Within the Lies

*Lullaby of Woe- Ashley Serena_Playing But one soul lies anxious Wide awake Fearing all manner of Ghouls, Hags and Wraiths For you Dolly Polly Sleep has flown Don't dare let her Tremble alone For the witches heartless, cold paid in coin of gold He comes, He'll go leave naught behind but heartache and woe deep, deep woe.. "Goodnight my dear Cersie," Mrs. Laurier murmured, her voice thick with a love that felt both fierce and fragile. She leaned down, inhaling the sweet scent of her daughter's hair, and pressed a lingering kiss to her soft forehead. "Goodnight, Mama," Cersie mumbled sleepily, her small hand instinctively reaching up to touch Laurier's cheek before settling back onto her beloved stuffed unicorn. In the quiet darkness of her room, Mrs. Laurier closed her eyes for a moment, silently wishing her daughter's dreams were filled with all the innocent joys a child deserved – a world painted in bright colors, where she felt utterly safe and cherished, a dream that would keep her heart buoyant and filled with a simple, untroubled contentment. Just like any normal seven-year-old growing up in a City, Cersie often dreamt of simple adventures. She'd excitedly recount her nighttime journeys: of the two of them navigating the vastness of a big airplane, her small face pressed against the imaginary window, her eyes wide with a wonder that mirrored Mrs. Laurier's own longing for a life beyond their small apartment. And always woven into those innocent narratives was her persistent little quest – to find her father, the ghost of a man who had drifted out of their lives when she was barely walking, leaving a void she couldn't quite understand but instinctively felt. While Angie was lost in the untroubled landscape of her slumber, the reality outside her bedroom door was silently, brutally fracturing. A burglar, a faceless menace driven by greed or desperation, had somehow breached the flimsy security of their home, their presence a cold, malevolent intrusion into their small sanctuary in their Valley. They moved with a terrifying, efficient silence, each footstep a violation, each opened drawer a tear in the fabric of their safety. Furniture toppled with muffled thuds, the contents of their meager possessions spilling onto the worn linoleum floor like unwanted confessions. Yet, behind the thin wooden door of her room, Angie slept on, the rhythmic rise and fall of her small chest the only sound in her peaceful world. Perhaps it was the old white noise machine Mrs. Laurier always kept running, its gentle hum a familiar lullaby that usually chased away the shadows of the night. Tonight, it served as an unwitting barrier, a fragile shield against a far more sinister sound. By the time a primal instinct, a mother's sixth sense screaming of danger, jolted Mrs. Laurier awake, the living room was a scene of violent disarray. The pale moonlight, filtering through the grimy window, glinted off the jagged edges of shattered glass – remnants of Mrs. Laurier's grandmother's favorite vase and the cheap picture frames holding snapshots of Cersie's toothy grins. Papers, bills Mrs. Laurier struggled to pay, and Cersie's crayon drawings were ripped and scattered like fallen leaves caught in a sudden storm. Cherished family photos, the few tangible links to a past Cersie barely knew, were torn in half, their smiling faces fragmented and lost. The air hung heavy with a chilling stillness, a suffocating silence that spoke volumes of the violence that had transpired. Then, Mrs. Laurier's eyes found her daughter. Her breath hitched in her throat, a silent, agonizing scream trapped within the confines of her chest. Cersie's small form lay unnaturally still amidst the scattered debris, her usually bright, inquisitive eyes closed, an alarming, ashen pallor washing over her delicate features. A dark, viscous stain bloomed on the worn-out rug beneath her, spreading like a grotesque, macabre flower. Mrs. Laurier's world tilted on its axis, the familiar, comforting boundaries of their small apartment in the City dissolving into a horrifying, inescapable nightmare. The distant wail of police sirens grew steadily louder, their mournful cry slicing through the oppressive silence, yet the sound felt strangely muffled, as if it belonged to another reality. As the uniformed officers moved through the wreckage, their hushed voices and grave expressions confirmed the unspeakable truth. A burglar. A brutal, senseless encounter. And Mrs. Laurier's sweet, innocent Cersie... gone. Stolen from her in the dead of night, here in the very place where Laurier had always tried to keep her safe. The innocent dreams of navigating airplanes and embarking on a hopeful search for her elusive father lay irrevocably shattered, just like the fragments of glass scattered across the floor. The perfect, untroubled world Mrs. Laurier had so desperately wished for her daughter in her peaceful sleep had been brutally, irrevocably ripped away by a cruel, random act. In the raw, gaping emptiness that had once been her heart, a new, agonizing goal took root, fueled by a grief so profound it threatened to consume her: to find the person who had done this, who had dared to steal her precious Cersie from her, and to make them answer for their monstrous act. The innocent yearning to find Cersie's runaway father was now tragically, irrevocably overshadowed by a burning, all-consuming quest for justice, for retribution for her murdered child. This single, horrific night had irrevocably altered the course of Mrs. Laurier's life, painting her future, and perhaps even Angie's precious memory, in stark, unforgiving shades of inconsolable grief and a relentless, unwavering desire for vengeance. The quiet streets of their City suddenly felt menacing, the safety Mrs. Laurier had once taken for granted, a cruel illusion. *My Jolly Sailor Bold- Ashley Serena_Playing My name it is Maria, a merchant's daughter