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Description
        In a large house in the woods just north of London, England there sat a young girl in a black dress on her bed.  Her cheeks were stained with tears and her blue eyes were red and puffy.  The girl’s hair was  down, very neatly laying on her neck and back, extending past halfway down her back.  Her name was Celest.

“Why me?” she whimpered in an incredibly thick British accent.

Indeed, the past month had not been overly kind to the fifteen year old.  She had just some weks ago been told that she was a mutant (about this time, she had also dyed her hair white, which to her dismay required re-dying weekly to maintain—she intended to find a more permanent solution later), and now, just as she had been coming to terms with the fact that she was now and always would be different, her mother had died in a plane crash.

If that weren’t enough to try most teenagers though, the girl could hardly grieve her mother in any way that could mean anything to the young girl.  No—she had to play the saddened young lady for everyone around her, especially her father.

Young Celest Mowbray was the child of two young, upper class British citizens.  Her father was a well known surgeon, her mother a graceful socialite from a popular family.

Without warning or prompt, her head slammed into one of her pillows as she creamed in outrage, or perhaps defiance.  Either one would surely have been met poorly by her father and family, were it ever seen by them.  Of course, it never would.

Celest rolled over, tears streaming down her face.  As she tried to calm herself down, the air in her room began moving gently, lifting a few papers from her desk and playing with her long hair and dress.

After several minutes of lying on her bed and feeling the wind against her evenly tanned skin, Celest stood and wiped the tears from her cheeks.  First smoothing out her dress, she walked over to her door and exited the room.

Closing the door behind her, Celest walked down a flight of stairs.  She uninterestedly gazed at a long room filled with roughly two dozen adults, mostly dressed in black, scattered across the room with a slightly larger group around her mother’s ccoffin.

Celest’s expression was calm with a very slight frown and crest fallen eyes.  The fifteen year old English girl descended the stairs slowly.

When she reached the bottom of the flight, Celest began walking slowly to the other end of the room, towards her mother.  As she walked, she ignored the many looks and stares.  Being the only child of her parents, she commanded an almost unlimited amount of pity.  She wanted absolutely none of it.

After what seemed to be hours of stares and whispers, she reached the casket.  The small number of people there moved to either side of her to let her see her mother.  Celest stepped forward, looking down at her mother’s face.

“I love you mum,” Celest said in the quietest of whispers and added in thought, ‘and I’ll make you proud.’