Post by ᴏᴡʟ on Sept 11, 2017 1:54:39 GMT -5
For Dove Bellini, most mornings went by in the same, monotonous way, with not a single disruption to change the pattern.
Always, Dove woke up to the same messy, gray-walled room, where the sound of the AC was the first and only thing that came to greet her that day. Her sheets would rasp as they tangled around her legs, and her feet would scramble across the floor- stepping over books and clothes, but mostly books. Books on history, both ancient and more relative; books about people, places, and things, though none of it being anything remotely close the genre of fiction, as Dove simply hated fiction. Then, after she’d stepped over her sand-box of a library and slid on a pair of fluffy white slippers, she would open the door to her room, and curse at the squeak it released, for she never quite got around to oiling the hinges.
Her mother would be up, as the woman made a habit of waking sometime in the early hours, near dawn. The knowledge of this would make Dove grit her teeth, and shuffle her feet at the top of the stairs- hesitating, and mulling over her options. Of all the people, in all the world, Dove could say with great confidence that she disliked her mother most of all, and that feeling was mutual between the two of them... or at least, that’s what she and her pessimism always assumed. She loved her father more- openly and blatantly- but that wasn’t saying much, as the man didn’t often give her all that much to work with either. While her mother didn’t care, her father cared too much, but about all the wrong people in his life… mostly about the blond that he often went to after work, but that didn’t matter- not then, so early in the morning, at least.
Regardless of these other factors though, Dove was still left at the top of the stairs. Between a chilly conversation with her mother, and potential starvation, the girl supposed that she could suffer through one option in order to spare herself the other. So with quiet steps, she’d slink down the stairwell, her hands clinging to the banister with the ferocity and focus of some desperate jungle animal- anything to keep her motions steady and quiet, in hopes that the woman down below her wouldn’t hear the creaking of the stairs. It wouldn’t work, of course, and just as always, the glassy gaze of Loretta Bellini would ever so briefly flick her way, before darting back to where it’d rested upon the window beside her seat.
Sometimes Dove thought that all the woman cared about was that damn window. All she ever seemed to do was stare out of it, as if it were a magic mirror, or an escape from the little catacomb they called a house. If it were any of these things, then Dove might have found herself right there alongside her mother, but alas, fairy tales and fiction were just a load of nonsense, and thus why Dove hated all of it: fiction, fairy tales, and that single, finger-printed window.
Sometimes- just sometimes, but regularly enough to maintain the pattern- Dove would ask where her father was. Of course, Loretta would never tell her the truth- or at least, not all of it. She would give her some vague, halfhearted response, her attention somewhere far away from her daughter’s prying eyes and frowning lips.
‘He’s at work.’
‘He’s at a meeting.’
‘He left early.’
She would say anything but the whole truth, that was: ‘He’s seeing another woman.’
Dove had found that Loretta Bellini was simply packed full of those useless little lies, though she could never understand who it was that the woman was trying to fool. She was passive in a way that made Dove’s skin crawl- as uninterested in her husband’s whereabouts as she was of her daughter’s- so why would she try to spare her child the blatant truth of the matter? Maybe it wasn’t for Dove; maybe it was just for her pride, though Dove didn’t know if the woman even had a sense of pride. In fact, she knew so very little of her mother that it was almost frightening, but in the end, it didn’t matter. That was the extent of their usual conversation- the extent of what they both wanted it to be- and she’d end their interactions with single a click of the tongue.
Just as the pattern demanded, that was how it always was… So when Dove woke up on that cold, ice-laden morning, the last thing she’d expected to find was the taste of gloved hands pressing against her lips, or the weight of a stranger bearing down upon her rib cage.
Of course, sometime had passed since then, though Dove couldn’t quite say how long it had been. Maybe a week- maybe a few… maybe a couple days, all blurred into one long line of foggy consciousness. Although her kidnappers had been nice enough to her thus far (granted, this was said with a great air of sarcasm), they hadn’t been generous enough to give her a calendar… or anything, really, besides a drink and a sandwich or two. Imagine, living off of sandwiches alone, for who knows how long! It was atrocious, and between that and the stuffy little room she was stuck in, Dove couldn’t say that she was a fan of her circumstances… not that she even understood what they were, in the first place.
She’d contemplated it for a while, in the moments when she wasn’t busy picking at stray threads on the sleeve of her shirt. Why was it that she had been the one to get snatched? Out of all the snotty little rich girls, it just had to be her? Really? Why? Perhaps she was supposed to be some damsel in distress- you know, daddy’s little ransom in waiting? Maybe it was human trafficking, because that always seemed plausible enough. Was she to be sold to some gray-face man in a crisp black suit, or maybe a woman so desperate for a child, she’d go to the ends of the earth to get one? She didn’t know, and as time wore on, she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to know. In the end, she took it all in with a cold sweat, and a clench of the jaw.
She’d be out of here soon enough, wouldn’t she? Out of this damp stone room, with it’s haloed lights and humid air… Yes, she’d be out before she knew it. The police would come, or maybe her very own--... no, not her parents. That was wishful thinking. If either of them ever bothered to lift their nose out of their papers, maybe they’d finally realize that she was gone, and maybe then Dove could take the liberty of having wishful thoughts. Not just then, though; not with her hands dangling at her sides, and her forehead bruising from the times she’d brought it down upon the door she stood in front of.
‘Bang.’
‘Bang.’
‘Bang.’
The metal rattling with each time her skull connected dully. Maybe if she just kept doing this- kept up this pathetic cry for attention- maybe then she could have wishful thoughts, because maybe then, someone might actually notice.
