the prologue to a story I wrote (actual story is in first person)

Imagine a dinner party. The table is set for eight, and the husband and wife hosting the dinner are bustling around. The wife wears a designer apron though she has cooked none of the food. The food was ordered from a catering service two weeks ago in advance, and has just arrived. The husband wears a tuxedo, and is used to these bimonthly dinners. The table is mahogany, and a chandelier is hanging over the table, swinging precariously due to a breeze coming through the open window. There is heavy concealer on her right cheek, but it doesn’t hide the bruise. She wears a dark blue dress that reaches her ankles, accentuating her silver high heeled shoes. She is adjusting his tie as they laugh over an inside joke that has lasted through their decade-long marriage. Maybe the wife is wearing pearls, maybe she isn’t. It isn’t important. The dinner is set by candlelight, and the people coming are family friends who the couple has known for years. Dinner will get cold.

The wife calls up the stairs for “Helen, Helen!” before entering the kitchen again to maintain an air of having actually prepared a meal. There is no response, and the husband purses his lips slightly before hearing the doorbell. He walks to the door. A lone umbrella swings in its stand. When he opens the door, his face breaks into a charming grin. He knows them, and how could he not? They are the elite of the neighborhood, just like him. He welcomes the group of five into the foyer. They remove their coats and put them in the closet specifically set aside for this occasion. They enter the dining room and make the appropriate admiring noises required for such a function. The wife bustles in with a laugh and a silver platter, upon which a spiral ham cooked to the perfect temperature rests. Wineglasses clink and toasts are uttered. The dinner commences, and soon the room is filled with persiflage.

Imagine traveling up the chestnut stairs to the second story. Enter the second room on the left. A girl is sitting on a white bedspread across from a gold-framed mirror. She glares at her reflection with fists clenched. Piercing grey eyes glare back, set in a heart shaped face framed by long curly strawberry blonde hair. She feels caged in this pink room with quotes from songs pasted on the walls, despite the bookshelves that promise escape. She is not technically a prisoner. She is allowed to leave the room.

They argued again.

In fact, she is expected to go downstairs and make small talk with Ryan, the son of one of the visiting couples and one of her best friends. What teenager wants to make small talk? She is not in the mood to see Ryan, even after making every effort to spend her entire life in his presence. He was born two months prior, and as a result fancies himself as knowing more than she does. He does, but that’s unimportant. Ryan knows that she prefers reading about long ago battles than going to stupid dinner parties and verbally sparring with the guests. She believes those stories-whether they happened or not -are the most interesting in the world. Her parents are expecting her and Ryan to be married within the next five years, hopefully during or following college. She loathes them for this, not so much because she finds the idea unappealing, but more because she wants to be able to choose her own life and that includes selecting one’s own spouse. She already saw him today.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She wishes to launch a thousand ships as her namesake did, Helen of Troy. She is certainly pretty enough, some might say beautiful if she was in a smiling mood. The dress she wears is stunning, a glitzy silver number that cling to curves she does not have. Tonight is a special occasion, apparently, and she has been warned to behave accordingly. This translates to ‘keep your temper in check so nothing abnormal occurs’. The dress cost more than she has ever spent on any item of clothing in her life, leading to more than a little curiosity about the news. On her feet, however, are seven dollar tattered red sneakers from Forever 21. She kicks them against the metal bedframe in defiance, delaying her descent down the stairs for as long as possible. Little does she know that she will never hear the news.

He hit her.

 Right now she hates everything. Her face is slowly turning red in concentration, loathing and loathing and loathing every second she has to spend in this uncomfortable dress with these wretched people. She hates her parents more than anything else in the world. Her father is too strong and her mother is too weak. An open perfume bottle starts to tremble on the dresser, almost as if it is also trying to escape this situation. Her eyes briefly narrow and the bottle tips over, spilling vanilla-scented liquid onto the wood. That will not get out easily. She does not care. She emphasizes this by standing and exiting the room in all her besneakered glory.

He’s not even my father and he hit her.

She walks across the hallway to the master bedroom. She approaches the door. The floor is vibrating and she doesn’t know why, doesn’t care why. She reaches the doorway. The master bedroom is directly above the dining room, and she can hear the vapid conversation. She feels nauseous and furious. Her teeth are gritted in hatred for all that her superficial parents represent, such as the need to impress housewives and lawyers. She has a feeling something monumental is about to happen, but she does not know what. She thinks about her father yelling and her mother cowering, memories from behind closed doors that only she has ever been privy to. Her mother’s jewelry box is shaking. She watches it with disinterest, and then trains her eyes on the floor. Below her is a dinner party set for eight. Only seven are seated. Can you imagine this? Try harder.

The armchair is inching towards her, a snake in the grass. The jewelry box crashes to the floor. Necklaces and rings and bracelets spill out. Pearls are crushed by the box, and the flooring cannot muffle the noise. Downstairs, the husband and wife freeze mid-conversation. The room goes silent, only the swinging chandelier making any noise. They exchange nervous glances. Not again. The lamp on the left bedside table falls to the floor, and the other lamp follows suit. Broken glass soon spatters the carpet, and it is mixing with the broken jewelry. The floor is creaking loudly underneath the white carpeting. Despite all this, she has not moved from the door. Her mind is blank except for white hot rage. She hears the husband and wife rising from their seats. Ryan is almost to the stairs and he is yelling her name. Her eyes suddenly go wide.

Ryan.

 “RYAN!” The girl screams, thinking to warn him to get out, to escape before it happens, but it is far too late. The wrath has been released from its cage and is eager to play.

All of this is happening in a matter of seconds. All at once, there is a giant ripping sound. The floor has disappeared from under her and she falls.

When she regains consciousness, she is spread-eagled on a mountain of broken glass and wood. There is no sound save her heavy panting. No one else is alive.