Dream of Paradise

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is for Sparrow01's Contest, and I chose Paradise by Coldplay because I love that song.
Please comment, like and read! Thanks.

This is the link where I got my interpretation: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20111106205254AAWb7zr

Dear all users on Booksie: COMMENT PLEASE!! :D

Thank you. 


Clara looked at the colourful pictures, her eyes taking in the scene depicted: Noble Prince Charming saving the poor princess from the evils of the world. 

She sat on her bed, closing the book - even at seven, Clara could already read fluently, unlike some of her other classmates. She closed her eyes, thinking of when her Prince Charming - dashing and chivalrous - might come and save her from any perils or threats, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her away to live happily ever after. 

"Clara? Honey?" The young girl heard, her eyes flickering open curiously to see her brunette mother, her hair swept up in a French Roll, wearing a sundress and apron. She stood barefoot on the threshhold. "Darling, it's dinner now."

Clara smiled, slipping off the bright, hand-sewn quilt, walking towards her mother's outstretched hand. As they walked together towards the small dining room, she felt tension in the lady's olive hands, the fingers unusually tight and firm. Clara let it pass, but nervousness crept inside like a poison, slowly killing her. 

* * *

 Carefully, the girl speared her broccolli, popping it into her mouth - unlike most children, broccolli was a favourite for Clara. "Thanks Mum," she said happily, waiting for her answer. 

Clara looked up when she heard no audible reply, worry and concern pouncing in swiftly.

"Any moment now..." Her mother mumbled nervously, digits tight on the cutlery, her face white; eyes glancing constantly at the entrance to the dining room. "Any moment now..."

A frown formed, but a sudden bang made Clara jump, heavy, loud footsteps sounding like a horror-movie soundtrack, as she recognised them. Faint and almost forgotten, she knew them as her father's. 

He stepped in, face hard and cold, his presence making the atmosphere in the room plunge to Arctic. He stared coldly at her - Clara first before glaring at her mother - Clara's pulse pounding in her ears as she tried to hide. 

Screaming and crying blasted into her memory, so despairing and desperate that Clara's vision blurred.

"Hello, dear," her father sneered, swiftly moving in for the kill, kicking back Clara's mother's chair and straddling her hips, snatching her round chin - she squirmed and attempted to move her head, to no avail, the sheer force of his muscle overwhelming. Clara looked on in shock, paralysed and terrified.

"Surprised to see me?" He continued his taunt, the fragile body beneath squirming. 

"Get off me, Ross!" The father's wife begged, cringing at the sinister caress of his thumb on her cheek. 

Suddenly, like a falcon swooping down, Clara's father claimed her mouth, furiously and violently, holding his wife's head like an iron cast. He cried out suddenly when she bit his lip, blood dripping out. "Did you just bite me, you little bitch?"

Despite shaking in fear, Clara felt a surge of pride when she witnessed her mother's defiant, steady gaze. "Yes, I did."

But instantly, her answer was met with a immediate punishment - a hard slap on the cheek, so powerful that her mother's head flicked left. She cried out, wincing, tears overflowing.

"I'll teach you to be rude!" Clara heard her father bellow, rising up and tugging on her mother's arm, dragging her towards the archway. Her mother fought, and Clara couldn't stand it anymore. 

She jumped out of her seat, and started to powerfully punch her father's abdomen - he winced, glaring down at her, swiftly kicking her with his steel-tipped boot. 

Clara bawled in pain, her stomach aching, as she rolled and moaned on the wooden floor.

"Stay out of this!" He growled, hauling her mother, but eventually grew tired and resorted to carrying her writhering mother over his shoullder taking her away. Clara watched, horrified, but helpless. She jumped once more when a door slammed shut, screaming and groaning audible in the badly-built house and thin walls. 

She heard her mother's pain, weeping, closing her eyes. 

No, the world had failed her. There was no Prince Charming, no valiant savior, to truimph over evil.  So she ran from the horror, falling into sleep, dreaming of princesses, knights and happy endings. 

