8 Years Ago I
Ayla Monsoe
Cake.
I could still smell the frosting from the cake, a mix of vanilla and strawberries, every time someone passed the dessert table. Music drifted through the air – slow, elegant, grown-up – though I secretly wished it was something I could actually dance to.
It was my thirteenth birthday, and for some reason, everyone kept reminding me I was "growing up". I smiled politely at the guests – men in suits, women with glittering jewelry, everyone talking and laughing as if they didn't have a single worry in the world. I wasn't sure who half of them were, but they all seemed to know me.
"Ayla, you've grown so much!"
"Ayla, you're becoming a woman now."
I didn't really know what to say to that so I just smiled. From across the room, I spotted my father, Damian Monsoe, tall and calm, talking to a few men in dark suits. He had that look – the one that made people listen even when he wasn't saying much. My mother said he just had "a presence". I didn't really know what that meant, but it sounded like something important people had.
And then there was Mom – Melody Monsoe – glowing as always. She'd spent the whole day making sure the decorations were perfect. Every table had white roses, my favorite, and the candles flickered just enough to make the whole place feel warm.
"Mom…"
She turned, as gracefully as ever and smiled down at me.
"Happy birthday, my sweet Ayla," she said, kissing my forehead. "Do you like it?"
"I do," I said, meaning it. "It's perfect."
She smiled that proud, tired smile she always had at big events, the one that said she was both happy and exhausted.
Cheryl, my eight year old sister, came running up to me just then, her curls bouncing.
"Ayla! Come see the cake again!"
I laughed. "You've already seen it five times."
"But it's so pretty!" she said, tugging on my hand until I followed her anyway.
The cake sat like a centerpiece in the middle of the dining table – four tiers tall, covered in pale gold icing, and crowned with a tiny sugar crown. "Because you're our little princess," Dad had said earlier when they brought it out.
Cheryl leaned forward, eyes wide, and whispered, "Can I get the first slice?"
"Only if you can survive mom's death stare when you touch it before everyone sings," I teased.
She gasped, grinning, and smacked my arm lightly.
The night felt easy and light. The music, the laughter, everything felt so good. After a while, mom asked me to help her in the kitchen. "Just for a bit," she said. "The staff's running behind with the appetizers."
I followed her through the back hallway, slipping off my heels because they were starting to hurt. The kitchen smelled like garlic and something sweet baking in the oven. It was a little quieter there – just the sound of pots clattering and faint music from the hall.
Mom handed me a tray of glasses. "Careful with those, okay?"
I nodded, balancing them carefully. "Mom?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
I hesitated. "How come there are so many people here we don't know?"
She chuckled softly, glancing at me. "Your father has a lot of friends. And in this city, people like to show up when the Monsoes throw a party."
Something in her tone made me pause. It wasn't serious, but it wasn't light either. Before I could ask anything else, she brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Don't worry about it. Tonight's your night."
I smiled, as she pulled me into a warm embrace.
Our little bonding moment was interrupted by a loud bang. A sharp metallic crack split the air. The sound echoed through the kitchen, sharp and violent. I felt mom's heartbeat rapidly increase as she held me tighter.
BANG!
Screams from the courtyard accompanied the second gunshot. I froze, gripping mom's velvet red dress. "Mom, what was...that?" I whispered with trembling lips.
"Stay here. Stay down." She said, getting up from her crouching position.
With soft steps, she approached the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her dress, and peers out into the hallway. The sound gets louder – footsteps, fast and heavy, pounding against the marble.
Before I could ask again, the kitchen door burst open.
Men. Dressed in black. Faces hidden behind masks. Guns.
Mom shoved me back. "Ayla, go!"
My feet didn't move. Everything happened so fast. One of the men lunged forward. Mom grabbed a knife from the counter – she actually fights, I thought to myself. She swung the knife back and forth forcing the men backward. She yelled something – I couldn't hear what – before one of them slammed her against the cabinet. I screamed at the top of my lungs as she kicked and struggled, her elbows digging into her assailant's ribs but they were too strong. I watched her eyes close as she fell unconscious.
"Finally, she's down." The tall assailant said and took a deep breath. Turning to me, he said to his colleague, "Get the girl".
Another man turned to me. His eyes – cold and empty. My eyes filled with horror as he approached me slowly. Glancing at the kitchen door, I made a quick sprint for the passage, dodging the masked man. He cursed under his breath as I ran down the hallway, hoping to find my father. I heard Cheryl scream somewhere in the distance, my father shouting and people running.
I finally made it to the grand ballroom, there was blood…everywhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw dad being dragged along the floor by men in black cloaks with my sister right behind him. They used a plastic bag to cover their heads, I watched as they pulled their unconscious bodies across the floor. Panic overwhelmed me, the room started spinning as I took in sharp ragged breaths.
Then – something hard hits the back of my head. The world blurred. The music faded. And everything – the lights, the laughter, the smell of vanilla frosting – disappeared into black.