Sins Of The Past (Book 1)

Prologue

~Aria~

The chill, frigid air seeped into my small and cramped room through the aging window, creeping over the wooden floorboards and encasing everything in a cool embrace. It was the kind of cold that made the world seem distant, as if the very air had turned brittle and refused to let me escape its icy grip. But the cold morning air wouldn't last long, seeing as how the ferocious heat of the summer sun would soon wash the earth. The air clung to the peeling walls closing in its breath.

I lay there, bundled in the comforter in which lined my bed, savoring the rare moment of peace that morning brought. My breath hung in the air like a ghostly wisp, and for once, the chaos of life outside my window seemed hushed. It was in these fleeting moments of silence that I felt truly alive, as if the world had paused to grant me a few precious minutes of solitude.

But I knew, as I always did, that I couldn't linger in this moment forever. The responsibilities of the day beckoned, demanding my attention. With great reluctance, I roused myself from the springy bed I called mine. My legs, sore and heavy from yesterday's taks, hung off the side of the bed as I stayed seated for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

Bringing my hands to my face, I groaned softly, the sound muffled by the worn palms of my hands. It was as if I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, as it did each morning, I had to summon the strength to push it back just enough to breathe. With a final, resigned sigh, I stood, the creaking floorboards beneath my feet echoing my reluctance to begin another day.

The old clock on the wall seemed to tick with a mournful rhythm, counting down the seconds of my existence, each chime a reminder of the relentless march of time. 6:03 in the morning is what the clock reads.

As I shuffled towards the window, I could hear the world outside stirring to life. The distant hum of traffic, the chatter of birds, and the rhythmic pounding of footsteps on the pavement all combined to form a symphony of existence. It was a world that continued to move forward, while I remained trapped in a cycle of my own making.

I turned away from the window and made my way to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a face that felt as weathered as her room itself. As I stand in front of the mirror, I see the reflection of a girl I wish I hadn't seen staring back at me. My emerald green eyes, like deep pools of curiosity, seem to hold countless stories within them. They are framed by my long, dark lashes that enhance their vivid color.

My chestnut brown hair, which usually falls gracefully, was messy tangled around my head stopping just after my shoulders, framing my tired face decently. The strands catch the light, revealing hints of caramel and auburn hues, adding warmth to my overall appearance.

My face, from what everyone told me, is gently rounded giving me a soft approachable look. A sprinkling of freckles dances across my cheeks almost light enough to be nonexistent, a testament to the sunny days spent under the Italian sun. The rosy flush of my cheeks adds a natural glow to my skin, giving me a healthy and youthful appearance.

My lips are proportionate, and unkissed, with a subtle curve that makes them appear both inviting and expressive, despite my defensive behavior. They carry a hint of natural pink as if they hold the secrets of countless smiles and laughter, like my mothers.

Looking in the mirror once again, I see an ambitious teenager who is trapped in a world that will forever have her constrained unless she breaks free. Her eyes, once filled with the sparkle of infinite possibilities, are now clouded with the weight of expectation.

The mirror reflects back a face that still holds the remnants of innocence, but it is the eyes that tell the real story. They carry the dreams and aspirations of a young soul yearning for liberation. In their depths, one can discern the flicker of a relentless spirit, an unquenchable thirst for more. There was no trace of weakness.