French Lover; Antoine Griezmann

Chapter One

The rambunctious blaring of the small alarm clock jarred me out of my peaceful sleep and I jolted up, smashing the snooze button as hard as I possibly could.

"Uh... Five more minutes," I groaned, putting a pillow over my head.

Instead of blocking the noise, it only grew louder.

The alarm was like that sound buses and trucks make when they back up and it wasn't even monitored. In an urban environment like this you might as well line your valuables up at the door and hang a sign inviting the thieves to take everything they want.

And finally, I decided to get up. I stared at the time for a while, acknowledging that I only had an hour left before I had to leave.

10:00am.

Waking up is no longer the pleasure it was. There is a fleeting moment when I am whole again but it evaporates faster than summer rain off the burnt earth. Then my lids that were drooping and leaden with sleep snap open as violently as if I'd been woken by the raid sirens wailing. There haven't been bombs for a week now, but not a person remains untouched. Only half the houses of our street remain standing and they are crowded with grieving survivors. I'm one of them, one of the dispossessed, relying on the charity of neighbours. So by the time my eyes are open my brain has become overwhelmed all over again as if it were all new, fresh, raw. I wish I could linger in that blissful ignorance of waking or else never sleep.

I undressed myself as I prepared myself for a shower. The water pours down, it drips by my side, as my mind fades into dullness and everything is a foggy illusion. The sensation of the steamy water calms me; it takes my mind of things. All the things I honestly don't care about. It's the water. My mind swirls, and it's like I'm standing under an everlasting waterfall. Ever so beautiful, but it can never last, I know that now. The pipes moaned like a horror movie ghost before spitting out a dribble of cold water. Pat braced her muscles to stop herself moving out of the stream before she'd soaped and rinsed. This was as good as it got in this old manor house. Posh on the outside, breaking on the inside, just like dear old Mama. And then I remembered that this appartment needed alot of fixing. Apart from the pipes, the ceiling fan had been squeaking, every time I turn it on. The lights in the kitchen wouldn't stop flickering every time I turn it on either. The wooden floor, nearest to the corner of the living room made a squeaking sound and every once in a while, I would have to deal with pitch darkness, due to a black out.

"Relax, you're supposed to free your mind," I whispered to myself, as I dialed my sister's phone number.

"I'm on my way, I promise!" she said, as soon as she picked up the phone.

"Ky, if you don't get here soon, I'll be late for my flight," I said sternly, holding my phone in between my ear and my shoulder, as I buttoned my blouse.

"Kenna, I'm on my way. I got us some breakfast and I'm just a few blocks away," she replied, trying to cover herself up with innocence.

"Whatever, just be here quick," I said, hanging up the phone.

I sat behind my desk, as I pulled out my make up bag. This three-weeks-trip better help me with the stress I'm dealing with.

Well, even though it wasn't the reason I was going there for, I hoped it would help, at least a bit.

"And there's my girl," a familiar voice from behind me spoke, as he wrap an arm around my waist, gently pecking small kisses on my cheeks.

I turned around to face my fiancé, Marc. With his slicked back hair, and the strong cologne he had been using for a while now, he had never looked better. His brown, almost black eyes stared into mine before his soft pink lips met mine.

"Don't go?" he raised his eyerows.

"Come on, Marc. We have had this conversation at least ten times. It'll be good for me, for my work. It'll just be three weeks and I'll be home before you know it," I rolled my eyes, walking towards my luggage.

He sat on my bed as he eyed my every move.

"You can write about so much, just being here in New York," he said.

"Marc-" I stopped myself before I'd blurt anything out that I'd regret afterwards.

Marc was my college lover. Growing up, we never agree on many things and his interests never matched mine. It was a complicated relationship any human could share. But of course, I wanted to make it work. I'm 25 and I'm still not married. Well, at least that's what my family concerns the most about me. I'm the eldest among the siblings, Ky and Kevin. And for Kevin to be the youngest but have already got married, the pressure was more.

"Marc, it'll be fine. I'm not going to argue about this," I rolled my eyes.

"OK, I'm sorry. I should've been more understanding," he apologised, sensing that I was completely annoyed.

Soon, Ky arrived with a box of bagels.

"I thought you'd want something to eat before the long flight," she says, handing me a piece.

I nodded, before I munched on the food as if there wasn't 'a' tomorrow.

My name is Kenna Rys, first daughter of Marshall Rys and Dorothy Rys. In a city like New York, I wasn't well known, compared to the small village we came from, in England. Of course, father being the bread winner of the family, the successful businessman, we never sticked to a single place for long. We were constantly moving around from cities, to countries.

At the age of 20, I discovered what I valued the most now, writing. I was interested in language, poetry and I wrote three books as I grew. At the age of 24, I decided to leave England to pursue my dreams to a higher level. I had to start somewhere, I thought.

At the age of 25, my beloved grandmother died. It was a period of time where I seeked the most comfort and love but to have everyone around me busy, I didn't receive what I needed. I remembered the strong scent of mint in the room as she laid on her hospital bed with nothing but a dying soul, but with a smile across her face. She was my inspirtaion, my role model. She never had an easy life and she constantly remind me that it was going to get harder instead. Live it wisely instead.

She was very much in love with my grandfather. Indeed, it was an arranged marriage but as they told me their stories, I believed that there was more to love and I haven't found it yet.

"Kenna, remember that you are loved," she said, before I pecked a kiss on her forehead.

She knew all that I was going through, the ups and downs. And she knew I was lonely, deep down. She was the only one I've ever opened up with. Being a writer, I was full of strong emotions but I rarely spoke about it to anyone, even Marc.

"Write your heart out. Travel to different countries and get inspired," was her last words to me. I was the most impacted after her death. I shared so much with her and losing someone who have been there for me for almost all of my life, I completely broke down. But I knew she wanted me to go on with life and did all the things I wanted.

And, here I am. A few minutes away from my flight to Paris, France.

I hope I could make her proud, at least I know that she'll be smiling from above knowing that I tried.

This is for you, grandmother.

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