Trash

The Senator's Daughter

* * * 

One week later, I received my notice Letter of Departure. By order of my parents, I was being sent home, against my own will. Of course I had no say since I was still seventeen. 

My parents better have a good reason for this, I thought to myself as I ferociously packed my stuff away into the matching luggage set my parents shipped to me, or else there is going to be hell to pay. 

What could my parents possibly want from me now? Couldn't they just let me be? Quite frankly, I could care less if my father was the next President of the United States. I could care less about anything that happened in that ruthless family of mine, just as long as they kept me out of it.

I just wish, that for once, my family could pretend to be normal. I wish we could get through one dinner without discussing economic trends or constitutional rights. I wish that we could focus more on how we perceive ourselves rather than how the public perceives us. But I guess that's just too damn much to ask for. 

As I said my goodbyes, I tried to keep my emotions under control. I hugged my closest friends, thanked my favorite professors, and took a few lasting mental snapshots of the archaic ivy halls I called my 'home'. Of course I was upset, who wouldn't be? I had spent three and a half years at Our Fair Lady of Rosetta, and now there was a chance I was never coming back. But I stayed strong and left honorably.  

The flight was a nightmare. Seven hours of pure hell, despite the large sleeping pill I took before boarding the plan. Some people like flying. I say, those are also the people who like the idea of dying. But thankfully, I arrived at the airport in one piece.

As I dragged my luggage through the airport, I scanned the crowd of Americans for a familiar face, and wondered who my parents sent to fetch me this time. God forbid, they pick up their one and only daughter themselves. No, I was too low on their priority list for such a thing. 

I approached the line of drivers with signs in their hands. My driver didn't need a sign; I could spot his warm, wrinkled face and perfectly pressed tail suit from a mile away. I disregarded any proper posture or behavior a young lady was supposed to have, and raced towards him. 

"It's nice to see you, Miss Evans," he greeted me with a faded smile, his proper British accent as clear as ever. 

"Martin!" I cried, releasing my bags and throwing my arms around him. "It's been so long since I've seen you, you old fart!" He cringed under my embrace. Martin is like a grandfather to me. He has worked for my family as a driver and butler since I was in diapers, but he never was the touchy type. "I see you still have that stick up your butt, Martin."

He winked at me. "I see you still have that crude mouth of yours," he teased back, as he picked up my largest suitcase. 

"Only around you," I rebutted, following him out of the airport and into the parking lot.  

Despite Martin's old fashioned etiquette, he had one of best senses of humor I had ever encountered. When I was little, we used to spend hours together, just laughing. When my father would host a meeting in the drawing room, we'd peek in from the kitchen and ad lib what we thought they were saying. And Martin never read my bedtime stories as they should have been. Growing up, I probably would have lost my mind from sheer boredom if it wasn't for him. 

The hot Virginia sunlight reflected off of the spotless shine of Martin's sleek black Mercedes S 550, making his car stand out in the cluster of the parking lot. Martin popped my luggage into the trunk and then graciously attempted to open the door for me.

I beat him to it. "I can do it, my arms work just as well as yours do." 

He shook his head. "You'll never accept the fact that it's part of my job, will you?"

"Nope," I answered, popping the 'p'. 

He closed the door, and climbed into the driver's seat. I kicked up my feet, and relaxed in the leather seat. A comforting scent filled my nostrils; a mix of pipe tobacco and dated cologne. I felt myself drifting already, knowing that I could fall asleep and still wake up. Sure, people die in car crashes more commonly than in plane crashes, but I knew I was in good hands, unlike the stranger driving my plane. 

"How's everything at home?" I asked, trying to keep myself awake. 

"Hectic, ever since your father's decision to run for President," replied Martin, letting out a heavy sigh.

I felt myself fume a little. "How long ago was that?"

"I'd say a couple months ago."

Being left in the dark really grinds my gears. Not only did they wait to tell me, but they didn't tell me, period! I had to find out from the nightly news. How impersonal was that?

"Martin, why didn't they tell me?"

I looked at the reflection of his eyes in the rear view mirror. Martin had small, but very expressive green eyes. Right now, they showed the guilt that I wish my parents felt. 

"They didn't want to until they were absolutely sure . . ."

"From what I've gathered, they've been sure for quite a while," I sneered.  

Martin spoke softly, adding to the seriousness of his tone. "Darling, don't waste your energy on this. You must be exhausted from your trip. You should rest."

"I'm not tired," I insisted, crossing my arms.

"Are you sure about that?" Martin tested. "Say goodnight, hold me tight, for tomorrow the day will be bright." He softly sang the lullaby his mother wrote. I settled down into the car seat as I listened to his soothing voice. My head fell back against the seat and I couldn't help but close my eyes and relax a bit.

As a child, I had terrible sleeping habits. The only way to get me to fall asleep was that song, and just as it had many years ago, the lullaby rocked me to sleep. 

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There you have it! The first chapter of The Senator's Daughter! Yay, I'm so excited. I'm especially excited to write about the government we live in at this time! Considering the whole "censorship" problem that came today. Ironic right? 

Since this is a new story, I desperately need all of your feedback. Starting a new story is often a rocky and difficult task, so I depend on you guys more than ever! It doesn't take long to shoot me a comment, what you think and what you expect and etc. You guys seriously have no idea how much it means to me, as a writer. It inspires me and pushes me to keep going

In the words of the great cold_lady19 : comment = big hug for the writer!