Another Try Part II

ch.3
We move to the sitting room connected to Sir Satan’s office. Sitting on his dark green couch, I nearly moan when Gretchen comes in carrying a platter of food and a pitcher of ice cold water.

“So Amanda, why’d you die this time?” Gretchen asks in her sickly sweet voice placing down the platter on the coffee table but keeping a hold on the one thing that I would die again for.

Grinding my teeth I answer, “I got in a bit of trouble. Now why don’t you be a good assistant and pour me a glass of water.”

That immediately wiped her smile off and, with a quick glance over at Sir Satan, she set the pitcher down and walked out without another word, just short of slamming the door. The long-horned daemon chuckles at this as he hands me a glass, then laughs heartily when I bypass it and drink straight from the pitcher.

“My my, you would have thought that once being a princess would have given you some manners,” he tsks.

I roll my eyes and take one last huge gulp before setting the half empty pitcher down, wiping my face with my sleeve just to spite him.

“So who am I going to be this time?” I ask, now able to think clearly.

My only answer was a devilish grin.

ch.4
17 years later....

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

I race across the school grounds, avoiding skaters and pushing through groups of teens with a couple of jocks close on my tail. Their yells seem to becoming closer as I barge through the school doors, nearly crashing into a kissing couple. I ignore the “no running” yells behind me by angered teachers and book it even faster when hearing the squeaks of tennis shoes. Turning sharply down a hall, I spy an open door and rush inside. I close it with a light slam and crouch down, ear pressed against the door. Once I’m sure no one noticed me coming in, I breath out in relief and notice soft music coming from an adjoined room.

‘Guess this is the music room.’

I check the time and, noticing there’s ten minutes until class starts, decide to check it out. Peeking through the doorway, I see some guy playing a cello; he’s hunched over with his eyes shut tight as he plays with such intensity and expression. I watch as he fingers glide over the instrument, making beautiful music that captivates and pulls me into the room. I’m in such a trance that I don’t even notice that I’m about three feet away or that he had stopped playing and was staring at me. I did notice, however, when he spoke.

“Huh?” I ask, confused.

“I said, ‘get out,’” the boy repeats looking annoyed.