Broken Doll {ManxMan}

PROLOGUE

My mother died unexpectedly when I was five years old. I never did understand what happened, or why. All I remember was practicing my music with her, a violin in my hands while she sat at her vintage piano, smiles on both of our faces. We were maybe halfway through the song when my mother started to lag, then stop playing entirely.

For a moment, she was quietly sitting, a hand against her forehead and her face red from fever. When she started to move, she stood from her stool and stumbled, falling to her knees, and I dropped my violin immediately to rush over to her. She was struggling to breathe, her eyes fogged over and her red hair hanging in her face as she told me to go, run, get help.

I couldn't though, even if I wanted to. We weren't rich and we weren't well off, my father struggled to work three jobs just to keep up with the mortgage on our little cottage, we didn't even own a landline or cellphone. Our closest neighbors were several miles away, and the rest of the community was too far, I knew I'd never make it in time.

We were both helpless, I had to sit there and cry as my mother collapsed onto the ground, both of my hands holding one of hers and begging her to stay awake, but she was fading fast, the entire time trying to calm me down and tell me I'd be okay. When my father got home that night he found me sobbing on my knees beside my dead mother.

She never had the best immune system, she had such a low tolerance for illness. Any little thing could put her down for a week, it didn't matter if it was a cold or the flu, it was always bad, and my father would get so worried he would stay home from work to watch over her. That weakness in her immune system was what killed her, so suddenly, none of us even realized she was sick.

One of the most prominent things I inherited from my mother was that weak immune system, and I suppose that explained why my father was so worried about me when he found me. He figured whatever had killed his wife would take me as well, but I was lucky, healthy, heartbroken. My low tolerance was one reason I never went to a public school, but I didn't mind too much.

Just because I couldn't do maths didn't mean I was dumb, and my mother and father taught me all I needed to know. Books were my haven. I learned quite a bit from novels I read in the library or from books and magazines my father would bring home. I grew up speaking exclusively in Welsh, like my father, but somehow, we both learned to speak English through television, books, and bilingual neighbors. We were doing fine for ourselves despite the trouble we were obviously in, and I was completely satisfied with my life. All I ever needed was my father.

Then my father met her. Dark hair in natural ringlets around her face, sparkling eyes the color of amber, born into wealth but humble and charitable. When she met my father they both stopped and stared at each other for the longest time before my father found his words, accidentally speaking in Welsh before cursing and changing to English instead. It was the first time he'd ever been attracted to someone since my mother, her light seemed to mend the hole my mom left in him.

I could understand why my father waited so long to tell me he'd met someone. I was still young, I know I wouldn't have taken it well. I probably would have thrown a tantrum, screamed, locked myself in my room or accuse my father of not loving my mom. Even when he did tell me a few months after meeting her, I felt pain in my chest, my eyes burned, but seeing him so happy, even as young as I was, I knew I had to set aside my own dislike so he could be happy again.

My mother always told me to think of the wellbeing of others before myself. She would say stay healthy, stay happy, and make sure the people around you are much in the same. I knew my father loved my mom, but I also knew he deserved that love again, so I kept my mother's memory close, and when my father told me they were getting married, I smiled at him.