The Ballad Of Mona Lisa~Chapter One: Say What You Mean

There was something pretty odd about Mary Stafford. In flamboyant outfits and big-ass jewels, she made her presence known. Her pale skin made her jet black curls stand out even more. Mary had a temper that could flame anybody within distance. Her family had a dark history. Her family haunted the good by staying firmly on the wrong side of the law. The Stafford family never stopped because their egos were just so. The Stafford philosophy was simple: Gold is power, crimes led to gold, and a good sense of style was very important.

Mary may be the usual Stafford, but she stood out among the rest of them. She was engaged to Brendon Urie, who was respected by anyone who was fortunate to meet the gentleman. She also liked to sneak into men's pants-not in a sexual way, but in an oh-so-comfortable fashion. Mary would be considered bipolar by today's standards and doctors. By bipolar, I mean even more prone to mood swings than the average Stafford, so she possibly had the worst degree of it.

Since enough information has been released for now, let us proceed to bigger and better and worse and everything else in between. It was a dark night when a tragedy occured. Brendon and Mary had just arrived to her empty home. Mary's parents had a different 'ball' to go to; one that did not involve light-hearted conversation and required turns about the floor. Brendon could not leave Mary on her own. Society, his code of honor, and his mother would be ashamed by such an act.

Mary realized why Brendon lingered even after she had stepped inside the house. She tested the waters. "Oh, you can go."

"But, Mary-" Brendon began.

"'You are a girl who can get attacked by the big bad wolf!' Damn the person who praised this sexism. Girls like me can see to it that boys are on the floor in pain, crying their eyes out because of the pain of such a nasty kick." Mary took in Brendon's pouting face. "Go drown in someone's piss!"

After that elegant remark, she slammed the heavy door in her fiancee's face. Mary huffed as she made her way to her bedchamber. As she made her way to her bedroom, she had quite a shock. Misty figures approached her, one grabbing her by the arm. Mary prompted, "Bloody hell, where is Harquist when you need him!"

"How about... you open the door for the poor lad?" The one off to the side suggested. "He would do anything for you."

"Mary, if you hardly like the lad who must have lost his mind ever since he decided to ask your hand in marrige, can't you do something about it?" The one who grabbed her arm said. He sounded as if he was trying to hypnotize her, which was impossible.

"'Do something about...'" Mary echoed. Her rouge-painted lips curved into a smile. "Yes, yes. I can do something about it." She carried onto her room while the ghosts followed.

Mary had to pull out some of her slippers to find what she was looking for. The gorgoues knife. When her favorite cousin had died from disease, Mary stole this heirloom. The hilt was saphires fused together, the blade solid silver. The knife was indeed a masterpiece in itself. Mary was ready to kill with knife in hand, clad in a dress in plenty of black lace, and a plan forming in her pretty but evil mind.

Mary stalked out of the room, and quickly headed to Brendon. The ghosts vanished, but stayed around to watch this little show.

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Brendon sensed something bad was about. Fear became a disease, spreading throughout his body. Brendon could not shake this feeling off.

Brendon was not in a dark hall anymore. He was in a meadow, in broad daylight. Lieing in the grass, he was taking in the smell and color of wildflowers, the texture of the lush grass, the clarity and blueness of the sky, the painted effect of the clouds, the gentle stroke of a breeze, the warmth of the sun. Simplicity at its best. Brendon felt better than he ever had. He wanted to stay like this for the rest of his life. Brendon didn't feel the need to go back to high society, insults, and perfect decorum.

Brendon closed his eyes, and relaxed. He then felt as if he was suffocating. He must be drowning... He was still in the meadow. There was no water at all. Brendon noticed an attractive girl, though. She had dark brown, almost black, hair, which was straight and tucked into a ponytail; eyes that were grey-blue and mysterious; she had that gentle smile that used to assure him that a secret would be kept . An old gash marred her lips. Still, Brendon knew her. Mona Lisa. The Wanderer. Brendon had not seen her in years.

Mona Lisa was a childhood friend of Brendon's. She had always been curious, outspoken, and eager for freedom. At thirteen, she set out for an adventure across Europe. Nobody had heard from her since.

Brendon wondered if Mona Lisa, after over ten years on the road, was ready to come back.

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Brendon was then staring into dark pools of almost black. Mary's eyes. There were no mercy but some fear in those eyes. "Mary, I had this dream-"

"Brendon..." She took his hand gently. "We can not be. Brendon, I don't love you."

"But-"

"Don't interupt me!" Mary accidently swung the knife so that the blade could slit Brendon's wrist. Mary looked at Brendon for a second. She ran for the hills with the knife. Little did she know that the ghosts followed her.