Why?

Prologue I was unusually happy that day – the day that everything changed. I remember every fragment of it. Everything, from what I ate for breakfast to what I wore. It was permanently etched into my mind. And what I remember most clearly was that I was very happy. So overjoyed, that I all but skipped home from college. This was very surprising and not at all expected; especially because of all the turmoil occurring in my home life. The main reason I was so content could have been because of school. It was like my refuge, a place where I could escape. Escape my family and the place I called home. Anyone would have noticed it, even the dim-witted. All you had to do was step into my household. You could immediately sense the tension. The long bouts of silence ensuing between my parents, or otherwise the hectic, frightening rows that carried on long into the night. However, even though all this was noticeable, I didn’t know exactly where the tension was coming from. Was it marriage issues, financial problems, petty disagreements? My questions were never answered. Often I thought maybe I myself was the cause. I had been getting into a lot of trouble lately, getting into one too many scrapes. But I really didn’t know how I could have prevented them. I had a tendency to get angry over slight things, a problem I was not in denial about. All I knew for certain however was that I walked like a pariah in my own home, the heavy air laced with anxiety weighing me down. So yes, college was like my safe harbour. To be totally honest, college wasn’t what I particularly enjoyed. I only had to follow that pretence so that I could get myself into a good music university. An education was the only thing between me and my dream to be a famous musician. But I did work hard. I was liked. I had amazing friends, who made me laugh every second. And that very day, we had so much fun it was all but overwhelming. On the way home, my legs burned happily from my after school workout at kick boxing club – I had taken up that elective after I’d noticed all the scrapes I’d been getting myself into. It helped me forget all the issues in my life as well as boosting my confidence and teaching me a few handy tricks. I’d sincerely hoped that nothing could have damped my high-spirited mood. It was a nice alternative to the depression filled atmosphere I was stuck with every afternoon. But as I stepped into the house that day, and saw my mother’s face streaked with tears, sobbing noiselessly, my heart fell. She stood outside the closed living room door, evidently eavesdropping. Her face held a look of absolute exhaustion, dark rings of purple underlying her usually bright green eyes. Her figure also seemed impossibly frail, hunched in on its self. My heart melted at the sight of her. But I knew, from experience, that there was nothing I could do to help. I silently put away my jacket and bag and made my way to my room, my chest aching from the sadness emanating from her. I wanted to get out of the way; the last thing I wanted was to become involved. My father’s ordering voice behind the closed door of the living room stopped me in my tracks. “Renee, is that Aliyah? Bring her in here will you?!” The authority in his voice was unobjectionable. My mother looked up at me. The chilling look in her eyes scared me right down to my core. I saw anger, frustration, hurt and sadness, and last of all: sympathy. She slowly beckoned me forward. Every instinct told me to run the other way, but I had no choice. I gradually made my way to the door and stood there motionless staring at the handle. I didn’t know what to expect. Beside me, my mother let out a jagged sigh and proceeded to open the door herself. Then, with little pressure she pushed me into the room. The first thing I noticed was my father. He looked clean. His hair combed, his shirt tucked into his trousers. This was completely different to his usual lifestyle. He was not wearing creased, torn clothes. Nor was he slouched on the recliner. He sat uncomfortably on one of the soft cushioned seats, his posture impeccably straight. He would have seemed like an entirely different person if it wasn’t for his uncontrollable fidgeting. He was squirming in his seat, fraught with tension, looking directly at a grey haired man, sitting opposite him. It was around that time that I registered the other men in the room. The two men had their gazes fixed on me. The grey-haired man, looked to be in his fifties, and was suited up. He was clean-cut all the way through, from his trimmed hair to his polished shoes. His stare was not frightening but neither was it pleasant. His chiselled features sat rigid and firm, radiating a profound sense of bitterness and coldness from his being. My body seemed to sense something awfully wrong from that moment, its frame vibrating slightly. The other person, evidently the older guy’s son, was young. Probably in his early twenties. He wore a body hugging olive green sweater with black jeans. They hinted at designer. His soft hazel eyes bore into mine with an intensity that took my breath away. He didn’t show any other emotion on his face, yet I felt no menace from him. He was exceptionally good looking, and I felt uncomfortable in my sweaty clothes. The grey haired man spoke then, in a deep voice, and my attention was drawn to him. “Hello, you must be the lovely Aliyah we have been hearing so much about. My name is Eric Dalton and this is my son Tyler. It is such a pleasure to finally be able to meet you.” He uttered, standing up and extending his hand. His introduction sounded off. As if the words were rehearsed. The kindness in his voice was completely fabricated. I furrowed my brow in confusion. I had a very bad feeling about this. I stood frozen, making no move to accept his hand. After a tense second, he dropped it back to his side and sat down. My father cleared his throat audibly. “Aliyah, Mr Dalton is here to ask for your hand in marriage to his son Tyler Dalton. And I, as your father and main guardian, have agreed.”