Fatal Whispers

Chapter 1

Do you know what it's like to be alone?

                I do….

Do you ever feel as though you are wandering endlessly all the time?

                I do….

Have you ever been in a crowd of people who all seem to be talking and laughing but you have no part in it?

                I have…

  "If you answered yes to any of those questions, then call now to receive YOUR very own RoboBuddy! RoboBuddies come in all shapes and sizes…they listen to whatever problems you have! AND they talk back! If you call now, you'll also receive this handy-dandy traveling case…"

The whiny and incessant voice of the infomercial announcer droned on endlessly.

Slumped on the couch, George knew she must have looked horrible, as usual. It was hot and sticky. She was, almost wearily, watching television. That's what everyone did in the summer. At least, that's what she told her mother who often asked why she stayed glued to the "tube" so often.

Absently, George fiddled with her chocolate mousse colored hair. It was wavy and thick. And brown. Plain, dull brown. Why couldn't she have beautiful buttery yellow hair? Straight hair that didn't frizz or puff up like a fat field mouse. Her aunt Thelma said her hair was full of volume. But then again, George was supposed to have inherited the hair of her said aunt Thelma, so why wouldn't she like it?

"Georgiana, do get up!" The exciting trill of her mother's voice imbued the apartment's living room. "You can't constantly be lolling around like this. And clean the coffee table." Then her mother breezed gracefully out into the hallway. "I'll be back by 8:30!" With a shutting of the door, she was gone.

The coffee table was its proverbial mess. Magazines were sprawled everywhere as though paying tribute to the television guide in the center of the table, where George had searched for it frantically that morning. Days old mugs lay here and there like spots on a milk cow and a layer of dust had started to develop upon its delicate surface. A semi large crack had desecrated its otherwise even surface, where she had bumped into it the day before. Maybe her mother would finally notice and possibly get angry with her. Even if the crack became a veritable abyss, Mother would never notice anything that I do, other than to tell me to clean something, or stop being lazy.

George's mother was a well-known ballet dancer. Her face had graced many famous stages and her performances had delighted audiences from Sydney to Rome, which resulted in George's rather tumultuous childhood. She had been dragged all over the world but had seen barely anything of the famous places they had lived in. Her childhood memories were a blur, since most hotels often looked the same after a while. In fact, until she was thirteen, George had never lived anywhere other than hotels, though she had been in every popular place imaginable. Then one day, her mother's career simply halted and she began working as a choreographer in New York City. Their new home was in the heart of Manhattan, in an affluent high-rise apartment.  

Although George now lived in a steady home, her life was anything but stable. Her mother was rarely home during daytime hours, because of her haphazard rehearsal schedule, and George was left to fend for herself. In school, George found herself struggling both with the work and finding friends in an elite private school.

So, the only activity George lived for was books. She devoured them by the dozen. George adored books of all kinds, especially adventure and mystery novels. Whenever she read, she forgot all her problems. The characters seemed to come to life at her fingertips, and she laughed and cried along with them in their adventures. George loved to seek revenge with the Count of Monte Cristo, explore the forests with the wolves in Call of the Wild, plague London streets with Oliver, Dodger and the gang, and especially, unearth murderers and thieves with Sherlock Holmes and Watson.

At the moment she had nothing new to read and somehow, discovering whodunit with Hercule Poirot and Hastings lacked its usual flavor. "Damn!" she cried indignantly to the television, with its lack of good morning programming. With an angry click of the remote, the television flickered off and the room was basked in silence. Brushing the crumbs of her breakfast toast from her shorts, George began to carry her dishes into the kitchen. But as she walked through the doorway, she slipped on the newly installed birch wood floor.

Down, down, down she fell, the dishes flew over her head, landing on the new floor with a glorious smash like the sound of cymbals. With a disgruntled growl, George hastily swept the pieces of plate and cup into a plastic bag.

"Why can't I be graceful?" demanded George to nobody in particular as she flung open the door of the apartment to take the broken dishware to the trash can.

To her surprise, a small tan ball of fur launched itself in her direction and towards her face.

"Puff, no!" a voice commanded. The dog—for the ball of fur was indeed a dog—sadly pulled away from George and trotted towards the owner of the voice. "Sorry about that." The owner was a girl a few years younger than herself. Her hair was the color of wheat fields and her eyes were a clear crystal blue. George felt a pang of jealousy. She was the perfect image of what George had always dreamed to look like.

"Hi, I’m Lani Riley. We just moved in across the hall." The girl said matter-of-factly, with a small grin, cuddling the small adorable puppy in her arms.

"My name’s Georgiana, but my…everyone calls me George," George finished. Everyone except…Mother.

"How cute! I always wanted a nickname when I was little, but Lani is too hard to change," Lani mentioned wistfully.

A yell from further down the hall brought the two girls running.