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Writings 2021 - The Beauty of Ignition by Isabella Attanasio


The clock chimes to 12am. The manor's eerie aura always felt overwhelming around this time. I began putting my music sheets to the side and packing away my violin in it’s brown leather case, carefully as always. My parents always used to say how much of a perfectionist I was. How I hadn’t ever needed to be asked to put my toys away, because by the time papa would walk in, all my teddys would’ve been lined up in straight lines along my shelves. As I leave the marble lined walls of the music room, the scent of death lingers out into the halls of the manor. “And to think I bought those lavender scented candles for nothing” I whispered to myself. The doctors would always tell mama and papa that perfectionism was always a harmless thing, but to keep an eye on my habits to make sure it never became anything but harmless. I would try my best to test my limits with that statement. I wanted it to stop. The nice lady in the clinic had always let me align my colours perfectly when I was frustrated. That didn’t stop the weekly sessions for my “anger issues” though. In my defence, he deserved it. Why break one arm when you can smash its equal part. Lessens your chance of injury to yourself.

As I enter the parlour, I notice the hearths dying light. Then papa’s fearful corpse. “Oh, come now papa you were always one for the dramatic flair, be grateful I let you and mama spend your last moments by the fire and not in that dreaded closet you used to lock me in”. Mama spoke. “Darling”. She was shaking. Why was she shaking? She’s afraid of me? She’s afraid of me. Anger boiled deep in my core and rose all the way to my lips. “Shut it you wench. You have no reason to cower in fear when all you did was feed into this monster you raised. Big or small, little and large, the both of you made me feel like a monster” I bellowed. Anger became sadness. The knifes in the couple's chests could easily removed and plunged into their hearts, it would end all our suffering. Although, that’s not how I wanted things to end. Soft opera played by the front door. The police should arrive any time soon. My mother and fathers loud sobbing blocked my thoughts, so I increased the volume from the record player. Now believe me, I'm not a monster. Queenie, my childhood best friend was in the back seat of the Rolls Royce. She only barked when papa tried to swing for me. Funny how dogs are more loyal than humans. 12:50. Time has raced by.

As I placed a kiss each on my parents' foreheads. Tightening the ropes on their seats felt almost inhuman. “Don’t listen to yourself, they deserve it, think of all the times they made you feel like a creature, something they didn’t love nor acknowledge” the voice hissed. The sirens were increasing in volume. We have 5 minutes left. The tank was empty. The fire was lit. And the cigarette between my lips left only satisfaction. Driving out the secret exit, queenie is dozing, and the voice is even more peaceful. Through the rear-view mirror, I see flames engulfing the home. 1 am. Violin plays softly on the cars radio and their screams play tenderly through my head. All and all, another successful job for the books.

Now to the big apple. Our new playhouse.


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