don't know him like I do, Uncle, I thought. But instead, I smiled and said, "I know, Uncle. I'll apologize when I get home."

Inside, though, I was seething. He doesn't have any right to tell me to apologize. I meant every word of what I said. I hadn't anything to apologize for!

"I'm sorry." I practically spat. Fortunately, he didn't catch it.

"As you should be. You're lucky I was able to pay off the press to burn the story. I had to cancel the benefit concert because of you. Now leave. Let me work." He hadn't even looked up from his desk.

"I would rather the story aired, so the whole world can see how heartless you are!"

"You don't mean that. You're just rebelling because your mother died."

"She was your wife, too!" I yelled.

"Get out. Now." He stood up, glaring at me. I held his gaze for a moment before leaving and slamming the door.

Anger boiled inside me as I ran down the stairs.

"How did it go?" My uncle asked, but I brushed him off.

I went straight to my father's record room. He owned and founded the studio that I recorded at, and kept all of the first albums of his musicians as tokens.

I stared at the wall, looking at all of them. He prized these records. I picked up the first one.

I didn't want to do it, but at the same time I did.

Snap! My hands acted of their own accord after that. The first one was an accident. I was so nervous that I was squeezing the record so tight that it snapped without me realizing it. But after that, I broke. I ripped the records from the wall and broke then, then tore to cover art in half.

He didn't even care about us. He's heartless! He probably is glad she's dead! He's probably planning my death too! I accused.

The records were finished. I looked at the wreckage on the ground, panting, out of breath. One last thing in this room. I looked over at the plaque hanging from the wall. It had a light shining on it to illuminate his accomplishment. The plaque sat, glaring at me from its frame.

I picked it up, staring at it. Then, with a small yell, I threw it against the wall. I heard a satisfactory shatter of glass as it fell to the ground.

"What did you do?" My father yelled when he appeared in the doorway. He stared at his former trophy room in utter shock. "Brigette, you little—" He stopped himself. "Damn it. Get to your room right now! You're not coming out until you pay for what you did!" He screamed.

I ran upstairs, a little bit afraid of the person he became when he saw what I did. I was a little afraid of myself when I looked back at the wreckage, but the look in his eye. It looked like he was going to kill me, right then.

I ran past my uncle, who was just coming to see what happened. I didn't say anything, and he didn't stop me. He understood when he saw my father's expression.

"Don't you dare ever come out!" He yelled again.

I slammed the door. I exhaled, trying to catch my breath. I leaned back on the door.

"You aren't helping by yelling at her." My uncle said.

"You're saying this is my fault?" He exclaimed.

"Her mother just died. She needs you now more than ever, and you're surrounding yourself with coworkers and strangers. She's at her most vulnerable and all you can do is yell at her."

"You've said enough!"

My uncle didn't push it after that, but him defending me just made me angrier, and I didn't know why.

I picked up my guitar, and began to compose.

I heard an alarm, and instantly, my chest tightened. My mother's alarm. She had it set for ten o'clock every night, because she would always fall asleep reading. I made a last note on my music sheet before getting up to go turn it off.

I stared at the alarm for a while after it was off, just remembering her. Then I heard voices.

"I'm so sorry about your wife." The voice was muffled. It was speaker phone.

"Thank you. It's been hard. Brigette's been awful since she heard what happened."

"I heard it was a murder. Is that true?"

There was a brief pause before answering, as if he was contemplating whether or not to tell him. My heart leaped at the word. Murder. I snuck closer to the partially opened door, leaning closer so that I was just barely able to peer inside.

"Yes. It was."

My legs moved on their own after that. I stepped inside the room in clear view.

"It was murder?" I exclaimed.

"I'll have to call you back."

He hung up the phone. "My mother was murdered?!"

My eyebrows knitted together and I leaned against the doorknob for support. My knees felt like they would give out any second.

"Yes. She was."

"By who?"

"We're still trying to track who it was. We have no idea right now."

"But… But you'll find out. You're going to find out, right?"

"I think we're going to have to give up the search. There's hardly any evidence."

"What evidence do you have?"

He pulled something from a desk drawer. "This cigar. Manufactured in Japan. Sold only in Japan. You can't even buy them online. Found it at the crime scene."

"Well, that's a lead. That's a huge lead. We know they're from Japan!"

"Someone could have been hired from Japan, and the person who wanted her killed could be anywhere."

"But if we find the mercenary, we can find who it was!"

"The search ends there. We can't keep looking."

"I'll look!" I offered. My father doesn't care who the killer was. He doesn't care about anything except his image. I had to look. I had to avenge my mother's death.

"Don't be foolish."

"I'll go to Japan! Please. I haven't ever asked you for anything! Look, I'm really sorry about your stuff, but at least I won't be around. You want that, don't you?"

He gave me a look. "Alright. You can go. But you have to attend school there. I'll provide for all of your expenses to find the killer."

"When do I need to be home?"

"When you find proof about who the killer is. Give it to me and I'll report it to the police."

"When?"

"I can set you up at a private school there, and arrange for your flight to be in the morning."

"What school?"

"Ouran Academy. The cigar is called Oturi Smoke. The son of the owner of that company attends that school. That should help."

"Thank you…Dad."

His eyes narrowed. "Do not call me that. You've only lived with me for three years. I am by no means your father. I want to know who this killer is just as much as you do. If I have an enemy, I need to know who so I can take them down. It's only convenient that you offer to do it for me."

END