Dark Thoughts and Her Mother

 

She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, closing her eyes, and breathing in the scent of a hundred stories on paper. In her hair sat a black butterfly, its wings neatly folded, its antennae seeming to taste the air.

The room she was in was dimly lit by candles, the flickering light casting odd shadows on the rough stonewalls. In one corner was a piano, perfectly tuned, each key glinting softly in the candlelight. On the piano top was a small bonsai tree, with tiny leaves and miniature flowers to match. Each of the flowers was a deep purple and dancing from blossom to blossom were several tiny white butterflies, each no bigger than the nail of your little finger.

In the opposite corner was a small low bed covered in blankets and cushions. On the wall above the bed was a painting of a man. He had big dark eyes, and a slightly ironic smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. All around the painting, pictures and drawings of dark eyes had been blu-tacked to the wall, some drawn on sketchbook paper, others on pages torn from a notebook or diary.

The other half of the room was taken up by huge floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled to over flowing with books; some were old with covers of gold leaf, others brand new, with smooth plastic coats. In the middle of one of the bookshelves was a hole with a large curtain less window on the other side, and it was through this gap that she climbed, the butterfly with her. She sat there on the night-darkened windowsill, cross-legged, a big old book resting across her knees, a candle at her feet.

She opened it at a random page, and brushing away the dust that had gathered between the pages she looked down at the map before her. The book was an atlas.

For hours she read, getting a new book when she felt like a change, until finally the sun rose over the crest of the hill, casting its light through the thick windowpane. She closed the book she was reading, a fictional story, and stared out at the morning. The day would be a warm one, and, being a Saturday, she knew her mother would try to make her meet up with her friends for a picnic or some other summer activity. It wasn't that she didn't like her friends, or picnics. But lately she had been feeling less and less close to her friends and she felt she barely knew them anymore. She dreaded having to spend the day with them when she was likely to be irritable from lack of sleep.

The door opened. It was her mother.

"Ciara?"

"Here." She replied, crawling out of the window gap and putting the book back on its shelf.

"Oh Ciara, not again." Her mother whined.

"What." Her voice became icy.

"Not those silly books. Your father used to stay up all night reading them too. Don't follow his mistakes."

They weren't mistakes, she thought, but said nothing, instead turning away and going to sit at her piano.

Her long pale fingers fell across the keys, sweet notes echoing softly around the room. Her mother came to stand beside her stroking her hair softly and shooing the butterfly away.

"Oh darling you really shouldn't let that thing in your hair..."

"Her names Lizzie, Mother. And why shouldn't she be in my hair? She's a butterfly not a pigeon."

"No need to snap, I’m just saying that butterflies should be outside in the meadows and fields, not in a young girls hair. Or pot plant." She added staring pointedly at the bonsai tree where the butterflies had all started to dance in dizzying circles, round and round, in reaction to the music.

Once again she ignored her mother, continuing to play. And finally she moved onto the topic Ciara had been waiting for.

"If your not going to go to sleep you might think about phoning some friends."

More notes rang out and the butterflies started to dance around Ciara, their small wings carrying them effortlessly.

"I know," Her mother said as though she had just thought of it that moment. "You could have a picnic! That would be fun wouldn't it?”

"No Mother, it wouldn't." She said clenching her teeth and hands causing her to stop playing.

"Oh come on. You’re such a bore all the time! Frankly I’m surprised you still have any friends the way you ignore them."

She closed her eyes in anger and a thousand evil images passed through her mind, each a different plan for murder. Her eyes flew open in surprise but still the desire to wrap her hands around her mother’s neck flooded through her.

She clenched her fists tighter than ever and looked away from her mother, lest the desire to kill grew too strong.

“I think I will go to bed.” She said through her teeth. “ I’m feeling… tired. Could you leave please.”

“Oh.” Said her mother surprised. “Oh, okay then.”

As soon as the door had closed behind her, Ciara ran forwards and locked it, backing away from it when she was done.

It wouldn’t be difficult said a voice in her head, it sounded like the low hiss of a snake, She’s not very strong, you could easily overpower her

Or if you prefer said a different voice this one deep and rough you could poison her, remember that book you read on poisons? It would be easy, you already know how!

You should make it look like an accident this voice sounded sneakier than the others, more sly and devious or you could make it look like suicide! It sounded positively thrilled at the idea.

She shook her head trying to dislodge these thoughts, she had had them before but what worried her was that they sounded louder, stronger than before.

Grabbing her mp3 player from the bag at the end of her bed, she plugged in the headphones and turned the volume right up, in an effort to drown out the voices. Then she lay on her bed her face pressed into a cushion.

The little white butterflies circled sadly around her head like a floating crown, and Lizzie sat on her hand giving her butterfly kisses in an effort to cheer her up.

But even as she drifted off to sleep the hate inside her was building up, fuelling the evil that was starting to take ahold.

 

Reviews

[Beatrice Mars]

Awsome, lol ;p loved it, so dark, i wish i could write seriously......i shall try! Can't wait for more!

[Eira Anchor]

but I would like to point out that the real Ciara doesn't think about killing her mother. Though I do snap at her abit.

And I've remember that sometimes, when I'm really angry, I have mean ideas to "get my own back", but I usually come to my senses and realise I'll regret them when I feel normal again. But I didn't when I was little. Bit of a b***h, wasn't I? Maybe I am really dark headed :S

[Eira Anchor]

Okay, no. I can't keep it. This is so wonderfully wonderfull!
Make a promise right now not to laugh at me the way you laughed at the other girl for praising you. I can't hear you, say it out loud "I PROMISE"
I'm not sure if you have me in mind when you write about it, but I'm so privilaged to be this girl. Everything's just right! I want her room and her piano and her window and it's amazing cos I feel like I do.. it's just somewhere else. Ugetme?
I love the way the butterfly is called Lizzie! And even what you said about not feeling close to my friends is wierdly true... not you guys! Other friends that I hardly see.
Hope I haven't sucked up too much,
Ciara.

[Eira Anchor]

I loved this more than I can say, I'll have to tell you how much tomorrow.