The Social Divide

Lysanda picked up the duster from her collection of items and began to clean the windows of the drawing room. Thinking about the decision she would have to make, she let out a sigh. She thought about her previous life, before she had become a grotesque. Nobody tended to remember their past lives; they said he reason grotesques lost all colour in their eyes, hair and skin was because they lost their identity, their very existence, but nobody knew how.

But Lysanda could remember some things. Not all of it was very clear, in fact most memories where like being underwater with your eyes open; blurry, smudged and your eyes beginning to hurt if you look to long. Lysanda's eyelids shut and she thought hard, resurfacing some of these vague memories. She remembered distinctly she'd had red hair; not a florescent orange, but a soft autumnal red. She couldn't remember her eye colour though. Lysanda had a memory of a purple velvet and lace dress, so obviously she'd been from a pretty wealthy family. She had memories of a sunny summer afternoon full of roses and scents, a large lady with too many floral shawls who always smelt like apple pies and feminine perfume and of a boy with large hazel eyes.

Warm breath on her neck brought Lysanda back to reality. "You looked so at peace, grotesque, you where almost pretty." Finnian whispered, lips nearly touching Lysanda's ear. Lysanda stiffened, placed a fake smile on her face and turned around.

"How may I help you sir?" she asked sweetly, through gritted teeth.

Finnian swept his dark brown hair away from his forehead, a look of contempt on his face. "Just servant watching. It's quite popular nowadays. Not that a lowly grotesque would know of such things." he replied complacently, his voice snide and cruel, top lip curled.

"Well then, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get on with my work please. Sir." Lysanda said, placing emphasis on the last word.

"Well what if I did mind?" he replied back, authority in his voice.

Lysanda turned and continued to clean anyway but his large hand grabbed her wrist, forcing her to turn and face him.

"What's your name grotesque?" he murmured quietly, leaning forward. "Well?"

"It's...it's Lysanda." she replied, uncertainty in her voice.

"Don't look so scared Lysanda. I'm not in the mood for punishing you anymore today. I know you're different, Lysanda, be wise about who you talk to."

"What do you mean?" Lysanda questioned.

"The revolution, Lysanda. Just because I'm rich and a normal and you think I live a pompous, frivolous life, doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. The others are merely sheep, but you can think for yourself. That's not always a good thing, Lysanda. Be wise." Finnian explained.

"Finnian! The guests have arrived." Finnian's mother hollered.

Finnian smirked, returning to his horrible self.

"Now grotesque, what happened in this room, stays in this room. If you spill, I might just pay you a night-time visit. But I'm sure you won't, because you're a smart girly, and you do as you're told." he snapped before turning on his heel and leaving.

"Lysie!" Hermida called, running into the room. "The housekeeper wants you to be a lunch time attendant." she explained between breaths.

But Lysanda wasn't paying attention. Her thoughts where elsewhere, thinking about Finnian. It seemed as thought he had a soft side to some degree. Almost like he cared about her. But Finnian had always been unnecessarily cruel to her, since she arrived, so why would he start to be kind now? Even if he tried to hide it with violent actions

"Hello? Earth to Lysie!" Hermida snapped.

"Oh what? Sorry." Lysanda apologised.

"The housekeeper wants you to attend to the guests in the lunchroom. So go. Quickly." Hermida replied, little patience in her voice.

"Oh right. Thanks Hermida." Lysanda replied, hurrying off.

"I told you to call me Hermi." Hermida grumbled after her. She knew Lysanda was an oddity, even as a grotesque, she knew they weren't supposed to be like that. Lysanda had memories but Hermida felt like that wasn't the only strange thing that was happening to Lysanda. Oh well. If she wanted to share it, she'd share it. Hermida wasn't the clingy, grabby friend. That was Apollinia.

At that moment, Apollinia steeped trough the room. "Speak of the devil." muttered Hermida.

"Come on Hermida. Cooks made us cabbage stew again for lunch, and we'd best get it over with." Apollinia stated.

"I thought I told you to call me Hermi." Hermida said, elbowing Apollinia.

"Oh what ever." Apollinia said back, a ghost of smile on her lips.

Reviews

[cbritto6]

Your pacing is better in this one and I don't see any important style or structural errors. So grotesques have no color in their features? Is that the only thing that separates them or will you include more information in the future chapters?
I'll keep reading, keep it up!

[Maddi]

Well this book is based of the segregation of black people during the 1700s/1800s. But only loosely based of the events that happened. (:

[Sean Cairns]

The pacing is much better here, the transitions between tense and casual are much more subtle. Also, I'm glad you included that context about the differences between normals and grotesque. Just a small gripe, but I think if normals are so up themselves, they would probably just call themselves 'normal' as opposed to 'a normal', it just makes them sound like they think they're more human than grotesques.

[Maddi]

Them being more human then the 'grotesques' is kind of the point.