Aria

“Papa? Why don’t I go to school?” A tiny girl with long golden hair and sapphire eyes looks down upon a snow and soot-stained city from a window high above. The hulking statue, hunched over a large black desk, creaks as he shifts in his chair, and, while reading a stack of documents, he glances over at his daughter by the window.

“Hmm? What was that?” His voice tumbles over her ears like a drum of churning gravel.

“They seem to be having so much fun… Look! Those boys are throwing balls of snow at each other! How silly!” The tiny girl giggles as her breath fogs up the glass. Much of the soiled and airless world still seems bright, and full of wonder when seen through those doeful eyes. Her innocence causing even the soot streaking down from the rooftops to appear shining and mysterious. Her brilliant smile soon fades as she rests her forehead against the pane and sighs, “I want to go to school too…” As the girl turns her watery gaze towards the boulder of a man, she sees that he has already returned to his papers. He had barely even glanced at her in the first place.

Her plight for a normal social life has never registered as something he should concern himself with. The wall flips through his papers, and dryly repeats, “You do not need public schooling; you have a tutor. In fact, you are being taught by the very best. There is nothing those street urchins know that you do not.”

The little girl sighs unhappily at the same, tedious answer she has already heard over again, and returns her forlorn gaze back to the other children frolicking down below. “I want to go outside and play in the snow too… Papa? Can I not go outside… even… for just a little bit?” She watches sadly as the other kids make snow angels and share a steaming doughnut, brought fresh from the bakery down the street.

The living rock lets the papers fall from his fingers with a deep groan and swivels toward her in his immaculate leather chair. He sighs and rubs his eyes, annoyed at the constant distraction from work. “Why don’t you get away from the window, huh? And take off your coat, gloves, and boots because you’re not going outside.”

Unsurprised and increasingly discontented by his growlings, the girl turns about and faces the imposing man. She musters her courage before speaking, “Papa, I know it’s dangerous, but it’ll only be for a minute, and I’ll take Boris with me so-”

SLAM! “Not. Another. Word.” The building itself seems to quake as the man flings his sledgehammer of a fist down upon the desk. “I said: take off your fucking snow clothes and get away from the window. Now!” As papers flutter to the ground, the ice in his glare causes the very marrow of her bones to chill, and her skin to erupt with goose bumps. Terrified by his charged response, the tiny girl’s large eyes nearly overflow with tears as they set their sights on the angry wall of a man, she calls father. By the sheer volume of his roar, she knew that there was no point in arguing further. The boulder collected his scattered papers, resumed ignoring her presence, and returned to work. As the girl crept away, he simply stated, “Go play with your toys or something. God knows I’ve bought a mountain of them. And if you’re that adamant, I will tell the maid to bring over her youngest to play with you.”

The parting comment only left the little girl feeling more depressed, as it did nothing but remind her that her only friend in existence was forced to be so. “Th… Thank you Papa, but not today. I will… just play… by… myself.” The tiny child six years of age with gold hair and tear-filled, sapphire eyes exits the study, and gently closes the door behind her. In the living room she somberly stores away her unused winter attire in the front entrance closet. She attempts to greet Boris, the scar covered suit-man who guards Freedom, but is too shaken up to force out a complete smile. Boris’ appearance may seem frightening, but he has a kind heart, so he always tries to cheer up the Little Miss when she’s down. While attempting to place a comforting pat on her head, the little girl sprints away to her bedroom, where she takes one last glance back towards the entryway and wishes Freedom would open for her. Boris strides over and blocks Freedom from view before giving her a pitying glance, a warm smile, and before locking the bedroom door behind her. The little girl does not cry. Even though her heart is heavy, her face remains dry. She flops onto her overstuffed, frilly bed, and descends into sleep. A deep slumber where the tiny girl dreams a different world where Freedom opens for her, where mother is still alive, and where she can breathe.