" Take that you thieving moron!" , my father shouted at the plasma TV, showering it in dry cereal. I watched him from the end of the kitchen counter, my breakfast sitting untouched in front of me. I had been absorbed in my textbook up until his outburst, and now I found it had to focus on anything but him. The years had not been kind to my father, though you wouldn't know that by looking at him. His bleached hair and sharp suit made him look younger, but his eyes had seen their fair share. My family had been in media for generations, since it's inception really; where they was a story, there was someone to exploit.
As usual his glee was coming from a story about the Montague family, a property magnet whose reckless son had caused some new damage to something or other. Generations ago there had been a feud between our families, to this day no one remembers what happened, but the hatred is always there. We all tended to avoid each other out in the open, but hell, the police were all so in pocket that if someone did go missing suddenly or had an unfortunate accident, there wouldn't be a great amount of paperwork.
My mother sauntered into the room, her usual mix of elegance and swagger subdued by the time of morning. She had borne her years better, internalizing her scheming so that it did not show on her skin as it did my father. Despite the early time, her blonde hair was already pinned precisely into a ballerina bun; her make up already as perfect as a model. There were some moments I was grateful that I did not look much like my parents. My hair was thicker, darker and less smooth and makeup was rarely in my vocabulary. I could past regularly unseen through a crowd, without the hassle of people knowing who I was.
I tried to focus again on my textbook of Ancient History, hoping that the decapitations of Aztec victims would block out the elated shouting of my father. Our maid Cassie skirted quietly round the room, picking up cereal from where it had been tossed and ensuring the room was once again spotless. She caught my eye and I had a sudden thought. What if I had been the maid of some rich, pathetic family? Would I have been able to stick it out as long as she has or would I have found something a whole lot easier. I tried to give her a quick smile, to show that at least once person in this household appreciated her, but she turned and left the room as swiftly as she had entered. Sometimes that girl reminded me of a ghost or a nurse passing silently through the wards at night. I looked at the clock and decided that being half an hour early for school was by far better than staying in the madhouse. I slung by textbook and the remains of my breakfast into my bag and left the apartment unnoticed.