Secret Heritage

Beautiful, unparalleled , deadly 'creatures' are ruled By the unbreakable Loratalia and have done so since the start of time. Loratalia was strong, but one small mistake on an April morning, for just one moment, for the tiniest weeniest fraction of a second, she let her guard down.
Loratalia fell in love.
Now she has a secret, a secret so scary and dangerous, so poisonous and destructive, it threatens to crumble the entire structure and beauty of her society. When the secret is let loose, others will stop at nothing to tear it apart...

Ilse is an exceptionally talented, lonely seventeen year old girl. She lives with her horrible uncle and step aunt and two unpleasant cousins. However, one February morning her world caves in and suddenly, she finds herself questioning her very existence.
When two worlds collide, Ilse will have to decide what is real and what is an illusion.


2. So very far away

A small spider tiptoed across the aged wooden beams of her attic bedroom. A silvery trail of web was draped over the beams like a veil and the dim, yellowed light cast a large menacing shadow of the small innocent creature on the whitewashed walls. Ilse stared at the thing, almost hypnotised by it. Her eyes began to burn and water, so she looked away. She lay on her small bed in the corner of the room starring around at her things. A rickety old turquoise chest sat in one corner, full to the brim with her clothes, shoes and discarded toys. An old mirror in another corner showed the reflection of a  blue eyed seventeen year old girl curled on her side, her long white blonde splayed on her pillow, her purposeful, pianist fingers fingering a silver bangle that she always wore. A white rug lay in the centre of the room. On it were pictures, hundreds of them, scattered randomly on the floor. The pictures were of blooming blossoms, flying eagles, tiny mushrooms, baby blackbirds, huge cork trees, ancient oaks and shimmering rivers. This beautiful selection of photographs was her family. Each one represented a feeling, a time a place. This was because Ilse was the one that had taken them. She loved photography. She would wait hours in the middle of deserted forests, waiting for the right bird to come. Walk for miles in search of the perfect river. Ilse had a gift. But not just in photography.

Paintings of flowers and hedgehogs and fields and trinkets and teapots covered her walls, each with a faint scrawl of Ilse in the bottom left hand corner. Song sheets and guitar music sat stacked up in scruffy piles next to a worn and battered guitar. A pile of A* essays were folded neatly on her ancient woodworm infected deck along with countless beautiful drawings. A small leather notebook was clutched in Ilse’s other hand. She opened it. Scribbles and sketches covered the pages, all slightly different but all possessing something that made them similar, like siblings or birds.  She ran her finger lightly over her sketch of a face of women. Her eyes were deep and dark; her long hair swirled around her waist as she turned around. Her face was blank and her mouth a thin line. As Ilse looked at the picture, a sour feeling of dislike and anger started to churn in her stomach and her eyes subconsciously narrowed. Her eyebrows knitted together and she brought her book closer to her head. The woman stared back, un-moving her features resembling those of a stone.

“Maybe you ought to get some glasses, bat piss.” Stacy’s voice made Ilse jump about about a foot in the air. Her heart sank when she realized that Stacy had seen her book. Fumbling slightly, she pushed the fat notebook under her pillow.

Her cousin sneered at her from the doorway and gestured to the book.

“That your deepest darkest secrets in there?” She said in a voice you might use to talk to a small child. Ilse contemplated what to say back. Stacy’s eyes were cold and threatening. Ilse noticed she was wearing Aunt Caroline’s lipstick.

“Well?” She snapped, her high scratchy voice penetrating the peace of Ilse’s bedroom.

“No.” Ilse whispered, trying not to avert her gaze from Stacy’s eyes.

“No?” She sneered, taking a step further into the room. “You know what?” She hissed.

Ilse said nothing.

“Well, I think you’re lying, Iles.” With a triumphant face, she strolled into the room, fiddling with stuff and kicking away the photographs. Stacy selected one from the pile.

“What’s this supposed to be?” She sniggered, flapping about a picture of a particularly interesting Fungus. Iles frowned.

“It’s called devil’s cigar.” She replied immediately. Stacy snorted.

“Well, I’d bet a wart infested creature like you have those growing all over your ickle feet.” The baby voice was beginning to really irritate her.

“Look, Stacy, if you don’t have anything interesting to speak to me abo-“

“Don’t get sarcy with me bat piss.” Stacy’s eyes were suddenly dark. She, being stood up, loomed over Ilse, blocking out the light and invading what little privacy Ilse had. Her perfume was strong and unpleasant and already it seemed to have replaced all the fresh oxygen in the room.

Stacy grinned wickedly at her cousin and reached a large hand down to Ilse’s neck. She held it loosely.

“You listen to me slime ball, I could squash you and your little, weak insignificant mother with one hand.” Stacy’s hand holding Ilse’s neck tightened and shook. A dark pleasure crossed her face and Ilse suddenly became afraid. She weakly scrabbled at Stacy’s hand and kicked her with her feet.. Her awkward position, lying down, just enabled Stacy to gain the advantage. She pushed Ilse’s head hard back down on the bed and squeezed a little tighter. Ilse was finding it difficult to breath, her throat gasped for air and odd sounds erupted from her mouth.

“Stacy,” She gasped, “Please.”

Stacy only laughed.

“Think you can waltz about, with your pretty little head high in the clouds taking pictures of lady birds and rainbows?” She taunted.“Well, this just proves something doesn’t it?” Stacy said shaking her victim to highlight her strength.“This proves that you will do as I say, because I am better, I matter more than you.” The ugly grimance on her face eased into a taunting smile.

Ilse felt a surge of anger. Anger at her mother for leaving her in this hell hole, angry at herself for letting this happen, angry at her aunt Caroline for making Stacy bitter, but most of all she was angry at being taken advantage of.

And right then, Stacy happened to be the exploiter.

Bad luck Stacy.

Stacy barely had time to widen her eyes in shock. With a new found strength that blazed white hot with an anger far out of Ilse’s control, she slammed her feet into Stacy’s stomach. She unclenched Ile’s throat and fell back, doubling over. Iles’s sprung up and launched her self at the girl who was just regaining her balance. Slamming her hard against the door frame, Ile’s held Stacy’s throat just as she had done to the absolute limit. Stacy choked and her eyes watered. She reminded Iles of a deer running from predators.

“Be careful ickle one,” Ilse's voice was hard and her eyes were like black fire,“We wouldn't want you getting hurt.” Stacy struggled but it was useless against Iles’s iron grip. Her face was turning blue.

“Sor-ry” Stacy managed to choke out, the whites of her eyes had gone frantic like an animal’s.

Abruptly, Ilse released Stacy and took two steps back, crashing into the bed frame as she did so. Stacy coughed and clutched her throat, her eyes terrified. Weakly, she scrambled for the door knob, her eyes never leaving Ilse's, who stood dumbfounded, her hands shaking with adrenalin. 

"Freak." Gasped Stacy. 

Ilse couldn't respond, she was having trouble breathing let alone getting her brain to construct a response and then deliver it audibly to Stacy. But Stacy didn't wait for Ilse to speak; she fled from the room, her breathing heavy and husky, a soft whimper escaping from her lips as she heavily thudded down the worn wooden stair case outside of Ilse's bedroom. 

Ilse sank to the floor, shock humming in her wired body. Stacy's face flashed in her mind, her eyes wide and bulging, like white marbles. Ilse's limbs shook, her muscles burned. 

What was happening to her? 

She could have squeezed harder, she could have stopped Stacy breathing. The thought was terrifying, and so not what Ilse would normally do that Ilse let her head drop to her hands. Sprawled on the floor, Ilse felt like a wounded animal, with noone but herself to lick her wounds. 




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