My Little Decoy

♪ Relive the Start ♪ {1}

"I could follow you to the beginning
And just relive the start.
And maybe then, we'll remember to slow down
To all of our favorite parts." - All I Wanted

--

1 year earlier...

Music. How exactly can you explain what music is? It can be anything from singing opera to jamming out with an electric guitar. You can create it, or you can just listen. And that's what makes it unique. Music is anything and everything. Anywhere and Everywhere. You just need to take the time to really listen. Take a second to stop whatever you're doing right now and just listen.

A car driving by your house, creating a sort of whooshing sound as it passes: Music.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaks as someone steps on a soft spot: Music.

And now, imagine the melody to your favorite song. Listen to the lyrics, the different instruments, the rhythm.

Music.

Think about it. Think of how the world would be like without music? Now, isn't that a scary thought?

And then, there's a special type of music for people like me. No, I'm not talking about a specific genre like country, or metal. I mean the best kind of music; the type that you can close your eyes and visualize yourself in, and the kind of music that you can relate to. Whether you've been through a bad break-up, you've just found your soul mate, or you've had a rough day, there's always that one song, or that one artist than truly captivates your inner thoughts. And when I can't speak up, music does for me. Music saved my life. Music was always there for me.

Unlike everyone else.

--

I stood in front of the mirror, putting on a quick application of eyeliner and mascara, making my sky blue eyes pop. Make-up was never a necessity for me but there are times when the beauty products are a benefit. Such as today.

Grabbing some powder off my dresser, I applied some concealer mostly on my right cheek where if you just looked hard enough, the faint outline of a purple bruise could be seen. It wasn't even that bad. Dad wasn't as harsh two nights ago as he usually was. Then, I ran a hand through my wavy chocolate brown hair, trying to make it at least a little bit presentable before heading to hell —I mean, school.

Evaluating my appearance, I finally deemed myself worthy to be seen in my black, baggy Nirvana tee and bright red skinny jeans, complete with my beaten down yet faithful pair of converse sneakers. Grabbing my plaid backpack off my bed, my old mp3 device that I had found a few years prior to the accident, and the one thing I needed the most: my ragged, hole-filled drum sticks, I headed downstairs to get a head start on walking to school. It was best to leave early for multiple reasons:

1) Dad was usually still asleep with a hangover.
2) Since my neighborhood wasn't as safe as most, I could leave before anything rash could occur.
3) School was about forty minutes away, and my father and I didn't own a car.

As I reached the kitchen with all its atrocious glory, my stomach rumbled a bit and I frowned, debating whether I had time for breakfast or not. Well, food won't kill me. The island was packed with unopened letters from debt collectors and tax papers, along with an assortment of beer cans that weren't there the previous night. Definitely not a good sign. Kicking at a stray bottle of vodka on the ground as I made my way to the counter, the glass rolling along the marble floor, I reached out and grabbed a nearly spoiled apple and bit into it, thankful that I at least could get something to eat. Maybe today wouldn't be as bad as I thought. There was a clatter behind me and I whipped around just as a lumbering beast arose from the ivory cushions in the living room, letting out a roar suitable for a monster too.

Nah. I knew it was too good to be true.

"Lacey, is that you?" A voice that I recognized as dear old step-father's slurred as the stench of cigarette smoke and beer coming off his dirty clothes reached my nostrils.

"Yeah, Marco. It's me." I replied in my monotone voice, knowing well that all emotion was drained out of me three years ago. It was best not to let my façade slip or the consequences would be... well, not so pretty.

My step-father made his way over to where I stood frozen, his movements drunken and he swayed uneasily from side to side. Not a good sign.

My jaw clenched and I knew what was going to happen but even as I braced myself, the impact still left my cheek numb and stinging as my head whipped to one side so fast that I heard my neck crick. But still, I held my mask of indifference and merely turned my head back to him, ignoring the sore pain in my cheek. Marco didn't say anything. He just stared at me with unhidden disgust before sauntering back to the couch and collapsing onto the leather. A few seconds later, he was fast asleep, snoring his cares away.

This was when I dragged my hand up to my face and felt the formulating bruise on my other cheek.

"I just applied my make-up already, damn it." I grumbled under my breath. It was a shame that I was so used to this. My step-father slapping me for no apparent reason other than he was drunk, or he needed a getaway from the hole he dug himself into. And I was mostly fine with that: having an abusive father. Because even though he hurt me physically, I knew emotionally deep down in his rotten, dying heart that he loved me. And that's all that matters.

I could take the physical pain over emotional any day. But you know, even the mightiest must fall.

--

I was fourteen when my mother, Amelia, passed away. She and I had been through a lot together but we weren't close. We had relocated a lot after my biological father, Ben, died from lung cancer. Mom married two men and divorced them before she finally met Marco, my current step-father. Unlike the other two, who were skiving, perverted liars and cheaters, Marco was the spitting image of a god, with money to spare, and a personality to kill for. The man was kind, humble, courteous, loving.

My heart hadn't been quick to trust anybody except my mother and it took a long time before Marco was accepted a place in my heart. But when he became a part of my life, all too quickly, it shattered.

My mom had suffered through a long period of depression and anxiety attacks after Ben died. I suffered too but I was only four when he died, so I didn't really remember him much and it ended. But even when my mom remarried three times, and fell deeply in love with Marco, the depression kept eating her alive. And every time I was near, she'd push me away as if I was just a reminder that everything about her past really happened and she couldn't bear it. But with me and my trust issues, I ignored it and stayed by her side even though it was clear she despised me.

I guess, that's why she killed herself. Because of me. It's a burden I alone have to carry. Or maybe.. not just me.

Marco was a wreck. He, like in every teenage angst novel I've ever read, sank into depression and I immediately feared that this would all be a repeat of Episode 22 Amelia: Season 1 finale of Lacey Carson's Vida la Miserable. He resorted to drinking and fighting, and using me as his own private punching bag.

It was amazing how reality seemed to just smack you upside the head when you'd rather be floating on the clouds.

After tossing the remains of my half-eaten apple into the garbage bin which was already overflowing with litter, I went to my room and applied some more concealer. And then with another glance at my open door, I caught a glimpse of my step-dad and involuntarily winced. With a silent sigh, my glance turned to my window and an idea formed in my mind. Walking over to it, I unlatched the hinges and pulled it up. Jumping through the open space, I didn't bother closing the window as my run-down house disappeared behind me and I popped in my ear buds, turning on my music player and cranking up the volume as loud as it could go. As my footsteps muted and the sound of Aerosmith filled my ears, the episode from before and the memories of a past life washed away as the music took over. And for that moment, I was content.

Until I stopped in my tracks and clenched my fists. "Shit!" I swore, shaking my head, making my side bangs fall into my eyes. I only had ten minutes to get to homeroom before the bell rings. And the damn school is at least a half hour away. My foot kicked at a pebble, sending it skidding across the pavement. "Just. Peachy."

--

Well, there you go. First chapter's up. Enjoy! Comment and vote! And sorry for the depressing, badly-written chapter. It gets better, I swear.

Dedicated to DefiantxPartyPoison because she's an awesome person. Check out her new story, "Slightly Sarcastic with a Chance of Indifference." c:

Stay lovely,
Isabelle

** Each chapter is going to start with a Paramore song lyric. To listen to the song, just click the external link.