Christian Westbrook, an emotionless seventeen-year-old who is far too mature for his age, is trapped in a life with his aunt and uncle. It was never his intention, but he didn't have an option. His life has been irreparably altered, and he longs for...
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(SUMMERWOOD CREAK)
I rest my head on the glass of my aunt's old Honda Civic.
On the drive back to Summerwood Creak, a city with a reputation for being, warm and cosy where the rain seldomly falls. Thankfully, around this time of the year, the weather is gloomy.
Grey clouds paint the canvas of the blue sky, creating nothing but a sinister and grim atmosphere. I watch as the raindrops tap against the glass; the sound is soothing and ominous yet calming. I find comfort in the dark and sombre weather; I like the chill shivers it sends through my body.
Many people skip Summerwood Creak when traveling; no one wants to drive for hours seeing nothing but tall, erect trees.
We do have a few places here that not many people care to see. There's a carnival almost immediately when you get into Summerwood Creak. Most teens go there on the weekends to hang out with friends.
There's the country club on the other end of Summerwood Creak. Everyone's parents are members, and if you aren't, it's by choice. I've been invited a few times to play golf, but after the incident, I see no point.
News spreads around the city like wildfire; everyone knows everyone, and there's no hiding anything. Once it's out, there's no going back.
That's what keeps the small newspaper business on 23rd Avenue going. They're always hiring, always asking for volunteers, and always questioning the folks of the town.
"How's your leg doing?" My aunt, Audrey, asks.
The ride here was rather quiet; I'm surprised it took this long for anyone to speak.
"It's alright," I say bluntly.
James is the one driving while my aunt types away on her phone, possibly something for work, it always is or so she says.
I was never close to my aunt and uncle when my parents were still alive, so when they died, it was awkward at first, and even after three years, it somewhat still is.
My aunt was attempting to be something she was not and had never desired to be: a mother. Her parenting tactics are peculiar and the same may be said about James; they strive too hard, worry too much, and see themselves as a figure of authority rather than a parent.
They never wanted to be parents, which is why at thirty-five and thirty-seven they still don't have kids. I just had to ruin it by being orphaned.
If it were up to me, I'd rather die in that accident with my parents.
"Your bike is going to be written off," James says, his voice strong.
Whenever he talks to me, it's in a stern voice. I find it annoying, but I don't burden them more than I already have by bickering unnecessarily.
