Rylan looked in on Eliza, an appreciation for art and music had skipped a generation, he reviewed the chaos that was her creative space. Crumpled paper, broken crayons, stolen macaroni, Eliza would tidy up when her perfected masterpiece, covered in glitter got blue tacked to the wall. Her father seemed relieved the scribbles confined, her bedroom the ideal place for a budding artist. Eliza knew he kept a piece of her discarded work, Rylan hid it in his bedside table, thinking he had a secret from his daughter, that in truth he loved her work.
She found music came natural, the initial screeching violin of strings, replaced with melodic nursery rhymes. Eliza’s hands were small, unable to grip the guitar neck, the most she could manage was strumming it as it sat on its stand. Rylan could see much of his mother, Aria, in the artistic prodigy that was his daughter, Eliza imagined her future, a Concertmaster in the Del Sol Orchestra, leading the first violins and taking solos or a pop artist, the world as her canvas, she would be as renowned as Andy Warhol. Emilie admired her ambitions, her grades reflected this, a star pupil, she worried Eliza would feel unchallenged by the education received.
Eliza enjoyed the days, keeping her mind busy, the night, however, they were a different story. In her toddler years, she climbed into bed with her parents, crying and shaking from bad dreams, growing older, the quivering lip, unappreciated. When dark, she heard noises, gurgling, growling, rustling, visions of tentacle slivered, reaching for her, Eliza screamed, Emilie responded, rushing to her, flicking the light switch. Nothing, Eliza shook convinced she had seen something, Rylan spoke angrily, her panic woke Patrick. Emilie shoed Rylan, spraying the bed, clearing pencils, paper, socks and shoes from beneath it. The magic water, Eliza believed the promise that the fine mist repelled the creature and she was safe.
Rylan ate, his gaze drifted, Eliza sat nose to book, frantic scribbling, he mused her interest in numbers, the focus much like his twin. He teased, she would need glasses, if she got much closer. Pausing, Eliza reached for another book, she wanted his help, her original plan to interview her mother put on hold to massage her father’s ego. Eliza wanted to discover what life had been like when he was young, how life differed for him with her grandparents Aria and Jose. Shifting uneasily, Rylan settled into answering questions, he had missed opportunities, awards favoured his sister when it came to academic achievement. Tears filled his eyes when speaking of Jose, losing his father made him angry, shovelling food into his mouth, Rylan made it clear Eliza should avoid such enquiries. As a young boy he dreamt of becoming a space pirate but excited by other possibilities, he wanted wealth, so his family were comfortable and he could provide, unlike the struggle his parents faced. Her final question, came down to what he wanted to ask his parents? Silence, Rylan looked deep into the empty glass, questions? Yes, so many stories, experiences and advice, all lost as he failed to ask. Shaking his head, Eliza had enough information to write her assignment, she frowned, worried she had upset him, she watched as he walked to the kitchen. The chocolate cake was comfort and pleasure, he gave her a piece, and slumped on the sofa, Patrick climbed, greedy eyes, but Rylan ignored him, lost in his memories.
By the Grace of Sim Gods 