Story: The Twilight Tales - The Glass Prison (all chapters)

Note: All characters, ideas and the like are copyright of Zeb Merkx 2008. Please do not copy this or any other works by her without written permission.
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The Twilight Tales

Volume I

The Glass Prison

Chapter 1

The school bell rang out loudly and the classroom erupted in a cacophony of elated chatter, chairs’ legs scraping the stone floor as the students moved to a stand, closing shut of books and the sound of the teacher – Mrs. Huggins – trying to calm the students down. After a few moments, she gave up and turned around to wipe the whiteboard clean.

Tarja quickly gathered her things and swung her backpack onto her right shoulder, before straightening the skirt of her dress. She wore a black dress which curled around her legs. The sleeves were long and wide, which gave the impression that she had much thicker arms than she really had. The top was tight and hugged her slim stomach, while the corset itself lifted her breasts and gave her only a bit of cleavage – she didn’t have that much breast to lift, so the effect of the corset was kind of lost. Her hair was long and sleek, coming to rest on her lower back and black fringes lay on top of her thin eyebrows. Her lips were also black, and thin – she always looked as if she were scowling for some reason, as she didn’t smile a lot. People always told her to do that more often. Her eyes were adorned by black eyeshade, mascara and pencil lines around her eyes. All this make-up made her green irises stand out even more.

Mrs. Huggins turned around to face the class and her eyes looked around quickly, before she spoke, “Tarja! Come over here for a second..” The gothic girl whirled around and nodded quietly, before trudging through the class and towards her Arts teacher, dodging happy students on her way there. Once she arrived, she replied, “What is it, Claire?” She asked with a soft, yet mildly masculine voice. Because of many talks with her teacher, Tarja was one of the few students who was allowed to call her by her first name; a privilege she had accepted gratefully. She never quite understood why teachers had to be addressed by their last name. After all, they were only human.
“Well, it would be better if you’d actually paid attention during class.. yes, I know your grades are great, but if you insist, please just pretend you’re paying attention.” Claire said when they were alone in the classroom. “Can you do that?”
The youth seemed to think for a bit, her teeth on her bottom lip as she thought about a suitable answer. Better to just give them what they wanted. “Yes, I can. Can I go now?”
“Not yet..” The teacher sighed and she moved behind her desk. Tarja quickly realized that her attention-span wasn’t why she was here. Claire opened a drawer and took out a single sheet of paper. She seemed to look at it with sad eyes, before she turned it over and showed the pupil what was on it.

Tarja immediately recognized her own drawing, and she smirked softly before realizing smirking was not the best reaction to this. And so her face became neutral again. “What is this supposed to be?” Claire inquired, regarding the girl over her small glasses. With a lazy eye, the student looked at the drawing, even though she already knew what it looked like; There was a girl in a knee-length white dress, her hair tangled and twisted, as if it had not been combed for years. Her make-up had run, which had turned her cheeks a charcoal black. The dress was stained with red and brown, and in her left hand was a long kitchen knife, red and dripping blood. In the background one could see trees. Big and old, their vines and branches twisting and deformed. In the lower right corner, a small autograph could be seen in red ink. In all respects, the details of the drawing suggested that the artist was very talented, if not with a bit of a weird taste of art.

“You gave us the assignment to draw what you drea—“ “This is not what I meant, Tarja!” The teacher interjected coldly, scolding the girl with her gaze. “Well, this is what I dreamt about doing, a few nights ago. That was the assignment, Claire.” Claire sighed and shook her head, before taking off her glasses and looking directly into the girl’s eyes. “Alright.. I’ll grade this drawing this time.. but you have to stop making these death-themed pictures, okay? It’s not good art, and if other people would see this, they would think you’re crazy.” The girl looked skeptical for a moment, before nodding. “Alright, Claire.”

Ten seconds later, the goth closed the classroom door behind her and she looked around the hall. The most pupils had left already, although there were still some hanging by the lockers nearby. Silently, Tarja made her way past the group and approached her locker. But no matter how quiet, the group turned to her and moved in to prevent the girl from arriving at her locker. And now they surrounded her.

