olivia {capitol/fin}

If I told you a story would you dare to believe it?

Once upon a time there lived a child and her mother and father, their white-walled home a welcoming picture to all who looked upon it. This child had hair finer than her father’s and darker than her mother’s, though she took with the former his piercing eyes, and it happened to be that even at the age of nine she had well indeed found the routes by which another could be played using the before mentioned features.

It wasn’t deception, simply persuasion.

And oh, persuade she did, for with a simple step and tender smile she passed along the knowledge to adult and fellow child alike, promising that anything she said could be fulfilled to the extent with which she promised, and time after time she’d play her hand for simple things—a quarter, a piece of candy, a cut to the front of the line—and so she led a period of time in which what she desired she acquired (mostly by her own means).

Neither mother nor father stopped her—for why should they? She harmed not a soul and in the process picked up skills they considered fundamental, qualities such as smooth speaking, power of will, and temperament under stress. Never once did they stress honesty, reliability, or punctuality, expecting the latter to fall into place like pieces of a puzzle already close to being solved, though at the age of nine this simply wasn’t so.

She had a mind untamed by discipline and structure alike, and the lack of parents who seemed to care only fueled this further, and with each passing day she marked a constitution for herself, unbeknownst to even herself that the rules she’s vow to follow now would be of any importance in a future hidden to her.

She scrawled them upon the back of her mother’s grocery list, outlining them with a font she had proudly displayed on their refrigerator the morning before:

1.) I follow my instinct under any condition.
2.) I do not give in to the opinions of others.
3.) I lead; not follow.

She folded it over times three and tucked it under her pillow, and when her mother came searching for the mysteriously misplaced piece of paper she shrugged and feigned innocence. It was failed to be mentioned ever again, and though one side of the paper failed to mean anything at all the other carried an importance that followed her into the darkest of times.

But you may ask what the morals of a girl aged nine had anything to do with the story I’ve promised to tell, and if you did I would not answer, for in the same way she said she would trust her instinct so should you.

It was a night in September, when the sun still lingered in the sky long enough to cause evening to fade only at nine o’clock, that she stepped only a bit too heavily, that she broke a silence that was unknowingly dangerous.

She had her nose buried in the piece of paper, eyes flicking from clause to clause, as the number of rules had just under tripled, and now it became the brunt of idea to make sure that every thought, every standard she promised to hold herself to would be committed to memory, so that loss of physical reminder would not bring a world crumbling at her feet. She would not fall for verbal attacks, and this she promised to herself as she skipped along the sidewalk, piece of paper in one hand and pencil in the other as she recited to herself, “I follow my instincts; I will not stray. I do not give way to the opinions of others, even if I call them friend or family. I take advantage when I can, despite who it may hurt. I lead; never follow.”

The voice that spoke behind her was not one she happened to recognize.

“That’s an interesting set of rules you’ve got there. Would you care to explain them to me?”

She narrowed her eyes and clutched the paper tighter with thin fingers, holding it behind her back and out of his vision, as if the physical reminder of who she was would give away more than what she already had.

“There’s not much to be said about them, sir.”

He smiled warmly at her, sat down on the bench behind them and motioned to the spot beside him, “We don’t even have to go anywhere.”

This was the first instance she went against her own standards, for her first instinct told her run but her feet had frozen to the spot, and with forced, mechanic steps she moved to sit on the bench beside him, swinging her short legs out in front of her as neither of them said anything for a moment.

“So, what do those things you said mean to you?”

And it was this question that set her mind ablaze, caused her to stumble into a speech unstoppable by will or word alone, and as the sunset faded to the shine of streetlamps, she chattered on, telling him about each rule she had set for herself and why it held so much importance, and when she finally paused to take a breath he interrupted her for a short moment.

“My dear, what’s your name?”

She failed to answer him here with the words which so easily flowed just a moment ago, and instead she pulls the piece of paper from her pocket and motions to the heading scrawled across the top, “It’s Olivia.”

He began to make a motion towards the note in her hands and immediately she drew back, shielding it from his vision once again, and at her hesitation he quickly withdrew, tapping at the watch situated on his wrist, “Olivia, it sure is getting late, and though I’d love to stay and chat I must be getting home,” and as he rose to stand he turned back to face her, “but I know someone who’d love to hear your story, if you’d only be willing to tell it.”

She nodded with the slightest hesitation, standing up beside him and tucking the note in her pocket, and as she took in a breath as to speak again, he spoke with earnest, “I promise it will only take a minute.”

As she took his hand she crossed her line of morals a second and last time, for the opportunity for redemption had come and passed and she was left with nothing more than the promise of a man whose name she failed to know.

But this did not matter for she had a set of rules to establish, and if they were willing to listen, she would tell, for she did not follow; she led.

I asked you if you’d believe the story I’ve told, and now that it’s ended what more can be sold? A girl crossed lines simply to prove others, and then in the end she lost more than her mother. If you learn anything mark it simply as bliss, for lost thoughts and morals stand only as this: we are no more than the rules we have broken, and despite age, wisdom, and experience we all carry the same token.

The end.

olivia i'll find a last name later
nine
odair
for kire's plot