Every breath you take is a lie
The air in Daisy Evans’ small house hung thick with the bitter tang of unspoken accusations and recently shouted words. Petunia, perched on the edge of the worn floral sofa, watched her mother, Rose, storm away. Each retreating step echoed the hollowness in Petunia’s stomach. Rose’s curses, muttered just loud enough to sting, scraped against Petunia’s ears, each syllable a lie solidified in the very air she breathed.
The ‘rape incident.’ Petunia knew it was a fabricated drama, a carefully constructed narrative designed for… what? Sympathy? Attention? Petunia didn't care to dissect her mother’s motives anymore. Truth had become a stranger in their house, a ghost word whispered only in the dead of night. Petunia had bigger battles, grander schemes, than untangling her mother’s web of deceit. She had a future to sculpt, a future she’d glimpsed, vibrant and terrifying, and she refused to let Rose’s lies dim its brilliance.
Lily, her younger sister, shuffled into the room, clutching a fluffy grey kitten. Her big green eyes, so like their mother’s, were wide with confusion. “Tunney,” she lisped, using Petunia’s childhood nickname, “why were you and Mom fighting?”
Petunia sighed, the weight of unspoken knowledge pressing down on her small shoulders. How could she explain futures, destinies, and the suffocating grasp of a path she was determined to deviate from to a 9-year-old holding a kitten? “You’ll understand when you’re older, Lily-puff,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
Their grandmother, Daisy, a woman whose smile lines held more wisdom than wrinkles, gently clasped Lily’s free hand. “Girls, girls. How about we all have some fun together? The sun’s shining, birds are singing. What do you say?” She directed her warm gaze towards her granddaughters.
Just then, Emma and Yvonne, Petunia’s two friends, bounced into the room. Emma, with her perpetually bright eyes and a tangle of brawn curls, spoke first, “Yeah, you’re right, Mrs. Evans! We should totally go have some fun in the fields, right Tunney?” Emma’s eyes flickered to Petunia, a silent, urgent message passing between them. The plan.
Understanding flared in Petunia’s chest. Emma wasn’t suggesting childish games in the fields. They were going through with it. With a barely perceptible nod, a shared secret solidified in the air, Petunia replied, “Yeah, you’re right, Em. Let’s go.”
But Lily, ever the innocent interrupter, piped up, “But I wanna hear Tunney play the violin! That’s why I came over! I told Mom you could play, but she didn’t believe me and said you were just making it up.” Lily’s lower lip trembled slightly at the memory of her mother’s dismissive tone.
Daisy, sensing Lily’s disappointment and perhaps remembering a forgotten joy of her own, encouraged Petunia. “Petunia, darling, I think it would be lovely if you played for us. Just a little tune?”
Emma and Yvonne, momentarily forgotten in Lily’s sudden request, exchanged glances. They knew the plan was important, but they also knew how deeply Lily adored Petunia and anything she did. They offered small, encouraging nods to Petunia.
Petunia hesitated. Playing the violin felt raw, exposed. It was a language of the soul, and her soul was currently a storm-tossed sea. But Lily’s earnest face, her grandmother’s gentle encouragement, and the silent plea in her friends’ eyes – it was enough. “Okay, Grandma,” she agreed with a sigh that held more than just resignation.
She went inside, the scent of dust and old wood greeting her as she retrieved her violin case from the corner of her room. Black, worn, its surface scratched with the stories of countless practice sessions, it felt heavy in her hands.
Back in the garden, she carefully took out the violin, the familiar scent of rosin and polished wood filling her senses. She closed her eyes for a moment, the image of her future flashing before her – a future both breathtaking and filled with a chilling loneliness. Then, the memory of her mother’s cutting words, her casual cruelty, resurfaced. Frustration coiled in her stomach, tightened in her chest.
Without conscious thought, she raised the violin to her chin, the cool wood resting against her skin. The bow met the strings, and a sound emerged. Not a melody at first, but a raw, aching cry. It was the sound of anger, frustration, and a desperate yearning for something beyond the suffocating confines of her current life.
(Verse 1)
Fluorescent lights, a sterile room, a backwards birth, a bizarre bloom
Eleven years and skin so new, but memories carved, a bitter view
Of Rose, my mother, pedestal high, a saintly mask beneath the sky
I saw the truth, a viper’s kiss, a lifetime built on her deceitfulness
Harold’s face, a stranger’s grace, the bloodline fractured in this place
"You're not his," the whispers scream, shattering every waking dream.
(Chorus)
The past returned, a twisted game, I see you now, your heart aflame
Not love, but lies, a web you spun, now the truth is out, the battle’s won
No tears will fall, for your stained throne, I’ve seen your face, I stand alone
Your words are ash, your promises dust, I’ve broken free, forgotten your trust.
(Verse 2)
Grandma’s arms, a haven found, on solid ground, no lies around
She saw the hurt, she felt the pain, adopted me, washed clean by rain.
But Rose, she came, a weeping plea, a fabricated tragedy
"Raped," she cried, a villain’s role, to claim me back, to break my soul
But I’m not blind, no longer small, I see the cracks, I know it all
Your every breathe, a hollow sound, no truth within, nowhere is it found.
As she played, melodies began to weave themselves through the initial dissonance. Memories surged – her mother’s sneer, Lily’s innocent questions, the phantom weight of a future she vowed to change. The music became a torrent, a release. The notes rose and fell, sometimes sharp and jagged, sometimes mournful and low. She poured everything into the music – her confusion, her anger, her fierce, unwavering determination. She didn't think, didn't plan, just played, letting the violin be her voice.
(Chorus)
The past returned, a twisted game, I see you now, your heart aflame
Not love, but lies, a web you spun, now the truth is out, the battle’s won
No tears will fall, for your stained throne, I’ve seen your face, I stand alone
Your words are ash, your promises dust, I’ve broken free, forgotten your trust.