“So what did Mrs. H. have to talk to you about?” said a big, short-haired boy with a black t-shirt on. His eyebrows furled into a frown as he regarded the goth. “None of your business, Eric!” The girl hissed, and tried to move past the group forcefully. Unfortunately, the boy had anticipated this and pushed her back to the middle of their circle.

“Come on, little Tarja.. you can tell me..” Eric cooed her, which made the three other boys snicker coldly. The girl looked at the group’s leader with a death stare and shook her head. “You all are so sad. Why don’t you just go outside and enjoy the sun for once?” “I could say the same to you, stinking vampire.” Came the immediate reply from the leader. The girl stood motionlessly in the middle of the group, her anger rising slowly, but this could not be seen on her face. Down the hall, a door opened and the sound of steps could be heard, and they quickly approached the group.

“You four!” The voice of Claire called out, “Don’t you have anything better to do than pick on girls like Tarja?” “Nope, H.” Eric said boldly, just before he realized he had just made a mistake. “In my classroom, you four.” She commanded sharply, and she gave an apologetic look to Tarja, as if to say ‘I should have come earlier, you go home now’. And then she turned around and led the boys out of the hallway, where they disappeared out of sight, closing the door so their voices wouldn’t carry far.

With a soft smirk on her lips, she opened her locker and took out her coat, a long black leather coat, and put it on quickly. She looked like a spy in a bad movie that took place in the 60’s. She also looked at the inside of her door for a few moments, where a picture of a black-haired woman hung. She seemed young, perhaps seven years older than Tarja was. The features in her face seemed to mimic the girl’s. “Well, mum.. at least that scum is getting a private lesson right now..” She murmurs to the picture, before closing the locker and locking it.

Tarja’s mother had died two years ago, when the girl was fourteen years old. She had been a good woman, although a young mother. When she died, the girl’s outlook on life changed drastically, and she turned deep within herself. This was also the time when she would start dressing in black, which eventually evolved in the long dresses and black make-up she was wearing that day. Even now, the girl struggled with the death of her mother, and she would often visit the graveyard to see her mother’s grave, along with her grandfather’s. Then she would imagine what they looked like when they were young, and that was what they looked like in heaven, now. Happy and peacefully waiting for the rest of their family to cross the veil of Death. Sometimes she wondered how it felt to die.. but then she would quickly shake the thought from her head, knowing it was not her time yet. She still had something to do on this world. What that was, she couldn’t say, but all she could hope for was that God would arrange a quick and painless death for her, instead of a long and arduous one.. like He had for her mother. Cancer claimed so many undeserving people, of that she was sure.

Tarja was awakened by her memories and pondering by the sound of a pair of girls walking behind her, talking loudly amongst each other and barely noticing the lone girl. The girl took the time to look at her watch and her eyes grew wide with shock; nearly ten minutes had passed. Quite hastily the girl turned away from her locker and made her way to the bicycle racks. She was fumbling around in the pocket of her coat to find her keys, when a red-haired girl called her name.
“Hey Amanda!” Tarja replied with a fake smile, a cleverly hidden fake one at that, and she deviated from her path to her bike to where the girl was sitting on a bench. She always sunk in a rather sad mood when she thought of her mother.
“You’re coming to my party tonight, right?” Amanda inquired cheerfully, oblivious to her friend’s gloom. She was wearing a white dress, of which the skirt reached just below her knees. Her hair was brown and wavy, and was worn in a long pony-tail.
“Yes, of course..” she replied, equally cheerfully, even though she didn’t feel so cheery at the time. The prospect of going to the birthday party lifted her spirit though, and made her forget what she had been thinking about if only for a time. “But, uh.. I need to go home now,” she added, “My dad will be furious if I don’t make it home in time.”
Amanda agreed, and stood up from the bench. “I know.. I should be getting home as well.. got to make some preparations for the party.. of course my mum will help..”

Tarja bit her tongue to prevent herself from letting her friend know what she felt, and she just nodded. Together they walked to the racks and retrieved their bikes. Soon after, the girls were on their way home.