* * *

Clara stepped into the office building, seeing hundreds of office blocks, knowing one of them was now about to be claimed by the seventeen-year-old. It seemed that the whole floor fell into a scrutinizing silence as she walked through a corridor, aware of any potential clumsiness, like someone forced to parade around the streets in humiliating fashion. A few stared for extended periods of time, gazes seeming to be so salicious that she ran the rest of the way, barely holding onto the thick, blockish pile of stapled paperwork that had been assigned. Clara jumped into her own office, hiding behind the white, bland, shoulder-high walls, sitting down and hugging her knees on the plastic, hard, swivel chairs, shutting out the feelings of loneliness. Think of princesses and a whole guard of insurmountable soldiers protecting you from the evils, Clara. They can't hurt you. They can't hurt you. They can't hurt you. 

She repeated the mantra over and over, slowing down her pounding heartrate. She needed this job, as meagre as it was - Clara wasn't going to let some cold or inappropriate stares take it away.

And, by God, she was never going back. 

Memories flooded in - her father, insane with rage, brutally and mindlessly beating her mother to her eventual death; blood everywhere, staining the carpet, the walls, his shirt. Clara hadn't dared call the police - the only phone was past her father. Then he'd noticed her, and -

"Clara? Honey?"

Oh, God. She thought, the tears streaming faster. That's what my mum said ten years ago, before he came back. 

She sniffled, wiping her nose and eyes, probably looking like a panda from the cheap eyeliner and mascara. She pushed around, seeing a pretty young lady, her tightly-curled blonde hair and caring green eyes injecting warmth into her system, driving the evils out. Her smile was spectacular, lips dressed with a lovely soft, rosie pink and glossed, the block's fluorescent lights glistening on the make-up. She rushed forward, pulling out a tissue and dabbing it on her tears, the gesture so motherly and caring; the recoil that didn't happen, she expected instinctively, was a shock.

"There, there, darling. No crying at work, eh?" She joked, her breath minty; her perfume pleasently floral. 

She took a deep breath, calming her nerves. The green eyes flickered toward the large pile, and sighing, she stood, rapidly and efficiently sorting them, quickly taking what she needed. Noticing the confusion on Clara's face, the lady supplied. "Jonathan always does this - bastard that he is."

She smiled, the curve of her lips and the demure revealing of teeth so wonderful that it was like honey in Clara's veins. "Thinks he can make newbies to do more than they need to. Good thing I'm here." Her small, pale hand was extended. "I'm Elise. Elise Dolton."

Clara smiled, taking the offered and gently shaking it. "Hi."

"Ah, see there's the spirit!" Elise exclaimed, honouring Clara with another of her beautiful smiles. "Now, I'm the vice-director for   Unit Twenty-Eight, so if anyone give you trouble, I'll be over there."

Her slender forefinger pointed to the right, where one of two offices - proper offices, with a glass front and a plush chair and prestigious, oak desk, dominated by a state-of-the-art, silver computer (An iMac, maybe, Clara thought), and two chairs, a coffee table and lounge chairs at the back of the room. 

"Do you have an office like that for me?"

Elise laughed. "Do some paperwork for the next few days and then we'll talk about that."

And she left.

Clara woke her sleeping, outdated computer, and began on the much lesser paperwork assigned: Research the history of McLeans and...

* * *

Finally, the first day of work ended, and Clara was pleased with the fresh envolope that contained one-hundred and thirty lovely dollars in her bag. It had been only a few months since she'd ran away, and even less since she's got a job and rented a tiny apartment. But she was away from her father, the horrible man, who'd made her his sex slave for the last five years, and as she reluctantly handed the taxi driver her well-earned thirty, Clara realised that maybe the world hadn't failed her completely. 

Maybe there was paradise in the world, after all. 


Hope you enjoyed! Thanks. Milly. 




Submitted: August 25, 2013

© Copyright 2020 MissWordsmith. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:




Wow, that was really interesting! :) Good luck in the contest!

Fri, August 30th, 2013 2:15am


Thanks! :)

Fri, August 30th, 2013 7:36pm



I clicked on this story because the cover drew me in, I'm quite choosey on my novels based upon their covers. lol. but anyways this was intriguing.
great job on it.
hope to see more in the future.

Fri, September 13th, 2013 4:08am



Thu, September 12th, 2013 9:15pm



Thats really, emotive. I felt the pain and fear, the story was infused with real emotions. You really wrote it well, Great Job.

Tue, October 15th, 2013 8:28am


Thank you!! :)

Tue, October 15th, 2013 2:17am

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