Devil of Clinia

4. The Ideal Planet

My body tingles and feels toasty.

I smell a wafting wood fragrance mixed with cinnamon and a hint of light crisp apple.

The world constructs around me into what seems to be the whole planet. Almost in the wave of a hand.

Vienne bolts up to me and licks me. "Vienne!" I cheerfully yell. I hoist him up and give him the biggest and tightest hug I think I've ever given in my entire life, even though I know it isn't real. I'll take what I can get.

Just behind Vienne, my mom walks up to me calmly and with purpose in a long floral skirt and white lace tank top. "Hello, darling Aura." She uses my nickname, and I've never been so happy to hear it. It echoes in my mind like butterflies bouncing from wall to wall. "Aura", I whisper to myself, almost to enjoy it like it's the last time I would ever get to experience the sound.

I leap into a warm embrace.

Suddenly, my sister emerges behind her. "Iz?" I pull away from the hug and stand still. My entire body remained unmoving except for my heart, which initially skipped a beat, but began to pound seemingly out of my chest. "Hey, Aurora, been awhile." She reaches her arms out, inviting me for a hug. This hug would be like no other, for it truly couldn't be reality.

Isabella and I were never close like that, but siblings seldom are. However, this world was meant to be ideal, so I'm sure my sister, who is suddenly alive, will be nothing short of perfection.

I'll appreciate it while it lasts. I accept the gracious invitation to her hug. While I held her close to me, I thought of who she was. Isabella was two years older than me, and she was found dead in a ditch. I'm hugging a hologram of a ghost.

My mom never let me outside after that, but I suppose it didn't last long after that since we all got taken away. "Let's head to our home." Mom says in a robotic tone. This voice makes me uneasy, as it's clearly not my mother. This futile attempt may have worked at first but honestly, my mother would never act like this or talk like this. It ruined the experience. I know it REALLY isn't my mother, I know that, but like I barely got to experience the real her just now. I wish they hadn't tried to make her so ideal. It's very unrealistic and shy of giving me a last moment of her.

My mother is a very worrisome person. She takes more anxiety medicine than she's supposed to a day, and avoids people entirely. It would be hard to witness the majority of the time, so I guess it was nice to see her calm for once. Of course Iz and I both inherited part of that, but she was much more social than I ever was. Maybe that's why she ended up the way she did instead of me. No, that's harsh to say.

I never got any more social after she died.

My mom, even as a young girl struggled with anxiety, but I think my father is truly to blame. He was her only form of safety, and when he packed up and left for another woman, it was all over. The shred of trust she ever held onto, was gone. Stepped on by a shoe in the rain basically. Or swept away to sea. Take your pick at how forever lost and dissolved this shred was.

I am shown to a house, that is most certainly not ours. We could never afford such a large home. We only lived in a small townhouse that we shared with the Gibsons, our elderly neighbors. We would help them time to time, which seems insufferable, but it was a shared experience that was part of me and Isabella's childhood. The Gibsons watched us grow up, and even in the condition we last saw them in, they are just as active as ever. We would help them with things like trips to the grocery store or helping them across the street. Hovan Street. I'd lived on Hovan Street my entire upbringing. I remember being forced to swirl the name in cursive over and over as I wrote letters to my penpal. Stuck with me even after we moved away. My mother believed that cursive was the only acceptable form of writing, especially when it came to things like the name of your street. Anything she considered important information was to be only written in cursive. I appreciate her teaching me that.

The house presented to me was most certainly not on Hovan Street, and did not resemble the townhome shared with the Gibsons in the slightest. Nor did it look anything like the house we moved to after Isabella passed away. I should hope this fake world wouldn't remind me of that one. Thankfully, it didn't.

"Where are we?" I ask dumbly, mostly because this isn't my house for sure, and these fake people I'm supposed to know are waiting for a reaction as if I know the place.

"Our home of course." Mom says with a fake smile. She never smiled with her teeth. She was too self conscious about how yellow they were, even though they were whiter than a page of a book.

I feel the artificial nirvana drain from me. This wasn't ideal or perfection. This was uncomfortable and fake. Especially in a situation like this, what I needed wasn't a new environment, I wanted what was perfect to me. My old life. A feeling of comfort and safety. To have my life back. The only thing that would improve my old life, would be having my sister back. Before we moved, before she died, and before this cluster of events ever occurred. Maybe even before dad left, so my mother wouldn't suffer so much.

I go inside, even though I don't want to like a child ready to throw a temper tantrum, and find my designated room, which was shown to me by my fake mother. It was across the hall from Isabella's room. The house was decorated like a hotel in the 70's. A true crime against fashion and interior designing. I shut the door lightly so my fake family doesn't come bother me, and sit with my knees up and my arms crossed as I weep. I feel as though they are standing idly, awaiting my return. As if they power off when not in my view. Standing there. No thoughts at all. Not really my family. The feeling haunts me that I will never see my real family again. It aches and burns as I sit in a room that isn't mine, and I feel a lump in my throat. I look up for a moment to get a glimpse of what this room really was. I sniffle and wipe away the salted tears that drooped off of my face.  In front of me on the orange-brown nightstand stood a wide pink piggy bank. The face had two black dots as eyes, and a cheesy toothy smile. I gently tapped the side of the piggy bank, and it made a clank. I lifted it carefully and shook it. The sound of coins clamored and jangled. The noise startled me, as it was louder than I anticipated, and I wanted to not disturb my fake family. I set it down, and just leave my hand firmly placed against the side of the bank. I feel the coolness of the porcelain swell through my hand. "This isn't real, this isn't real!" I cry, as I swipe my hand that was sitting on top of the piggy bank, and knock it to the floor. As I hear approaching footsteps to the room, I once again couldn't get Mar out of my head. I rest my head sideways on my left knee, and ponder how the next two years are going for her until the door swings open and my gaze is met with my fake mother and fake sister with no expressions upon their cold and dead faces.

This Chapter Goes With The Next Chapter. It is the same time frame, just from the two perspectives since our characters aren't together at the moment.