TO BE CONTINUED

Note: All characters, ideas and the like are copyright of Zeb Merkx 2008. Please do not copy this or any other works by her without written permission.
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The Twilight Tales

Volume I

The Glass Prison

Chapter 2

Tarja steered her bike onto the street, and waved to say a temporary goodbye to Amanda. The school was out, and week-end was there. And a busy week-end it was; first her friend’s birthday party, work on Saturday, and then on Sunday it was her mother’s birthday, so Tarja and her father would hold a small memorial at the cemetery. She liked being busy, though, and she could not sit still for long. She was always doing something, be it homework, writing or drawing, reading, or something else that needed doing. Of course, all the while listening to her favourite music. At the moment, that favourite was Evanescence, but it was known to shift to other bands. That favouritism always came in phases so, for example, she would listen a lot to Evanescence for three weeks, and then the phase was over and she’d find another band to listen to.

Feeling the wind play with her hair, sweeping it up and around, tossing it aside and then back into her face, soothed her mind for some reason. Already her thoughts about her mother and the episode with Eric were fading to the back of her mind, while her mind now focussed on the party that was to come. Even though Amanda could be very demanding – attention-wise, which quickly tired Tarja, she was a happy and kind girl. One of two that had accepted the goth in their life. The other girl was Erica, who was in many ways Tarja’s opposite; a positive outlook on life, wearing jeans and blouses most of the time, no make-up and some other things. Despite these differences, the two got along very well, and when in each other’s company, their emotional and social walls would drop temporarily, enabling them to tell each other things they would not otherwise. And both understood that that was their secret, so they wouldn’t speak about it to anyone else. Neither two would be able to explain this affinity with each other, if asked.

“Hello, I’m your mind, giving you someone to talk to..” Amy Lee sang into Tarja’s ear softly, soothingly, as the girl steered her ride into her street. A familiar feeling of fear mixed with sadness crept up on her mind as she spotted her ‘home’, and she swallowed when she rode onto the driveway. Her father was already home, which could be seen by an old American muscle car standing on the driveway. She had not suspected otherwise, though. In fact, if he had not been home yet, she would start to wonder why; not that she’d be worried.

Dropping her bike against the garage door, she circled around the house to the backdoor, which she opened and walked in. Closing the door behind her with her foot, she moved further into the house and looked around, finally spotting her father on the sofa in the living room. He looked pathetic: He was wearing a baggy trousers, with a filthy wife beater on his torso. A beer can was in his right hand, and the remote control in the other. Despite his youth – he was 34 – his face looked old, with wrinkles by his eyes and lips. His head had become bald early in his life, probably due to stress related to the fact he lost his job, and then the death of his wife. The latter was also the reason he had a beer can in his hand. And it always became worse when his wife’s birthday was approaching.

“Dad, I’m home.” She spoke softly, before disappearing from the doorway and going upstairs to her room. School was out early that day, so she could have a few hours for herself before she would need to start cooking. Walking on the stairs, she could hear her father grunt in acknowledgement, but nothing more. He was useless, really, if not for the fact that he had a benefit coming in each month, which allowed them both to live. All he did was drink, eat, watch television and sleep. Occasionally he needed to go to the bathroom as well, but that was about it.

Once in her room, she dropped her backpack on the ground, and flopped down on her bed. “Holding this in mind, that if we fall, we all fall, and we fall alone..” She listened to System of a Down quietly, mouthing the lyrics to herself with her eyes closed. The song grew more frantic very quickly, and the lyrics told a story about how ‘we’ would attack. Mostly the corrupt authorities and propaganda.

The song ended and her eyelids rose slowly, looking up at the ceiling of her room. Her hand came to rest on her stomach, and she sighed. What would she wear to the party? It had to be something festive – so she could feign happiness. There was no point in going to a party depressed and showing it; it would bring the party down, and the other guests would not have much of a good time. Not that there would be many other guests.

Tarja moved to a stand and walked to her closet. She regarded her clothes, and took mental note of them; there were mostly dresses, similar to the one she was wearing at the moment, and some white ones as well. There were some old jeans and t-shirts, but they either didn’t fit her anymore, or they weren’t really festive, so she discarded the idea to dress like Erica for once. Well, just a white dress would have to do. It would surprise her friends either way, since she usually wore black, and very rarely white. Eventually she settled for a dress with small flowers on it. That was cheerful enough.

