-Problems with the Ordinary

Chapter One -- Meeting of a Lifetime

Riven

If there's one thing I remember about childhood, it's that not everyone has it the same.

I remember learning this when I was just in 1st Grade, probably later than I should.

We were sitting around, doing Morning Greetings. We had only been in school for a week or two, so we were still learning about each other.

I went to school at a large elementary school in Missouri, near Kansas. And while some may think its not that large, considering it little Kansas, the school was huge.

I had around 50 kids in my class, and we all decided we needed to talk all the time, so the teacher was yelling half the time.

But anyway, it was my friend Pip's turn and I was thinking about what had happened the day before.

I was getting a glass of water, using one of my dad's special cups, even though I knew I shouldn't have.

I had dropped the glass cup on the floor and it had shattered. I still remember the panic that had shot through my heart and down to my toes.

I looked around, the tears blurring my vision as I worried about what would happen next.

I decided to scoop up the glass before my parents came in, not even feeling the sharp shards of glass ripping at my soft skin on my palms. I had to clean it up before they got here.

I had dumped it in the trash can, cleaning up the small droplets of blood that dotted floor. I cleaned off my feet and hands quickly with water so they wouldn't drip on the floor.

But apparently they had seen.

I looked up, hearing the scrape of the chair.

"Riven!" My father had hissed, stomping over and grabbing my ear. He had pulled me up to stand, making me face his ruthless eyes.

My Father was a huge, tall, 6 foot 5 guy decorated with sharp, angry tattoos. His eyes were grey, but he changed contacts everyday, so no one could find him.

I don't remember much about where he worked. I just remembered him telling me to keep quiet or it would not be a fun night.

His skin was a slightly dark tan, his hair deep brown, and he looked like he went to the gym everyday. That day, he was wearing a worn down white tank-top and black shorts, his gold chain necklace laying on his neck.

My Mother stood beside him, her hands on her hips. She had deep brown curly hair yet was very light, her eyes a sharp green and her form tall and lanky, yet very muscular.

"Is that my glass you broke?" He asked, snatching my wrist and turning it over to examine my bloody hands.

I started crying, seeing his eyes widen and panic. "I'm sorry." I whimpered. "I dropped it then it scraped me."

He looked at my Mother who shrugged slightly. Then he turned to me and took his shirt, wiping off the blood. I decided not to notice the stains that already spotted his shirt.

"Hey, its okay." He said. "Don't cry." He looked over at the pieces of glass on the floor, eyes sparkling slightly.

"But you know what this means, right?" He asked, pity dripping from his voice.