Angelic

**Thank you for clicking on this story, and now taking the time to read it.  It is a PARANORMAL ROMANCE: NOT a vampire or a werewolf story.  There's really only one paranormal element to the story...and, well, you'll see what that is soon!

Sarionah is pronounced (according to me) SORRY-OWE-NAH  The picture mid way through is of Sarionah/Sari except that Sari would have CURLY hair.  

Thanks again for all your lovely support!

~Sincerely,

Abby Dawson**

 “I hate it here already,” I groan.  It’s not as if there’s anything wrong with the town.  In fact, the snow that drapes over the trees is almost mystical.  The icicles hang in a way that’s more beautiful than I’ve ever seen in movies.  I almost want to jump out of the car just to snatch one up and let it melt in my hand.  Almost.  Except that I have to keep up my charade.  I absolutely loathe my family for making me leave my home.  I loved it in Florida, where the palm trees made it seem as if I was on a movie set all the time. 

Most of all, I’ll miss my best friends, Hannah and Gemma.  I pat the locket on my neck, where the picture of the three of us hides inside, across from the inscription ‘together forever’.   The picture’s of the three of us eating ice cream.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday.  I could vaguely see the front of the local sweet shop, with sweet Mrs. Hawner peeking out through the window.  You wouldn’t notice her if you didn’t know she was there, though.  The three girls, with their arms wrapped around each others waists, almost getting the melting cones in each others hair, begged for attention.  The one in the middle, me, is laughing up at the sky, her mouth gaping open wide enough to catch a fly.  I know my embarrassing laugh, causing stares to come from up and down the street.  Her brown hair looks almost red in the summer sun.  She obviously didn’t care about brushing it out today, as her messy ringlets curl into each other in no particular order. 

Gemma’s on my right, actually attempting to eat her triple chocolate cone, the color of which is the exact color of her.  Gemma’s very dark and ridiculously beautiful.  Her skin is so dark in that picture especially, making her usual milk chocolate skin turn to a dark chocolate.  Her eyes are gleaming, despite how black they are.  Her hair, like usual, is in a messy bun. 

Hannah is leaning forward, also shaking with laughter.  She looks even shorter than her actual short self, not even reaching five feet, next to Gemma and I.  Gemma and I are both only inches away from approaching six feet.  She outshines us in every other way, though.  While I have a snap temper, don’t care to please, and fail miserably at anything to do with the male race, Hannah is quite the opposite.  Everyone who meets her immediately falls under her spell.  Her bleach blonde hair falls down nearly to her butt, as straight and shiny as Barbie’s.  Wherever she goes, men’s eyes follow, envious.  She laughs, and touches their arms, flirting, but resisting to their questions that will surely lead to their beds.  Most of all, she’s kind and won’t ever, ever leave her friends.  So, despite my jealousy and her perfection, she’s been Gemma and my best friend since fourth grade.

So, I suppose, in my emotion sense, I do hate it here already.  I don’t mind the place; it’s just that I’m away from my friends.  It’s almost as if I’ve left my heart behind…

I immediately shake off the thought.  I generally cringe away from anything close to the heart.  I refuse to cry, or let anything bother me.  Part of who I am is tough.  I’m the no bull crap friend.  The friend who, when another friend is dating the wrong guy, will tell them he’s terrible.  That’s probably why I’ve always just had a few friends.  They like my no bull crap attitude.  Especially Hannah.

At Hannah’s name, I cringe back.  No.  They’re gone.  I promised to text, but I know that in a few weeks, a few months…nothing will be the same.  They’ll move on.  I, knowing myself, won’t get new friends for years.  I won’t let that bother them.  I’ll let myself sulk in my own sorrow.