And so she took the dress from the closet and spread it out over her bed. It didn’t look as long as her other dresses, and she wondered when the last time was that she’d worn this dress. Three years, two? No, the last time she’d worn it was only a few months ago, at Erica’s seventeenth birthday. That had been in February, and she still remembered the look on her friends’ faces when she walked into the room. A look of utter shock, that a girl like Tarja would even have such a dress in her closet. Still though, she’d noticed that her friends had enjoyed the difference in style for a night. The day after, she’d donned her black dresses again.

Her fingers quickly undid the corset’s laces, and she stripped down to her underwear – the top half of her body naked, while her bottom essentials were covered by black panties. Her experience was that the dress she’d picked was made up of slight see-through material, and she didn’t want to look stupid, so she stripped herself naked and approached her closet again. The hairs on her body quickly stood upright as a draft moved through the room, from under her closed door to the slightly open window. Swiftly she took a white bra and panties from the closet, and put them on. Also she donned a pair of stockings, which would protect her legs from the wind – if there turned out to be any. And then she put on the dress.

After dressing appropriately, she busied herself with listening to music, drawing a bit, reading a few chapters in a book she’d bought a few days earlier; ‘Cujo’, by Stephen King. Then five o’clock came around, and she sighed softly. Putting her book on her desk, on top of her new drawing, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen. What would she cook for her father today? There wasn’t much in house, so she settled for spaghetti with meat and sauce. Not like it mattered much; her father would eat like a machine while still watching the TV, without much appreciation for his daughter’s work. But she kept doing it just because otherwise she would have nothing to eat herself. That had been different when her mother was still alive. Her father did all the working and so her mother would sit at home everyday, waiting for her daughter to come home from school. And when she did, her mother would talk to her about pretty much anything – but mostly about school. Everything had changed when the doctor had notified her that she was dying.

Thirty minutes later, Tarja came into the living room with their dinner, and she gave a plate to her father, along with fork and spoon. He mumbled a ‘thank you’ before starting to eat and watch TV, as she had predicted. Only when the girl walked in front of the television for a moment, to get to her own chair, did he look at her. “Where’re you going, huh?” He demanded then, looking rather wide-eyed at his daughter’s sudden change of clothes.

“Birthday party, Dad.. I told you last week.” She replied irritated. Why must he always drink and forget whatever she told him? It was because he couldn’t handle things as she did. Some men were so weak.
“Watch your tone, young lady!” Andrew’s eyes shot fire as he regarded his daughter, his temper suddenly flared by the way he was talked to. When his daughter’s gaze dropped to her food and she turned her attention to eating, he grumbled angrily and put the plate of food on the table in front of him.
Tarja’s eyes looked up suddenly, knowing this wasn’t good – it wasn’t good when he put his plate there without finishing what was on it first, ever.

Andrew rose slowly, and with drunken steps he approached his daughter’s chair, while his hands fumbled with his belt. “Don’t ignore me, you little ungrateful brat!” He hissed at her when he pulled his belt clear from his waist, and looked at her.
Tarja was used to this kind of behaviour, but she never saw it coming. The spark that fuelled his anger was always different, and whatever she did, it would come. Now, she sat in her chair, looking up at her father and standing before he would actually reach her. But as she stood, a fist came and hit her in the stomach, pressing out all the air in her lungs and leaving a nasty sting where the girl was hit. Her plate slipped from her hands and broke in pieces on impact, leaving spaghetti all over the floor. She stumbled back and sank to the ground, and in a reflex she pulled her legs close to her body and her arms protecting her face.

“I’ll teach you!” He spat at her before he began raining down his improvised whip on her. Save for her head and face, he had free reign over her body, and that is where the whip would contact her skin. It would only leave red marks – he was good at this -, and because Tarja was so used to getting a beating, the whip inflicted remarkably little pain.

She just sat there, shielding her face against the onslaught of hits, until her father would tire, and he would get another beer. She didn’t scream or beg for it to stop, as she did when it started a year and a half ago. No, she would not give him that pleasure.

A minute passed, and the beating stopped suddenly, the only things she could hear was her own rapid, shallow breathing, and Andrew’s panting. And then the shuffling of feet as he turned around and moved to the kitchen to get another beer. “Get out of my house.” He said coldly over his shoulder, and Tarja nodded. Gladly.

TO BE CONTINUED