Her hair flies back as she turns to face the house for the last time. Her eyes; whimpering, orbs of deep black pain drip tears, as swiftly as a coursing river.
"We need to go." He tugs at her elbow, but she ignores him, staring up at the place where she was born; where she spent the majority of her twenty odd years.
"I don't want to just leave it. I know my mother. She'll sell the place." She chokes out, and he hugs her tightly, an attempt at consolation.
There's no consolation to be had however, as she shrugs him off, takes a deep breath and turns her back on the one thing in the world that mattered to her the most. And slowly, she walks away. Each step feels like a slow agonising pain, and she goes on, one foot in front of another. One leather enclosed foot in front of another.
She'd struck it lucky in her lifetime. Her journalism was valued, and it was simply an overnight success where a man founded her, and revealed her to the world, drawing the curtain in a flamboyance so embarrassing that recalling it was humiliating.
Her blunt words affected many so profoundly, they'd claimed that her work had changed the way they viewed life. For her, they were her thoughts and she was being paid to share these very same thoughts to the world.
Even with all that money, she was unable to buy the house; as left in the will by her dearest grandmother. If a relative wished to own the house, it had to be given to them; they couldn't buy it. And since her mother was a manipulative little brat, she got the house and planned to sell it for the money. Obviously she was no better, and as the prospective buyers came into the house, she'd often sabotaged the place, making it seem horrible and dysfunctional.
(That's all so far, I came up with this in ten minutes; apologies - I'll be back and write more.)
~ Cal ~
