BEING HER

Chapter Six

There was a time when Donald had felt really vulnerable. A time when he had regretted the choices he made, deeply. But most of all, he regretted ever crossing parts with Amy Johnson, his American ex girlfriend.
Amy was a wild one; that was what his mom called her anyway. She loved the good life. And it was due to her that he was mostly always on boat cruises, in exotics private islands, or just relaxing on a Caribbean beach.

But right now, Amy was trying her very best to get him angry. He held his phone tightly as he glared at her recently posted instagram pictures. She rested her petite frame on the muscular body of a guy who looked a tad bit younger than her. She always did this, always made sure she made him jealous. But despite the fact that he promised himself he wasn't going to take her back, he couldn't help but want to rip out that guy's neck.

His phone rang sharply, drawing him away from the dark thoughts that always associated with Amy.

"Hello" He drawled.

"Erm. Good day sir, but I think I've been given the wrong quarters here..." An husky voice started rambling from the other end.

"Who's this?" He asked, despite knowing fully well who that is.

"Forgive me sir, it's Marie, I just moved in, but these people are loading my stuff into a different building in the compound, the said building being a mansion." She stated.

"They're merely following instructions, or do you have a problem with that?" He asked

"Not at all, I just think it's more than a little bit extravagant." She shot at him.

He blinked. Did she just sound mad? He's letting her move into his fucking mansion, and she's angry. So much for being the good guy.

"That depends on what extravagant means to you." He said, and cut off the call.

Grinning, he imagined her fuming, and cussing him out. She's a feisty one. He thought.

Suddenly feeling the need to go home, he called his receptionist, and gathered the remaining files he had to work on, into a bag. I'll finish this up at home...hopefully. He thought.

Then he remembered, there was somewhere he had to go first........

**********

"Beatrice, Beatrice, can you hear me?" Mrs. Brass held her daughter's cold hands, tears brimming her eyes. Beatrice stood straight on the chair, no movement whatsoever.

Sniffing, Mrs. Brass held up the plate of soup for the umpteenth time, but the girl merely tuned her face away.

"Arthur, she isn't eating anything, if this so called illness doesn't kill her, starvation certainly will." She wailed.

"Don't say that, she's going to be alright....soon." Mr. Brass put his arm around his wife, but she only cried louder. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

"I'll go get it." He said leaving the kitchen, while his wife tried feeding Beatrice again.

"Good morning, Mr. Brass." A young man with curly hair and soft brown eyes greeted him, as he opened the door.

"Morning.." He replied grumpily. Taking note of the man's shiny shoes and clean suit.

"I am Mark Carter, from MackinGlory Writing/Printing Press, may I come in?" Donald asked.

Mr. Brass scowled, but nodded stepping aside to let him in.

"I was directed here, by Principal. Will. I had the pleasure of reading your daughter's poems, and most of her short stories. I must say, you've got quite a talent with you." Donald said, as Mr. Brass offered him a chair in the tiny living room.

"Thank you." Mr. Brass said curtly. Donald noticed his eyes darting towards what he guessed to be the kitchen. He could percieve the aroma of chicken soup coming from there.

"Sadly, I was told she was sick. So I decided to stop by, hopefully the news I've brought will be able to cheer her up a bit." Donald said.

"I doubt it would mean anything to her presently, Mr Mark." Mr. Brass said sadly.

"I've got a proposal for Beatrice. I don't think her talent should be taken for granted. We've got a platform to examine and promote young writers, and I was hoping to involve her on it." Donald said, smiling.

"Beatrice isn't doing well, and we don't know when she'll get better. I'm not sure your offer could wait....." Mr. Brass said.

A small pretty lady came out of the kitchen, she approached them, looking skeptical at Mr. Brass.

"Good morning, you must be Mrs. Brass, I'm Mark Carter" Donald said, standing up and offering her his hand.

"Pleased to meet you. I overheard you talking about Beatrice's writing." She said shaking his hand.

"Yes ma'am I was just telling your husband how I would love to promote her works." Donald said.

"She's over there, maybe if you tell her, we might have a good reaction, Beware though, she can't speak, Beatrice is in love with her writing." Mrs. Brass said, with a sad smile.

Donald entered the kitchen, it was small but very neat. On an high stool, Beatrice sat. Her ginger red curls, a scattered mess on her head.

"Hello Beatrice, I'm Mark Carter...." Donald said softly, going closer to her.

She turned abruptly, her eyes wide with fear.

"I...I was told to warn you....I..." She croaked, her voice an hoarse whisper.

"Warn me? About what? Your mom said you couldn't speak...." Donald asked, surprised.

"I...couldn't... the ice-cream man.....he ....he gripped my hand.....and said....I must warn Donald Grey!....." She said, her hand over her chest.

"Beatrice!!! Oh my darling pumpkin!" Mrs. Brass squealed, rushing into the kitchen and wrapping Beatrice in her arms.

Mr. Brass came in immediately.

"She talked, Arthur, she talked!!" She said, kissing Beatrice all over her face.

"Mom...its....its...okay" Beatrice said, weakly. "Donald.....a war is coming, you...you...must prepare yourself!"

"What is she talking about?" Donald asked, looking at both parents, and wondering how on earth she knew his real name.

But they were already on their knees, and Mrs. Brass was screaming. Beatrice lay on the floor, passed out.