EPIPHANY ( neil perry! )

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

Frances had followed, as she always had. Wordlessly and graciously, she slipped into the role she was now bound to play for the rest of her life, the dutiful granddaughter — a girl so fortunate to have such strong familial ties so as to catch up on the life she had missed out on for so long. She was civil, exchanging tense, rigid hugs with her grandparents as they marveled at how big she had gotten. She smiled — somewhat genuinely — as they complimented her astonishing beauty. She forced herself not to look up at her father, sensing his struggle to maintain a courageous front in the presence of his mother and father, all these years later, having lost the one thing he had fought so hard to keep.

Her mother had died in March of that year. She had been sick for as long as Frances could remember, so frail and thin towards the very end. Yet, even when we're aware of how far gone the ones we love are, we never are truly prepared to face the world once they're actually gone.

She couldn't remember the last time she had seen her mother not in bed. Frances longed for the days they would walk through the park, keeping their eyes trained on the cobblestones they walked upon so as to forget they were engulfed in the forrest of skyscrapers that New York City was. Yet, the mother and daughter loved the city, walking down the bustling sidewalks just to feel as though they were apart of the city itself, the rhythm of their steps being that of the thumping of a beating heart.

It was their city, and they would cherish it so long as they so lived.

When Marjorie was gone, it was silent. The brownstone the family had lived in lacked its ever present warmth. There was no laughter, no light. The beating heart of their household was gone, forever. And so, in an effort to escape the city where everything reminded the father and daughter of their wife and mother, they went to the only place her father had left to go.

Her grandparents spoke not a word of her mother. No sentiments, no apologies for their own son, and own granddaughter's loss. Just a few forced smiles that lingered with condescension, welcoming their kin into the trap that they called home. Her father had warned her since she was a child never to trust her grandparents, but under the circumstances, Frances neglected her primal teachings and put on a gracious front.

The Olson's had pulled a few strings, relying heavily on their status as Welton Academy's most consistent — and affluent — donors. Frances would have the opportunity to attend the school her father, her uncles, and grandfather had all attended long before she came along, with her own private, accelerated course of study reserved specifically for her. In other words, as it always seems to be, money equals power.

Of course, if Frances could have her way, attending Welton Academy would be the last possible option for what came next in her life. She couldn't think of anything worse. She had always rather enjoyed school, appreciative of her English and history classes the most, yet, Welton far, far different than any school she had ever attended in her sixteen years. No wonder they called it "Hell-ton".

Her father placing his hand over her's — resting neatly in her lap as she fiddled with her plaid skirt — forced her from the depths of her own mind. Turning to face him, her eyes widened with panic as her father gently helped her rise from their seats, following in suit of her grandparents, who already stood, smiling proudly with their nose slightly turned upwards — as one could only expect of an Olson to do.

"Welton Academy is pleased to welcome their most loyal donors this morning," The headmaster — Mr. Nolan, as Frances had learned when he stiffly, yet courteously introduced himself to her earlier in the day — had a voice that boomed through the small chapel, his beady eyes trained onto the family. It was the first time Frances had seen even the slightest upturn of his lips in the time since she had met him earlier, and his expression was not even close to resembling a smile.