fair And I have left my parents and three thousand pounds a year Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be Who love a jolly sailor that ploughs the raging sea While up aloft in storm, from me his absence mourn And firmly pray, arrive the day, he's never more to roam My heart is pierced by Cupid I disdain all glittering gold There is nothing can console me But my jolly sailor bold "Amazing voice as always, Miss Laurier." A deep voice from one of the corner of the room halted her from singing. Cersie Hart Laurier, a talented, hard working woman in her 20's with attractive appearance and angelic voice. A woman catches everyone attention by just walking at the corridor of their office, a head turner woman indeed like they said. "I didn't know that you can sing, Miss Laurier." he said. She just stared at him and walk towards the door. "Wait, Miss!" as he stopped her. "Indeed you have a good voice. I hear it all the time from every meeting but I just didn't expect you to be this good." he explained. She was pissed because of shock and the fact that the guy who heard her singing was the last person she wants to hear her singing. He's Thorn, Cersie's colleague from Administrative office, a man with a few words but look at him now, being talkative and feeling close to her. "Thank you" I flatly replied. I just want to get out of here, talking to him was draining my energy. I need to leave. I don't hate him, I just cant stand his presence. Thorn was the most self-contained person I ever known in my life and his presence screams danger. Being with this young man in a close room, just the two of us, is not good for my mind and well-being. Rumors of him having a wild s*x life was one of my red flag on him, though even if it's just a rumor, still sometimes rumors hides truth. Her hand was already on the cold doorknob, a silent promise of escape. But his words, surprisingly complimentary despite the awkward circumstances, had snagged her for a moment. Now, the lingering echo of his voice felt like a physical restraint in the small, soundproofed room. She finally turned, her expression carefully neutral, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within. "Is there something else, Mr. Thorn?" she asked, her voice cool and detached, hoping to reinstate the professional distance he seemed so eager to breach. He took a step closer, and the air in the room seemed to thicken. His usual guarded demeanor had melted away, replaced by an unsettlingly open curiosity. "Just that... it was truly impressive, Miss Laurier. You have a gift." His gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. A shiver traced its way down her spine. It wasn't the compliment itself, but the intensity behind it, the unexpected chattiness from someone so notoriously taciturn. It felt like a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle tremor before an earthquake. "Thank you," she repeated, the word feeling brittle on her tongue. She tightened her grip on the doorknob. "If that's all..." "It's just... I never would have guessed," he continued, oblivious or perhaps intentionally disregarding her clear desire to leave. "You always seem so... reserved. Focused on your work." Focused on avoiding you, she thought, the unspoken words sharp and bitter. "People have different sides to them, Mr. Thorn," she said, keeping her tone even with a conscious effort. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." She began to turn towards the door again, but he took another step, closing the small gap between them. The scent of his cologne, a subtle and musky aroma she'd never noticed before, filled her nostrils. It was another unwelcome intrusion. "Just one more thing," he said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming softer, almost conspiratorial. "That song... it sounded... sad." The unexpected observation caught her off guard. It was true, the melody she'd been absentmindedly practicing was a melancholic one. But how could he tell? Had he truly been listening that intently, not just to the sound, but to the emotion behind it? Her carefully constructed composure wavered. This was exactly what she wanted to avoid – any form of personal connection with this man. His quiet intensity made her feel exposed, vulnerable. "It's just a song, Mr. Thorn," she said, her voice a little sharper this time, a warning. "Now, please let me leave." He didn't move, his gaze still fixed on her, a strange mixture of fascination and something else she couldn't quite decipher. The rumors about his personal life flashed through her mind again, unbidden and unwelcome. The casual whispers of fleeting encounters, the air of self-assuredness that seemed to hint at a hidden, perhaps even dangerous, confidence. The small room felt smaller, the silence punctuated only by the frantic thumping of her own heart. She needed to get out. Now. "Miss Laurier," he began again, his voice low and persuasive, "perhaps... perhaps we could talk more about this sometime? Outside of work?" That was it. The final straw. The casual invitation, the blatant disregard for professional boundaries, the way his eyes seemed to linger just a little too long. The danger signals in her mind went into overdrive. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Thorn," she said firmly, her hand finally turning the doorknob. "Good day." She pulled the door open and practically fled, the image of his intense gaze burning into her back. The cool air of the hallway was a welcome relief, but the unsettling encounter lingered, a dark cloud in the bright morning. She hurried towards her own office, the need for the familiar safety of her own space a powerful urge. She had to tell Angie about this. Angie, who always seemed to have a read on people, especially Thorn. Maybe Angie could shed some light on his sudden, unnerving interest. And maybe, just maybe, Angie could help her ensure it didn't happen again.