Chapter 1 - This World

         “How many more times do I have to say the same thing? Turn down that damn noise you call music! We can hear it all the way downstairs! Are you even listening to me, young lady?”

         The barrier of a wooden door painted black and the entrancing tones of synthesized music separated mother from daughter. The older of the two stood on her side of the world, arms crossed in defiance in front of her. She waited for a reply or a diminishment of the thumping clamor, but she received neither. Instead it seemed the volume rose to a higher, floor-shaking level.

         “I’m not playing around! Turn it down! I’m going to be talking to your father when he gets home! We’re both fed up with your behavior! Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

         All Zaliana, or Za for short, could hear was the dark voice and lyrics of Jens Kästel and the grasping thoughts within her mind. She lay on her stomach, her legs sprawled out to the end of her bed, and her head rested on her clasped hands. A notebook sat before her, the pages blank. They called to her with a seductive siren’s song, but she merely stared at the void.

         The room around her looked like a wild storm had come through and left a layer of black cloud behind. Posters and black-and-white photos covered all the dark walls, giving the surroundings an eerie, ghastly appearance. Strange images with cold names like Bella Morte, Type O Negative, and Rasputina hung overhead and throughout like the titles of ancient Gods. A dresser covered most of a window, blocking the outside world. The burnt remains of stick of incense teetered over the edge of the top of the dresser cluttered with papers and clothing. A computer desk sat up against the wall near her bed. A statue of a pale, gaunt figure on a black throne sat like a guardian on top of her monitor, watching the room like some sort of reigning king.

         As if inspiration suddenly struck a chord with the change of song pumping from her stereo, Za grabbed her pen and jabbed the blank page. She scribbled something in the center of the page but was interrupted by an urgent smashing against her door.

         “Zaliana Lynn Moore, you open this door right this second!”

         The voice had changed. Za knew things would be different than when dealing with her mother. She let the pen drop into the crease between the two halves of the open notebook and lurched up from her bed toward the door. Her hand fell reluctantly on the knob and turned the lock.

         The door opened almost immediately, and he marched in with the air of an angry drill sergeant. He towered over her by nearly a foot and stared down at Za through a pair of narrow-framed glasses. He hadn’t even had the time to drop off his briefcase, which hung down by his side from his left arm. An irritated exhaustion pulled at his face, twisting his lips into a dissatisfied frown. Za knew the words that were about to follow by heart.

         “Za, will you for once in your life listen to your mother? We’re both tired of going through this with you. I’ve had a long day at the office, and for once I’d like to come home to a quiet house without the ceiling about us trembling and your mother shouting complaints about how you refuse to show her any respect!” Much like the incense on her dresser, her father’s voice seemed to balance on the edge between rage and defeat. When Za refused to answer, he dipped his toe into the pool of built-up anger. “And turn off that depressing music! It’s like techno for the clinically depressed!”

         Oh, that certainly did it. She wanted nothing more than to scream in his face. Goth music being referred to as techno? It was a disgrace and insult to the beauty and truth of the music’s soul. Of course, she could never explain that to an outsider – he’d never understand.

         “I’ll tell you one more time,” he grunted through clenched teeth. The vein in his forehead, his signature trademark of frustration, became visible and throbbed to the tune of the stereo. “Turn down that music.”

         Defiance rose in the back of her throat for a moment, but she quickly swallowed it back down again. Moving with mechanical steps and gestures, she went to her stereo and turned the large volume knob sharply to the left. The protective cloud of her music faded to a whispering mist.

         The vein subsided with the music. Clearing his throat, Za’s father turned away toward the stairs. Stopping, he called back without turning around, “Dinner will be ready in about a half hour.” With all the formalities of the day behind him, he stomped down the stairs into his world of monotony.

         Za wasted no time slamming her door and rushing into the small bathroom attached to her room. Planting both hands like supports on her sink, she stared ahead of her into the mirror. A pretty, young face stared back at her. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t get her blood-red lips to curl anywhere but down. The dark make-up around her emerald eyes appeared smeared, leaving a black like from a fallen tear. She teached for her make-up bag, but her hand froze an inch from its grasp. Instead she ran it through her short, spiked hair. A thought floated into her mind. What would I look like with long hair? How many years had it been? It was some time back when her locks were still a dazzling golden and she never had to fight to find her smile. How many years?

