Hey there readers! Sooooo, it took a lot of thought on my part, and I finally got an account!
And! And and annnnd I am soooo hoping that you like my story :DDD Because if you don't, I'll have to send my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles after you, and beliiiiiieve me, you won't like it when they release their powahs on your arse! Bahaha, I'm only kidding!....Kinda....
ANYWAAAYY! Comment and review please and thank-you!
Oh, and one more thing... This is a completely original story written by yours truly and I would hate for anyone to think otherwise. Everything, but the locations, are completely fake and all are creations of my overactive imagination XD
P.S. If anyone does not enjoy a bloody beginning, don't read on. THANKS!
Chapter 1
8/11/1988
If you are reading this, I’m probably long gone from this Earth.
But, I want someone to know my story, so I don’t get forgotten. Just another runaway, left for dead. So here we go.
It was a rainy and stormy Friday night and I could hear the thunder rolling as I stared at the ceiling. It was the last day of our trip to Minnesota, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Every year that I can remember, we drove up the interstate 35 from Oklahoma to “vacation” in the cold and dreary Minnesota. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It had something to do with its where my mom and dad met or something.
I was always intrigued by thunderstorms. Whenever I would hear them I was magnetically drawn to a window, like it had some sort of hold over me. I remember studying every detail in this particular storm. The clouds were an ominous yellow, the kind you normally see during a tornado warning or an exceptionally nasty storm, like this one. The rain coming down in sheets was beautiful. It shone with a thousand colors and I realized that it was the Northern Lights dancing beyond the clouds.
I quietly shifted out from underneath my pink and purple blankets, and hurried to the window. While I was sitting on my white window seat, I noticed a bit of dampness on the windowsill, like a creeping flood about to destroy an entire city, it was flowing towards my hand. Even though I love storms, I’ve always been terrified of water. It was always difficult to get me to bathe or shower. I squeaked when it finally touched my outstretched fingers, it felt like a trail of tears; cold and gritty; and I jumped up. I quietly tip-toed over to my door to go slip a towel from the bathroom before the water could spill over the ledge and onto my floor.
As I left the room my heart started beating faster.
Looking down the hallway, I had an ominous feeling, like I was alone in a house in a scary movie. Then I heard something that could’ve been my conscience say, Don’t leave your room. I dismissed it to be my memory of a scary movie I’d watched at Sarah’s house. But, of course I wasn’t alone. My whole family was just downstairs. My house was never empty; there was always at least one or two people, and now we were on vacation with our entire family surrounding us for two whole weeks.
I slowly crept down the hallway pretending I was a robber sneaking towards a bedroom of a sleeping family, to steal their valuables right from under their noses. Making my way to my bathroom, I thought I heard something downstairs. ‘But,’ I thought to myself, ‘it’s probably just dad again. He never could sleep through storms. He always had been a light sleeper.’
When I was a child of three or four, I would sneak into my parents’ room on Christmas Eve to sleep with them, and he would wake up the second I cracked the door open. After I crawled into bed, between my mom and dad, he would tell me the story of Christmas over and over until my eyelids felt heavy, as if there was weight being added to them, and finally fell asleep. In the morning we’d go downstairs and open the extravagantly wrapped gifts, each of us taking a turn to be “Santa”; handing out presents to one another.
