- Messages
- 542
- OOC First Name
- Claire
- Wand
- Straight 12 1/2 Inch Sturdy Vine Wand with Hippogriff Feather Core
- Age
- 8/2027
Back in California, the sky was ablaze.
News of Rick Lagowski's multiple affairs had circulated Los Angeles like the plague, and with each new infection, the last remnants of Rick's respect were slowly stripped away. Though Stella was now confined to her bedroom, word reached her soon enough in the form of a brick through her window. Outside, the crowd swelled into an improbable crescendo. Amongst the riot of paparazzi, a handful of words leaked through the broken window with sickening clairty.
Stella knew better than to approach the glass. She did it anyway. The mob cheered. A hundred cameras set fire to her eyes. Where she'd misjudged her footing, a sharp fragment of glass scratched her bare sole. Vultures. Did they have nothing better to do? The answer, of course, was no. Invading Stella's privacy was how the man in the red hat would feed his wife that evening. It was how the woman with the blonde hair would send her son to university, and how he would thrive - and, if he was fortunate enough not to drop out, how he would become California's next most accomplished doctor. At that moment, stood at the broken window as an ambush of clicks and flashes captured her pallid expression and unkempt hair, there wasn't a cent Stella wouldn't have been given to be normal.
The sharp sound of Mother's voice pierced through the closed bedroom door. "What's that racket?" it called. Several thumping footsteps later, the door swung open and all five foot four of her thunderous body marched into the room. Her hooded eyes looked heavier than usual as they soaked up the picture in front of her. Like Stella, her hair was stubbornly untidy and looked as if it hadn't been washed in several days. When her eyes finally reached her daughter, the grey stoniness of her expression wavered. If Stella hadn't been mistaken, she even wore the brief look of a woman who yearned to embrace her child.
She wanted to.
She even took a step forward.
But she didn't.
"You're sending me away?"
The uncomfortable, guilty silence that followed Stella's question spoke louder than a reply. "It's for your own good," said Mother eventually in a voice so toneless it was nearly offensive. Was this karma? For bullying the boy with the book of snakes? For snapping the girl with the sketchbook's pencils? Stella fought back the incipient tears with fierce determination, but somehow they still found her cheeks. First Father. Then Mother. Nothing cared about Stella Lagowski. Nothing except the black and white print of next week's Downtown News. If this is my punishment, she thought miserably as she held back a flood, then I deserve it.
In many ways, New York and California were quite similar. For one, its people always seemed to be competing in a dogged race to reach their destination. Considering their hurry, you'd be surprised to hear that very few of them had anything worthwhile waiting for them at the finish line. A grouchy husband. A pile of unwashed dishes. You had to wonder what the rush was about. Whilst Stella's finish line was not so glum - in fact, in short time she would grow to love Swallow Barn and its (occasionally) endearing inhabitants - she dragged her feet along the gravelled driveway as though the cheerful red doors were the entrance to Hades' personal torture chamber. Unfamiliar clouds traipsed across the manure scented sky. The sun looked down blearily on the farm, as if it was with great reluctance it had dragged itself out of bed that morning.
It certainly didn't feel much like home.
You had to wonder what the rush was about.
As it turned out, Stella's new bedroom wasn't a bedroom at all, but an old attic that had been converted into a tight living space. The floorboards groaned and sighed under her weight. To add insult to injury, she had to share them. Across the room, a girl with hair like fire glared through the unsettled dust. "Trust me, I'm just as pissed off about this as you," greeted Stella affably, dumping her suitcase down on one of the lumpy mattresses she supposed might be her bed. Perhaps their mutual dislike of female company would help them claw at some sense of friendship.
Fire girl was still glaring.
On second thoughts, perhaps tolerating each other would be enough.
News of Rick Lagowski's multiple affairs had circulated Los Angeles like the plague, and with each new infection, the last remnants of Rick's respect were slowly stripped away. Though Stella was now confined to her bedroom, word reached her soon enough in the form of a brick through her window. Outside, the crowd swelled into an improbable crescendo. Amongst the riot of paparazzi, a handful of words leaked through the broken window with sickening clairty.
Stella knew better than to approach the glass. She did it anyway. The mob cheered. A hundred cameras set fire to her eyes. Where she'd misjudged her footing, a sharp fragment of glass scratched her bare sole. Vultures. Did they have nothing better to do? The answer, of course, was no. Invading Stella's privacy was how the man in the red hat would feed his wife that evening. It was how the woman with the blonde hair would send her son to university, and how he would thrive - and, if he was fortunate enough not to drop out, how he would become California's next most accomplished doctor. At that moment, stood at the broken window as an ambush of clicks and flashes captured her pallid expression and unkempt hair, there wasn't a cent Stella wouldn't have been given to be normal.
The sharp sound of Mother's voice pierced through the closed bedroom door. "What's that racket?" it called. Several thumping footsteps later, the door swung open and all five foot four of her thunderous body marched into the room. Her hooded eyes looked heavier than usual as they soaked up the picture in front of her. Like Stella, her hair was stubbornly untidy and looked as if it hadn't been washed in several days. When her eyes finally reached her daughter, the grey stoniness of her expression wavered. If Stella hadn't been mistaken, she even wore the brief look of a woman who yearned to embrace her child.
She wanted to.
She even took a step forward.
But she didn't.
"You're sending me away?"
The uncomfortable, guilty silence that followed Stella's question spoke louder than a reply. "It's for your own good," said Mother eventually in a voice so toneless it was nearly offensive. Was this karma? For bullying the boy with the book of snakes? For snapping the girl with the sketchbook's pencils? Stella fought back the incipient tears with fierce determination, but somehow they still found her cheeks. First Father. Then Mother. Nothing cared about Stella Lagowski. Nothing except the black and white print of next week's Downtown News. If this is my punishment, she thought miserably as she held back a flood, then I deserve it.
In many ways, New York and California were quite similar. For one, its people always seemed to be competing in a dogged race to reach their destination. Considering their hurry, you'd be surprised to hear that very few of them had anything worthwhile waiting for them at the finish line. A grouchy husband. A pile of unwashed dishes. You had to wonder what the rush was about. Whilst Stella's finish line was not so glum - in fact, in short time she would grow to love Swallow Barn and its (occasionally) endearing inhabitants - she dragged her feet along the gravelled driveway as though the cheerful red doors were the entrance to Hades' personal torture chamber. Unfamiliar clouds traipsed across the manure scented sky. The sun looked down blearily on the farm, as if it was with great reluctance it had dragged itself out of bed that morning.
It certainly didn't feel much like home.
You had to wonder what the rush was about.
As it turned out, Stella's new bedroom wasn't a bedroom at all, but an old attic that had been converted into a tight living space. The floorboards groaned and sighed under her weight. To add insult to injury, she had to share them. Across the room, a girl with hair like fire glared through the unsettled dust. "Trust me, I'm just as pissed off about this as you," greeted Stella affably, dumping her suitcase down on one of the lumpy mattresses she supposed might be her bed. Perhaps their mutual dislike of female company would help them claw at some sense of friendship.
Fire girl was still glaring.
On second thoughts, perhaps tolerating each other would be enough.
FIN