Better Version of Me- Part One

Present...



I woke up, tied in a room, hands behind my back. Poor little Lark's father gets a notion in his head, and so Lark gets attacked by her father's enemies, I narrated in my head. I wiggled my hands, not able to move my wrists, and ended up giving myself a rope burn. I groaned softly. This was awful! I was stuck here, possibly forever. I could even remember how it had led to this...


Past...

My father is an important man, rich, and commanding respect. He made enemies this way...


I sighed, resting my hand against my cheek, as I looked out the window, the rush of Washington streaming past the car. My father sat next to me, nervously stroking his briefcase, and looking behind us, as if someone was following us. How long could my silent suffering go on? I wanted to go back home to Coronado. Not be stuck here, in this disgusting excuse for a taxi, waiting to hear why my father had rushed us off to D.C, to try to get a meeting with the president.

“Here's your stop,” The rough New Jersey accent of the taxicab driver greeted us.

“Oh, um, ok, uh, well, um, here,” My father stammered, handing the cabbie the fair, and ushering me out. We didn't even have any other luggage besides my father's briefcase, and I was so greasy from our flight, that I was having a hard time believing the president would see me like THIS. The taxicab left in a whirl of exhaust, that I promptly began to choke on, praying for a glass of water in my head.

“Come on, Lark. We have to get inside,” My father said, grabbing my arm, and dragging me behind him, as I continued to cough. Lark...How I loved hearing my name, the only memory of my mother was my name. It made sense, she would name me that. She was a regular Woodstock hippie, stuck in the past. Moonskye. My mother's name had a way of wrapping itself around you, capturing you in, with soft grace. I coughed more, then cleared my throat, ending the bought, and thoughts of my mother disappeared.

I finally picked up my feet, lowering my head, and following my father, feeling a sharp pain in every step. My father had taken me straight out of ballet, and I hadn't gotten to change my shoes, and the ballet slippers had worn down to the cotton part under your feet. I felt tears start to gather in my eyes, as my feet hit the sharp sidewalk. Blood trailed after my feet, and I sniffled, still being dragged on relentlessly by my father.

Suddenly I rammed into his back, as he stopped outside big, iron gates protecting the White House. I looked up, my hair blocking my vision, and I quickly pulled back the greasy strands.

“Lark, stay behind me,” My father whispered, as if this was some amazing conspiracy. I just nodded, staying behind him, grateful for not having to move at all.

“Uh, um, excuse, uh, me. I, uh, am a guest of, um, the President,” My father stuttered, talking to large men in suits standing at the gates, sunglasses blocking their eyes. He gestured to his briefcase, and just like that, the men moved, and the gates parted. It was just like the Red Sea, when Moses raised his staff, only these were gates, and it was my father with a briefcase. I giggled a little, and immediately the men looked at me. My eyes went wide, and my father shook his head, pushing me through the gates.

“Lark! Why'd you do that?” My father demanded once we were out of earshot. I just shrugged at him, turning my head. I hated when he didn't stammer at me, like I was the only one he could talk to with firmness. Tears started to break the barrier I had set up, and I blinked furiously trying to rid my eyes of them...Those were the days...

To be Continued...





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