Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - Prologue. Facade from Jekyll and Hyde

From where she sat, it was far from clear how important this place would be in her future. She'd always thought places had no intrinsic importance, but these next few years would prove her wrong. She'd be returning to the same places, sometimes for good events, but often for bad.

It was 1959, nearly the Swinging 60s. This was the era in which she'd have to raise her son, born a bastard. It wasn't his fault; she'd been foolish. She hoped not to tell the story, if not for her son's reputation, then for her own. She'd had no clue what was going to happen. She was 20, loving life, until a mysterious stranger in the cafe approached up. Things had happened; he'd made her do things she wanted to forget. But her son, her son was hers to keep and tend. Her beautiful Ivan; named for the man who had taken her previous gift from her.

She sat gracefully, as she always did, from birth to death, graceful with every movement with every thought being logical and ordered and suffering. She could see what she was doing and she could see what her plan was. She was to draw the landscape that followed her, a gathering landscape with lights from a distant place infecting the honest and natural beauty that was Lake Sierra. The natural beauty that had not been disturbed for several years until they created such a thing as the Industrial Revolution. It was the idea that ruined so many perfect places for an artist such as her, an artist who longed for the perfect place to draw. And sadly, she would never find it. Lake Sierra had its own secrets. Some were the interesting ones, such as the body at the bottom of the lake, sent there by unknown circumstances. Or just the romantic evenings stood on the bridge for any couple to enjoy.

She looked down from the ancient fading bridge that she was sat upon and saw a river, a desecrated river. A river covered in what we have caused, the waste of many all poured into this one location. For what the river led to showed us more, much more than this... a shining lake... Lake Sierra. It was a figure of such beauty that would inspire even the likes of Shakespeare and Bernard Shaw. Within the distance was the other shore of the lake, where holiday makers would go to escape the hustle of the city that was only a few minutes away, to a quiet little town with nothing special about it. It is its insignificance that made it so popular. The place is simple; nothing important about it. There was a school in the village, a village hall and a café, soon to be used for nefarious purposes. The girl who was drawing was not who you would expect to be drawing. An artist, artists are usually the flamboyant type, but not this one. She was regimented in her ways, as her parents had been regimented before her.

She took a book from her bag. This book was dying, its memories all yet to be shared with the world. It was her private scrapbook, where the work of an artistic genius would never be found... until this day. Her pencil flowed across the paper as if she was conducting a dramatic symphony. The cross hatchings played the role of the wind and reed instruments; light, gentle, but required to give the piece its strength. Her straight lines played the role of the percussion and string instruments, by far the loudest of the instruments in the microcosm that is her drawing. She stares at the paper and adds one last stroke as the conductor stops the orchestra from playing. Her drawing had been finished.

She opened her scrapbook and started to stare at her drawings. She began to realise she had been drawing anything and everything, people from her life. Ivan, her only son and the boy she overbears upon. There was Tony, the man who was part of her life for a very short time, but still affected her in many ways. Then there were the less important people to her, Mellissa, Brandon, Conchita and Carlson. They were the little people, the little people that made all the difference to her. She stood and said to herself, “These drawings will be the death of me, I swear it.”

She began to pack her fold-out chair into the bag in which it came. Once completed, she hoisted it upon her back and started to walk. She stared back at where she was sat. It was a perfect view of a beautiful landscape. It was a landscape that had inspired her to draw so many things, some from life, such as the landscape itself. And some of the people who meant most to her. (Even though she will feel that they have betrayed her for being what they are.)

When she let go the pack from her back, she felt a sudden sharp pain in her wrist. She whispered to herself, “Hmm... it’s probably nothing. Not like I’m going to lose my hand or anything.” She giggled at her own humour and began to make her way towards her home. As she walked, there was a gush of wind which forced the pages of her scrapbook to blow within the gust. It revealed the front page of the scrapbook, which revealed her name :
Erica Rosalia.

She thought to herself, “Could anything ruin this day? I don’t think it could.”

Little did she know...