She walked over to the window and pulled the dusty moth eaten curtains back just a sliver. If she was caught she would be punished, again, but she didn't care. Sara loved the bright sunlight, the fresh air smell, and most of all the smell of the tomatoes the gardener grew under the window sill right next door.
Painfully drew the curtains closed and was once again, back in the damp dreary house she was prisoner in. She could haev escaped during the performances, but the few presious belongings she were all at the house. And she could not leave unless she had a death wish, for her father had cut away a pice of her soul when she was three and never let go of it, it was his way of making sure she never left his side. But then she thought back Mayton and her father, especially her father, who always insisted on keeping the curtains closed, the mansion light by only a few drooping candles.
"Miss Saranai," Mayton, the butler called, "tea is ready in the drawing room, and your father,"
"Call me Sara, I hate Sarania!" Sara yelled, but Mayton continued
"Your father wishes you to look your best, there is a lady guest." And with that he left.
Mayton thought it improper to go by anything other than your full name. Mayton thought many thing to be improper.
She walked over to the window and pulled the dusty moth eaten curtains back just a sliver. If she was caught she would be punished, again, but she didn't care. Sara loved the bright sunlight, the fresh air smell, and most of all the smell of the tomatoes the gardener grew under the window sill right next door.
Painfully drew the curtains closed and was once again, back in the damp dreary house she was prisoner in. She could haev escaped during the performances, but the few presious belongings she were all at the house. And she could not leave unless she had a death wish, for her father had cut away a pice of her soul when she was three and never let go of it, it was his way of making sure she never left his side. But then she thought back Mayton and her father, especially her father, who always insisted on keeping the curtains closed, the mansion light by only a few drooping candles.
She walked over to the shining black piano and started playing. Imagining dark hallways, burning candles, and cobweb covered ceilings. She played with her heart, not from pieces of paper. When people heard her music they felt what she felt, and usually ended up crying. Her sad desprairing songs drug you in and kept you hostage, even after they were finished. It was like she took a bit of your soul every song, every concert. You would leave felling empty and unhappy, almost like you were a ghost. But sh ewould feel happy, and blissfull, those were the only times she did. Some who went to every concert ended up becoming drone like, dead like. One particular individual, Mrs. Jona Balance, had gone happy, and left staring in blacnknees at nothing at all with tears streaming down her face, sometimes she could barley find her way back to her own house only a few blocks away, back to her son.
