Porcelain Song
One
My name is Katya; I was born into 1940 Soviet Russia, one year before Germany invaded. In fact, it was the day of my first birthday that Germans marched into our land. June 22nd, for my people it was to be forever remembered as a terrible day.
However my family was relatively wealthy then and we were moved immediately, to America. I used to wonder how we made it out, and whose tickets we stole last minute. Perhaps people more important than us, who could have made valuable contributions to the world. We sure as hell didn’t.
For nine years we stayed in America, in the state of Michigan, which held little interest for my Father, so at the end of those nine years he left us. My Mother responded by taking me to Paris for the next five years. It seems to me that those were the best years of my life, ending abruptly with my mother’s second marriage. Until that day, however, life was… perfect.
Days spent waltzing on the left bank, with handsome men and their pretty wives, who taught me to dance, and drink wine. During the day, the sun would slide across iridescent skies, a long journey that would sometimes see us make trips to the countryside to stay in quaint little chateaus.
The nights were glorious, I was allowed to stay up as long as I liked, and I would mingle amongst the guests at my Mothers parties. There were a few men that would dance with me, and pull me closer than seemed necessary. I was twelve when this started, but I saw the fire in their eyes and I recognized it as something vital, I felt as if it gave me power.
I was right.
My enchanting extended holiday ended with a bang, champagne bottles being opened in celebration of my mother’s engagement to a rich Parisian named Benoit Moreau. A tall hulk of a man, with a receding hairline, who dressed as if he were an undertaker.
There was no honeymoon, but we were immediately moved into his home. By bedroom door could not be locked, and I’m sure you can understand that as a fifteen year old girl, I highly resented this invasion of my privacy. Papa Benoit had plans for me.
However my family was relatively wealthy then and we were moved immediately, to America. I used to wonder how we made it out, and whose tickets we stole last minute. Perhaps people more important than us, who could have made valuable contributions to the world. We sure as hell didn’t.
For nine years we stayed in America, in the state of Michigan, which held little interest for my Father, so at the end of those nine years he left us. My Mother responded by taking me to Paris for the next five years. It seems to me that those were the best years of my life, ending abruptly with my mother’s second marriage. Until that day, however, life was… perfect.
Days spent waltzing on the left bank, with handsome men and their pretty wives, who taught me to dance, and drink wine. During the day, the sun would slide across iridescent skies, a long journey that would sometimes see us make trips to the countryside to stay in quaint little chateaus.
The nights were glorious, I was allowed to stay up as long as I liked, and I would mingle amongst the guests at my Mothers parties. There were a few men that would dance with me, and pull me closer than seemed necessary. I was twelve when this started, but I saw the fire in their eyes and I recognized it as something vital, I felt as if it gave me power.
I was right.
My enchanting extended holiday ended with a bang, champagne bottles being opened in celebration of my mother’s engagement to a rich Parisian named Benoit Moreau. A tall hulk of a man, with a receding hairline, who dressed as if he were an undertaker.
There was no honeymoon, but we were immediately moved into his home. By bedroom door could not be locked, and I’m sure you can understand that as a fifteen year old girl, I highly resented this invasion of my privacy. Papa Benoit had plans for me.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thoughts, feelings?XX