(Bridge)
“Spare us both,” I said, with ice, “Just walk away, at any price,”
Her face contorted, eyes alight, with vengeance burning, dark as night.
She swore to make me pay the cost, for all I knew, for all I’d lost
And Lily watched, with a baby near, young and innocent, held by fear
She won’t understand, not yet, not now, but someday truth will dawn somehow.
(Chorus)
The past returned, a twisted game, I see you now, your heart aflame
Not love, but lies, a web you spun, now the truth is out, the battle’s won
No tears will fall, for your stained throne, I’ve seen your face, I stand alone
Your words are ash, your promises dust, I’ve broken free, forgotten your trust.
(Outro)
Let her rage, let her plot and scheme, I’ll build my life, a different dream.
I’m no longer your puppet, or your pawn, Petunia Evans, strong, reborn.
The lies are broken, the truth will bloom, I’ll face the storm, escape the tomb.
My life is mine, and I’ll be free, from the twisted hold you had on me.
When the last note faded, hanging in the air like a fragile echo, a stunned silence fell. Petunia blinked, opening her eyes. She hadn't been aware of time passing, of the reactions around her.
Then, applause erupted. Lily squeaked, jumping up and down, "You are amazing, Tunney! You were like… like magic!" Her eyes shone with pure adoration.
Emma, always dramatic, piped up, “Your hands, Tunney! They were flying! I wouldn’t be surprised if you become a professional violinist. Seriously!”
Yvonne, ever practical, added, “You’re right, Emma. Maybe even after the competition, you’d be way more popular in school.”
Emma, caught up in the whirlwind of imagined fame, gasped, “Oh, I can just imagine it! Every boy will be following you around, like… like loyal dogs!”
Petunia’s face twisted in disgust. “Ew, Emma, dogs? If I had to have followers, I’d rather have a serpent. A beautiful, venomous serpent, coiled on my shoulders, to… persuade anyone who dared to annoy me.” The words slipped out before she could censor them, sharp and venomous, echoing the bitterness that clung to her family like a shroud.
A sudden hush fell over the room. Her friends’ smiles faltered, their eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and… fear?
"What?" Emma stammered, her laughter extinguished.
Yvonne’s face paled slightly. "A… serpent?"
Petunia, realizing the chilling effect of her words, forced a laugh, a brittle, unnatural sound. "What? Did you believe me? It was just a joke! You know, like… dramatic effect for the music? Serpent… violin… you know?" She waved her hand dismissively, trying to backtrack, to erase the glimpse of darkness she had inadvertently revealed.
Meanwhile, back in the Evans’ house, Rose marched through the hallway, her anger still a physical presence. She headed straight for the dusty bookshelf in the living room, pulling out a thick, yellowed phone book. Her fingers, still trembling slightly, flipped through the pages, scanning columns of names and numbers until she found it: Doctor O’Malley. Mental Wellness Clinic for Children .
She snatched the receiver off the wall-mounted phone and dialed, her movements jerky, impatient. “Hello? Am I speaking to Doctor O’Malley? Yes, this is Rose Evans. I… I would like to discuss my daughter, Petunia. Her mental well-being, yes. It’s… concerning.” She lowered her voice, shifting into a tone of practiced concern, a performance perfected over years of manipulating Harold, her husband, and anyone else who dared to question her narrative. “Yes, yes, I will speak to my husband as soon as he comes back home. Thank you, Doctor.”
She slammed the phone back onto its cradle, her breath coming in ragged pants. “Oh, Petunia,” she hissed, pacing the small living room like a caged animal. “You have made a big mistake, provoking me like that. Believe me, my girl, I am a woman of my words. And this… this is going to be hell to pay.” A chilling laugh escaped her lips, devoid of warmth, devoid of humor. “Now, all that’s left is to convince Harold to speak to Daisy about it. Get them all on my side.”
She glanced out the window at the bright morning sun, the light mocking the darkness gathering in her heart. “Petunia, I don’t know how, and I don’t know why you changed all of a sudden. Honestly, you should have stayed obedient until your last breath.” The words hung in the air, a silent curse, a promise of the storm to come.
Later, Rose called Harold at the factory. The phone rang, echoing in the noisy workshop. Harold picked up, his voice weary. “Hello?”
“Harold, it’s me, dear,” Rose’s voice was laced with concern, a carefully crafted performance.
“Rose? Is everything alright? Did you see Petunia today?” He sighed, the weight of his family troubles heavy on his voice.
“I did. I tried, Harold, I tried to reason with her, to convince her to come home. But she’s… she’s still insisting on staying with Daisy. Harold, you need to talk to Daisy. As soon as possible. Petunia’s well-being is alarming. We have to do something.” Rose’s voice trembled, a masterpiece of practiced distress.
Harold’s heart sank. He loved his mother, respected her fiercely, but ever since Daisy had stepped in, taking Petunia under her wing after… after everything, the fragile balance of their family had shattered. Parental rights revoked. It stung, a constant reminder of his own failings, real or imagined. He didn’t want to fight with his mother, but Rose’s voice was a persistent, nagging worry in his ear.
“Alright, dear,” he conceded, the weariness heavy in his tone. “I’ll try. I’ll try to talk to Mum. She has the legal say, being Petunia’s guardian now. I’ll… I’ll try to convince her.” He hung up, the factory noise suddenly deafening. He knew this wouldn’t be easy. He knew he was caught in the middle, between his wife’s escalating anxieties and his mother’s unwavering, quiet strength. And somewhere in the heart of it all, was Petunia, a spark of defiance, a promise of change, burning bright in the gathering storm.