Chapter 1: Before The Storm.
Celestine POV
The sea never cared who you were. It never lied either. It swallowed secrets, spat out dirt, and kept rolling in different rhythms. It was honest in a way that people were.
I stood at the edge of Perrysilvia Bay, my toes buried in the cold, wet sand as the waves of the water licked my ankles like hungry tongues. My long black hair swiped across my face in the salty wind, but I didn't bother to push it away. My sketchbook was in my hands as I hugged it closer to my chest. My pages were filled with paintings and charcoal strokes of fractured faces. I looked down to see my reflection as the sea flowed beneath my toes. I saw the calm figure of myself, yet violent underneath.
Growing up in this decaying artistic quarter, where artists chased glory, and creditors chased debts. I let out a soft sigh. Life has taught me one hard truth: that love was a lie. A lot of people are telling themselves that one word just to survive bruises. My mother's quiet endurance has been a lesson enough.
"I wish I were like you...
" I murmured as I studied the sea. Some dreams don't come true.
I let out a gentle smile.
"But maybe wishes.”
"Celestine!" My mother's voice came louder than I expected all the way from the wooden house. I exhaled softly, picking up my brush.
"Coming!" I say out loud.
"Come inside, my love; it is getting dark, and the studio is waiting, "She continued.
The sea was so vast, it felt like fate to follow it. But I know one day I would.
The fragrance of oil paint and lavender filled the house when I stepped inside. It always had. And there she was, the only treasure in my life, my mother. I found her by the window, the dim ray of sunlight reflecting on her as she worked on a canvas. Her delicate fingers moved with quiet grace; each strike was deliberate and controlled. She didn't rush; she never did.
“You have fire in your blood, Celestine, "She would say.
“But paint it before it burns you alive.”
That made me chuckle a bit as I remembered her words.
“Late again,” she said without looking at me, though I could see the smile on her face.
“I wasn't late, Mom,” I replied, leaning against the wall after dropping my sketchbook at the table next to her.
“I was motivated," I said. She hummed softly.
“Inspired by the sea again.”
“Well, am I not? " I asked.
A laugh escaped her mouth. She finally turned to look at me.
“Come here,” she said.
I walked over to her, standing beside her as she handed me a brush.
“Your lines were shaky yesterday,” she said softly.
“Show me you have practiced.”
I rolled my eyes slightly but took the brush from her anyway.
“You say that every time."
"And every time, you prove me right or wrong,” she concluded.
I shifted my gaze to the canvas. As I tried to stay focused.
“Relax your wrist,” she murmured, guiding my hand lightly.
I inhaled slowly, doing as she said. The stroke came out smoother.
“Don’t fight it. Let it flow.”
“Better,” she said.
Her hand assisted mine for a moment before she spoke again.“Celestine…no matter what happens,” she said quietly, "or what is meant to be yours from you.”
“Never let anyone take your will.” I nodded firmly while concentrating on the drawing.
Then suddenly the door slammed open. The sound cut through the air like a gunshot. I went still for a moment as my mother's hand stiffened against mine. And just like that, the peace was shattered. The smell of alcohol hit me first. It was bitter and suffocating.
Then his footsteps followed.
“Victoria!” my father's voice broke from the entrance.
“Where the hell are you?!” he said sharply. My chest tightened.
Mother slowly released her hand from mine; her expression changed from a happy face to a gloomy face.
“I'm here,” she called, her voice steady despite the tension.
He stepped into the room a second later, almost losing his stance.
Elias Moreau. My father.
His eyes were red, like he didn't get enough sleep; his shirt was wrinkled; and there was something in the way he looked around the room, as if he didn't quite recognize where he was. His gaze landed on the table. It was empty. His expression darkened immediately.
“You didn't cook.
"Where is dinner?” he snapped, his voice thick; at the same time, it
stinks from the smell of alcohol. He staggered.
“I break my back hauling cargo all day for scraps, and you can’t even have my plantain and stew ready? What kind of wife are you?”
Mother slowly wiped her hands on her apron.
“Elias, you didn't tell me you were coming home.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you!” he roared, slamming his hand against the table so hard it
rattled.
“You’re my wife! What else are you here for?!”
“I can have it ready in twenty minutes. Please, sit…
”He cuts in.
“Twenty minutes?” he laughed.
“You and your damn paints, always dreaming while I paid the price.”
“Father, please stay calm; I will set the table,” I told him.
Then he scoffed.
“Stay out of this.”
“Please,” Mother said softly.
“I can make something now.”
“Now! After I've been out there all day dealing with…” he paused. Something flickered in his eyes. Like fear, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by anger. But I saw it.
“Dealing with what?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn't say anything. He was so full in his drunken state.
Then, there was a knock at the front door. It was sharp and commanding, slicing through the chaos. My father froze completely. Slowly, he turned his head toward the door. And for the first time in my life. I saw pure terror in his eyes.
“They are here,” he whispered.
The knock came again, and it was louder this time. Whoever waited on the other side wasn't ready for an ideal conversation.
Father took a step back, his face turned pale, and I could see his hands trembling. The door handle began to turn, but it stopped drastically. My breath seized for a moment.
“If I didn't pay…” he continued, his voice unsteady.
“They’d take something far more valuable," he whispered under his breath.
And in that moment, I knew something big we couldn't control was about to set in.