"Fat chance."
Always, Dove woke up to the same messy, gray-walled room, where the sound of the AC was the first and only thing that came to greet her that day. Her sheets would rasp as they tangled around her legs, and her feet would scramble across the floor- stepping over books and clothes, but mostly books. Books on history, both ancient and more relative; books about people, places, and things, though none of it being anything remotely close the genre of fiction, as Dove simply hated fiction. Then, after she’d stepped over her sand-box of a library and slid on a pair of fluffy white slippers, she would open the door to her room, and curse at the squeak it released, for she never quite got around to oiling the hinges.
Her mother would be up, as the woman made a habit of waking sometime in the early hours, near dawn. The knowledge of this would make Dove grit her teeth, and shuffle her feet at the top of the stairs- hesitating, and mulling over her options. Of all the people, in all the world, Dove could say with great confidence that she disliked her mother most of all, and that feeling was mutual between the two of them... or at least, that’s what she and her pessimism always assumed. She loved her father more- openly and blatantly- but that wasn’t saying much, as the man didn’t often give her all that much to work with either. While her mother didn’t care, her father cared too much, but about all the wrong people in his life… mostly about the blond that he often went to after work, but that didn’t matter- not then, so early in the morning, at least.
Regardless of these other factors though, Dove was still left at the top of the stairs. Between a chilly conversation with her mother, and potential starvation, the girl supposed that she could suffer through one option in order to spare herself the other. So with quiet steps, she’d slink down the stairwell, her hands clinging to the banister with the ferocity and focus of some desperate jungle animal- anything to keep her motions steady and quiet, in hopes that the woman down below her wouldn’t hear the creaking of the stairs. It wouldn’t work, of course, and just as always, the glassy gaze of Loretta Bellini would ever so briefly flick her way, before darting back to where it’d rested upon the window beside her seat.
Sometimes Dove thought that all the woman cared about was that damn window. All she ever seemed to do was stare out of it, as if it were a magic mirror, or an escape from the little catacomb they called a house. If it were any of these things, then Dove might have found herself right there alongside her mother, but alas, fairy tales and fiction were just a load of nonsense, and thus why Dove hated all of it: fiction, fairy tales, and that single, finger-printed window.
Sometimes- just sometimes, but regularly enough to maintain the pattern- Dove would ask where her father was. Of course, Loretta would never tell her the truth- or at least, not all of it. She would give her some vague, halfhearted response, her attention somewhere far away from her daughter’s prying eyes and frowning lips.
‘He’s at work.’
‘He’s at a meeting.’
‘He left early.’
She would say anything but the whole truth, that was: ‘He’s seeing another woman.’
Dove had found that Loretta Bellini was simply packed full of those useless little lies, though she could never understand who it was that the woman was trying to fool. She was passive in a way that made Dove’s skin crawl- as uninterested in her husband’s whereabouts as she was of her daughter’s- so why would she try to spare her child the blatant truth of the matter? Maybe it wasn’t for Dove; maybe it was just for her pride, though Dove didn’t know if the woman even had a sense of pride. In fact, she knew so very little of her mother that it was almost frightening, but in the end, it didn’t matter. That was the extent of their usual conversation- the extent of what they both wanted it to be- and she’d end their interactions with single a click of the tongue.
Just as the pattern demanded, that was how it always was… So when Dove woke up on that cold, ice-laden morning, the last thing she’d expected to find was the taste of gloved hands pressing against her lips, or the weight of a stranger bearing down upon her rib cage.
Of course, sometime had passed since then, though Dove couldn’t quite say how long it had been. Maybe a week- maybe a few… maybe a couple days, all blurred into one long line of foggy consciousness. Although her kidnappers had been nice enough to her thus far (granted, this was said with a great air of sarcasm), they hadn’t been generous enough to give her a calendar… or anything, really, besides a drink and a sandwich or two. Imagine, living off of sandwiches alone, for who knows how long! It was atrocious, and between that and the stuffy little room she was stuck in, Dove couldn’t say that she was a fan of her circumstances… not that she even understood what they were, in the first place.
She’d contemplated it for a while, in the moments when she wasn’t busy picking at stray threads on the sleeve of her shirt. Why was it that she had been the one to get snatched? Out of all the snotty little rich girls, it just had to be her? Really? Why? Perhaps she was supposed to be some damsel in distress- you know, daddy’s little ransom in waiting? Maybe it was human trafficking, because that always seemed plausible enough. Was she to be sold to some gray-face man in a crisp black suit, or maybe a woman so desperate for a child, she’d go to the ends of the earth to get one? She didn’t know, and as time wore on, she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to know. In the end, she took it all in with a cold sweat, and a clench of the jaw.
She’d be out of here soon enough, wouldn’t she? Out of this damp stone room, with it’s haloed lights and humid air… Yes, she’d be out before she knew it. The police would come, or maybe her very own--... no, not her parents. That was wishful thinking. If either of them ever bothered to lift their nose out of their papers, maybe they’d finally realize that she was gone, and maybe then Dove could take the liberty of having wishful thoughts. Not just then, though; not with her hands dangling at her sides, and her forehead bruising from the times she’d brought it down upon the door she stood in front of.
‘Bang.’
‘Bang.’
‘Bang.’
The metal rattling with each time her skull connected dully. Maybe if she just kept doing this- kept up this pathetic cry for attention- maybe then she could have wishful thoughts, because maybe then, someone might actually notice.
"Fat chance."