         A ringing sound drove her from her daze. It took a moment to realize what it was, and she hurried back into her room to the cell phone sitting near her computer. After examining the flashing number, she pressed the green talk button and then the speaker phone button on the side. “Amy! I’m glad you called! Please tell me you’ve got everything worked out for tonight.”

         “What happened this time, hun? Did they call you an unnatural freak again?” Amy’s words always broke through the veil and mystery that others never quite understood about Za. She had a very soft, caring voice, almost as soothing as a mother should sound.

         “Worse – he called Funker Vogt techno music.”

         “What!” Amy shouted and let out a sharp snort. Za knew that would be all it would take to break her calm tone. The exclamatory response and snort almost brought out the smile she searched for in her mirror earlier. “People can call me Satan’s bastard daughter or a damn witch, but no one should have the right to call that techno! That’s just ignorant!”

         “Exactly,” Za replied, falling back onto her bed with a bounce, “So please tell me you found us a ride out to the show tonight.”

         “Do you think I’d ever get your hopes up and then not deliver? Think about who you’re talking to, deary. I’m the queen of granting wishes. Think of me as Glenda the slightly twisted witch,” she said in a very fake, haughty way. The image of Amy in a frilly pink dress cut short with black make-up and a spiked collar and necklace made Za giggle. “See? I’m a regular miracle worker. Never listen to your parents, they’ll never get that you’re not living the same kind of life they are. It doesn’t matter because ours is a hell of a lot more interesting.”

         “What time will you be swinging by to pick me up?” Za asked.

         “Around eight o’clock. Be dolled up and ready to go, cuz I’d hate for us to miss London After Midnight,” Amy said, drawing extra emphasis on the three words of the band’s title.

         “Trust me, I’ll be ready,” Za said in a quick burst of excitement.

         “Good. I’ll see you then. Take it easy.”

         “You, too.”

         Za pushed the glowing red button to end the call and tossed the phone by her pillow. Suddenly remembering, she rolled onto her side and gazed upon her open notebook. A frown returned to her face as she read the one word, a tiny, nearly invisible word surrounded by emptiness.

         Alone.

         Za closed her notebook and reached for her phone again. 5:17. She knew that it would happen in a mere eight minutes. She’d be called down for dinner. They’d sit quietly until her mother asked how everyone’s day was. Her dad would break into some story about the office and maybe try to lighten the mood with a joke or anecdote. It happened like clockwork, and it never seemed to have any effect. They she’d ask how school was going, and Za would dodge the question with a shrug or a muttered “fine” in reply. It would surely lead into some self-righteous speech advocating grades, extra-curricular activities, and a job, none of which existed on Za’s lists of concerns.

         She wondered if they’d let her go out tonight. Then again, she was resolute in her going. Not even her flakey parents would keep her away from the concert experience of her lifetime.

         In a flash she jumped up and threw open her closet. A mess of outfits, mostly consisting of blacks and other dark colors, hung in the single, cramped row of space. She cycled through them, spending no more than a few seconds on each one. “What am I going to wear?”

         “Dinner is just about ready!” called her mother’s voice from downstairs.

         Za shoved the hangers over to one side of the closet and sighed. Giving a glance to her cell phone, she was a little surprised by what she saw. 5:23 – she must be trying to make life interesting.

         Za took each step with a weight of dread. She could smell the sweet aroma of honey drifting down the hall into the dining room. The sounds of heavy conversation and turning pages followed. A pang of shock followed as she began to make out the words – they weren’t bitching about how terrible of a daughter they had.

         “Can you believe what the president said on the news today? They turned it on in the office break room,” her father’s voice shot down the hall.

         “It came on and interrupted my soaps,” her mother confessed. Za knew how much those silly shows meant to her. God forbid news gets in their way. “Do you think what he warned is true?”

         “I don’t see why he’d lie. Then again, things usually are given as a worst case scenario. I doubt that it's nothing more than a mistake.”

