Storm 》Clifford A.U

001;

"NINETEEN YEAROLD Darya Veliknova is still missing. If you have any information, please call the number below."

"Mama, please turn that off." I sigh, angrily dropping the overpriced, overly decorated spoon pinched between my fingers into the bowl of Kasha in front of me. My family had the incessant need to always have the best that life offered. They did not like simple things because they were boring, and everyone had access to them.

Spoons with intricate roses and cupid looking children carved into them by hand that were ten dollars each, -or six hundred and nineteen rubles, since my mother liked me to stick to my Russian roots- were absolutely necessary. Because, you know, a normal spoon isn't capable of picking up the same thing. Not to my family, at least.

I suppose that that is what happens when you come from nothing - you never want to settle for second best, for being less than. I was perfectly fine being less than, but I was the only one in my family who felt this way, it seemed.

"Maybe news today." My mother replies in broken English, pulling her sleek black hair into a tight bun. At thirty nine, she still had exclusive access to the fountain of youth, a rare feat in today's world. Isolda Veliknova was not "pretty for her age" she was just pretty; gorgeous really.

Each and every time she walked into a room, eyes would snap towards her. Mouths fell open as they took in her beauty. Her long legs and thin frame and long hair and glowing skin.

Not the tiny gap between her teeth or how her accent became impossible to decipher when she was drunk or how she chewed pencils down to their ends every weekend when she read a new thriller. No one cared about any of those things because they didn't want to dig deeper. Beauty was the only thing that mattered to them and if you didn't have it, then they didn't care about you. What a fucked up world.

Stress, fear, and worry had caused my mother's elbow length hair to gray before it's time, but she would never admit to that. She simply preferred to hide behind bottles of hair dye, restoring her natural hair color for the low price of toxic smelling fumes and overflowing garbage cans filled with box after box of expensive dye. "You pick up black bread in store when you go, yes?"

"Yes, Mama," I reply, sliding off of the gold rimmed stool drilled into the kitchen floor, and slinging my bag over my shoulder. The mostly eaten bowl of Kasha is dumped into the sink and I linger by the door before my departure, frowning as I look back at her. "Maybe you should try to get out of the house today and stop watching the news." I offer, trying to put as much cheer in my voice as I possibly can.

It has been twenty nine days since she has stepped foot outside of our house. The same number of days that have passed since my sister, Darya, has gone missing. The first week, my mother kept going to work. She kept trying to pretend like everything was okay even though it wasn't. Her smiles had yet to fade, because reality had yet to set in. She still paraded around selling houses and reigning in her commission.

At this point, there was no denying it. Darya had been gone for weeks and every day that passed made her return less probable. I didn't want to admit that, but I knew that I had to. The police had drilled the idea into our minds more than enough; stressing that it was crucial that we said everything we knew at the earliest possible time. The truth was, we knew nothing. She disappeared without a trace; leaving a trail of despair and hopelessness in her wake.

"I stop the watching when your sister return, Alina. Now go, have good day in school. I see you after." She dismisses me and I nod, mumbling a goodbye as I slip out of the house, side door clambering behind me.

I wasn't actually planning on going to school, and she knew that, too. She thought that education was important but after Darya had gone missing, everything sort of changed.