𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇 𖤓 - 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧.

DEKAOCHTÓ.

JUNE FOURTEENTH,
TWO THOUSAND AND SIX.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Ten twenty-eight in the morning.

Lyssa finally came to from her cavernous slumber, in which she felt as though she had slept through a century.

Usually Lyssa was an early riser, her body naturally gaining unprovoked consciousness in the very early hours of the morning - the immediate dewy haze that bore the child of a new day, a new dawn.

If she could've dictated her fate herself, she would've unhesitatingly selected to stay coddled within the Saltburn guest bed for the rest of the day she had left, and maybe even the next.

But in this reality, for now, she had to attend back home - to take care of Alistair - to make sure her lousy excuse for a mother hadn't yet again neglected him, tossing him over to the housekeepers while she went on another Milan bender.

You'd think that at the grand age of forty three, you'd begin to reflect upon your life choices.

Apparently not, for Andromeda Sol had been trapped within the mentality of a twenty five year old since she had long passed the milestone of that age.

Doing cocaine and spending hundreds of thousands of family inheritance on flights in keys around europe while drinking champagne - so costly you swore you could taste the bitterness of the coinage in which was sweat to be spent - was only considered classy until you hit twenty three.

After that, everyone around you who wasn't astronomically invested in a decade of addiction began to feel pitiful and look down their noses at such delinquent behaviour. 

I'm sure the people in these European venues that encountered her mother lining her nose with Moroccan fine cocaine on the occasional weekend atleast once wondered what businuess this aged woman had here, and wether the gold band upon her wedding finger meant anything.

Wether the tattoo she tried to desperately hide on her ankle that indicated Lyssa, Esther, and Alistair's initials upon in onyx ink meant anything, either.

She had bandaged the tattoo - which she'd drunkenly gotten last year when travelling with associated in New York two years ago - with stacks of gold bracelets and a Cartier encrusted watch.

Exhibiting clearly a wealthy person's attempt to erase their mistakes - by further gauzing their embarrassing displays of behaviour by shackling themselves to the safety of their envious riches.

To divert the eyes of onlookers - for what is more interesting? A poorly-executed tattoo that had little to no sentiment behind it but drunken impulsion and limited tattoo ideas, or an array of precious jewellery?

Her mother's tattoo only peered through when she raised her hand to plug her nostril to prevent any excess cocaine from falling out of her nasal passage, god forbid.

When she was experiencing the epitome of her episodes of scathing anger, Lyssa would sometimes manifest that her mother's next batch of cocaine be laced with pesticide.

Maybe, by passing doing what her mother loved most, it would be less of a shame.

However, the feeling of guilt often occurred itself to Lyssa regarding her and her mother's strained relationship.

For sometimes, Lyssa considered that it were partly her own fault for not getting on with her mother.

Wether Lyssa were to try and emphasise with the widowed woman, try to see her as a lost little girl who knows little of security and healthy coping mechanisms, and is now left to fend not just for her own back - but for her children's, too.