         Za entered the room, and the talk ended. Her father folded up the newspaper in his hands and set it down on the floor besides his chair. He sat at the end of the rectangular table like some sort of omnipotent ruler and stared at Za like she should have bowed before entering. Her mother disappeared into the adjoining kitchen and reemerged with the final plate of food, setting it in the spot across from where she now sat. “Have a seat before your food gets too cold.”

         Za circled the table and pulled out her chair, stopping to glance at her father before slinking down into her seat. The usual awkward silence rose up around them almost immediately. The only sounds allowed were the knives and forks cutting into the honey-glazed chicken and the obnoxious smacking and chewing coming from her father, who refused to close his mouth while eating. She looked down at her plate and sorted the variety of vegetables by size and color.

         “How was your day at work, hun?”

         Right on time.

         “Things went well today. Did you know that Todd and Joan are moving?”

         “Really? Where to?”

         Za stabbed her chicken breast with her fork and readied her knife. She wished for a moment that she had stabbed her own ear instead as an escape from the pointless chatter about the happenings of Todd and Joan’s life, whoever they even were. She had no idea not did she care.

         “How about you? How was school today?” her mother asked.

         “It was all right,” Za replied with a shrug. Maybe if she told them something, she thought, they would stay off her case. What would they want to hear? Now how Chelsey Warden, captain of the cheerleading squad, “accidentally” knocked her books off her desk in history. She didn’t want to explain how she and Amy snuck away from their gym class to have a cigarette behind the old shed. Aha! It dawned on her. “I got a B on my chemistry test.”

         “Only a B? You’ve capable of better than that,” her father replied. He took his attention away from feeding his face just long enough to burst her budding self-esteem. Once again nothing was good enough for them.

         “Yeah, well I’d love to see you take it and do any better,” Za snapped back, dropping her fork onto the porcelain plate.

         “Zaliana Moore, don’t take that king of tone with your father!” her mother commanded with a stern scowl.

         “I’m sorry, but I hate always going through the same thing everyday. You don’t like my music. You can’t stand how I dress. You can’t even appreciate and praise me when I actually do well on something. I’m sorry alright! I’m sorry I’m not some self-loving, blonde, head cheerleader bitch!”

         Za pushed her chair away from the table and watched for a reaction. The anger on her mother’s face faded into a look of stupidity. Her father, on the other hand, set down his silverware and clenched his first to tightly his knuckles lost all color.

         “Get up those stairs right this minute,” her father barked in a quick breath.

         “Fine,” Za grunted. She stood and shoved the chair to the side. “I have a show to get dressed for anyway.”

         “Oh no you don’t! I’ll be damned if I let you out of this house to another of those devil-worshipping concerts, especially given how you just treated us. You’re going to spend the night up in your room whether you like it or not!” her father shouted. He sounded far more threatening than he did outside her door, and it shook up some fear in Za’s heart. She remained fixed like an injured animal. “I said march!”

         His tone was far too serious for her liking, and her only defense was to slink away back into the hallway. Hushed voices trailed after her, but she didn’t bother to try and make them out. Once she reached the stairs, she bounded upward in an almost full sprint. Her feet brought her into the safety of her bedroom in no time. She needed the added protection of her music. Not caring what they might do or how loud they would scream she turned on her stereo again. The CDs inside spun around, and the glowing lights on the display screen danced before it settled and filled the room with hypnotic base.

         A world all made of battlefields

         A world all drowned in blood

         A world that will not last forever

         Is all that we have got

         “Screw them,” Za muttered. Taking a deep breath, she rushed to her closet.

         A short time later, Za’s father stormed upstairs and pounded against her door, shouting against the noise. Getting no response, he tried the handle and found it unlocked.

         “I’m not going to say it again. Turn off–”

         As if swallowed by the shadowy music, there was no sign of his daughter. The black lace curtains wavered in the warm spring air, free from being pinned by the dresser, which was now shoved to the center of the room. Her father stepped toward the open window, accidentally snapping the burnt-out remains of an incense stick under his foot, and he saw a figure climb over the fence and disappear up the street