Slave to the Melody
Chapter Two: Peacecraft Tragedy
By Oblivious-Bystander
Backing away from the door, hanging my head low as the five men march in –I counted-, I steady my breathing. Each one of them have to be my age, little older or little younger. And, they are from the city. They have to be.
There isn't one single Preventer station within a 100 mile radius. I made sure of it.
I can only wonder why they would come here, so far out in the shittiest towns around.
Pushing my curiosity away, I close my door quietly and follow them into the living room where they all stand looking around like a group of children. Following their gaze, I look for anything less than normal. It has been a long time since I have really taken a look at my living environment.
Abstract lamp, complete with vibrant colors of yellows and blues
Television, flat screen, largest size I could find
Tan couch with several stains left to prove my laziness
Stereo that I basically used as a drug… scratch that, did use as a drug
Pictures of family, which I rarely acknowledge…, except for this day
Books that I've never read by authors I've never heard of
A gun
Stopping, I become flustered. I have always known I had a gun but it was always locked away in a chest beneath my bed…
'How…'
Looking back to the group, I'm not surprised that they are all looking at the same exact object; I open my mouth to speak. Yet, I am interrupted.
My new neighbor, who is complete with a rock hard body, less than tame brown hair, solid expression, beautiful Prussian eyes, and long legs that help him to effortlessly surpass my short height of 5'4", looks at me. Yes, I call that an interruption.
It has to be because as soon as his eyes fell on me, my mind went blank and I could swear my mouth drooled, praying evidence doesn't slip from the corners of my mouth.
In those eyes, I know he can see right through me. I can only hope that he doesn't hold the key to untangling my web of secrets.
I am afraid he has just that.
With a low rough voice, he speaks, "that gun looks like a Peacecraft design, rare," boring holes into my flesh with his curious eyes
With that, the rest of the men give it a second look, noticing the little carvings and swirls in its handle.
And with the simple, harmless statement, my world falls into darkness.
He was right, and why wouldn't he be considering his profession.
"It does!" the blonde one squeaked, throwing an index finger out like it is alien to him. I have nothing against him and his innocence, but all I want to do is use my own special finger to show what I think of him that very moment.
"I thought those were all donated to museums…" the tall, yet emo looking one, mumbles. I hardly heard him. But when I understood it, my fingers itch for the feel of the volume knob
"Why would a woman own such a historic weapon" the Chinese one barks and I ignore him completely, I'm afraid I'd hit him otherwise
And the cheerful one, Duo, is the one to ask the question I dread the most, "Where'd you get it?"
I can almost feel myself suffocating inside of me. But on the surface, I am as calm as a butterfly landing on a rose petal.
Glancing at the piece of iron on my countertop, I sigh. Today, the anniversary of such a tragedy is not the day I would like to tell a long story. Especially not this one.
Looking down at my bare feet, wondering when I took off my shoes, I huff loudly, "It was my brothers." Speaking as low and emotionless as possible
Every last one of them gasped, barking questions left and right. All of which, I ignore.
"My brother, Milliardo, owned it. It was given to me a few years ago…"
Silence fills the room. Every last one of them have the look of pity in their eyes, even the woman hater.
Close to tears, the blonde man, probably the youngest, whispers, "but wasn't he-" glancing around to his comrades
"Missing in action" my new neighbor finished, staring hard into my being. He probably sees my past experiences as if they are his own. I'm not surprised.
Looking up, I watch as his lips tell the story I know all too well. The one that makes me tip the couch over and black out from rage. Or, I assume it was rage.
"He was sent on the special forces mission a few years ago. Everyone was found dead except one. In the same year, the Peacecraft mansion went down in flames, killing the Queen within it. The very next day, the shuttle with the King exploded on its way back to Earth. All family ties are have died out. Milliardo was reported missing in action and assumed dead. The last heir was to be left unknown to avoid further attack. They never found the threat. The last heir was reported missing three years ago until found exactly two months ago perfectly safe and was granted relief of all government protection, allowing said person to disappear from public knowledge."
I know the story.
I know who I am.
I know what today is.
But, he reminds me. Salt in an open wound.
"Today is the anniversary for the Peacecraft Tragedy" he finishes with a low tone.
Sighing, running my fingers through my thick golden hair, I point limply down the dark hallway.
"You'll find the laptop on the desk by the window. There are drinks in the fridge, food in the cabinets. Help yourself"
With that, I walk quietly into my study, farthest away from their presence. Farthest away from a harsh reminder.
With each step, I can feel the hands of my demons pulling me down within myself. With each step, I can see the obvious that I have been questioning.
I remember now why I avoid people.
I remember now why I get wine and forget it exists.
I remember now why I tip the couch over.
Loving people makes my heart weep.
Wine might as well be the blood in my veins.
There is a fan right above my couch and a rope in my closet.
I'm just too drunk to properly secure it… so I fall down.
On the wall are picture frames. Each frame holds a happy memory.
I drunkly expect them to catch my fall.
…be caught by the arms that I miss so dearly
I suppose I can try to correct myself, go to a therapist to deal with my depression.
I suppose I can throw out the rope and push myself back into society.
Closing the door quietly to the study, I know the answer to such thoughts.
'I think I'll just buy more wine.'
