Until We Meet Again

Part 2

I was only two months old when my father found me. He found me abandoned, and left for dead in a dim alley. I remember the story almost like I was there to witness it. My father ran home with me and showed him to my mom who burst out crying when she picked me up in her hands.

My mother told me she looked in my eyes and she felt a connection unlike any other thing she had ever felt. She felt unconditional love for me, almost like she had birthed me herself.
   My mom was infertile, meaning producing her own offspring was difficult, so she seized that opportunity to take me and love me. They both called police to report about the baby my father found.

The story ended up making headlines, but although I ended up being the talk of the town, the police gave little information about my birth mother or why she left.
    Everything they told my parents was useless other than the fact that she, my birthed mother, would have been charged with child endangerment.

On my fifth birthday, a woman contacted my parents. The woman's name was Adelaide Lemaire. After two years of living in New Jersey, she was raped on her way to her doctor's appointment. Adelaide was pressured into aborting the baby multiple times by friends, but she decided she wanted to keep the baby.

     She knew she was poor and unable to care for a family. In a diary she wrote about plans on killing the baby with her own hands. She knew she couldn't put herself to do it, so she abandoned it, and then fled the country in hope for a new life. A life without any heavy responsibilities on her back.
    We had an hour long conversation. She went on and on about how much of a crybaby I was, saying that I kept her up all night because I would always need my diaper changed. She said even though I was a huge responsibility, she loved me to pieces and cried onto my shoulders before setting me down.

Adelaide died two months after our conversation. Her plans of coming back to North America in hopes of connecting with her daughter couldn't happen because her life was stolen from her. Her second night after arriving here in New Jersey she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gang war raged out of control when a member threatened to burn down one of the houses of the rival gang member. My mother was shot in the head, and died on impact.

✉️✉️✉️✉️✉️✉️✉️

     I directed myself to the stairs, which was a couple of inches away from the front door. The floor creaked as I planted my foot on it.
       Our house was old. My parents said that it was built in the early nineteenth century and since then it was passed on to each generation. Appliances breaking down when you needed it the most was normal. About everything broke since I graduated from middle school. Most of my college money was spent on repairmen coming in to fix stuff here and there.

     My room was about the size of two bathrooms. The space was very tight but my parent couldn't afford to move, especially my after my father left us.

A cold breeze kissed at my skin as I walked over to my bed. I always left my window open, without it open, I struggled to sleep in the night. There was something satisfying about crickets chirping in the night, owls howling, and the leaves rustling that made me fall asleep in a snap.

   My bed was tidy except for the twenty dollar bills my sister probably threw on it while I was at school.

    ~~

Normally I could sleep perfectly fine without any weird feelings, but this night was different. I had a weird feeling burning deep inside my core. My instincts was telling me that something wasn't right. It was that weird feeling of walking outside by yourself late in the night.
    Goosebumps spread across my body like a wildfire. My body was trying to slacken the feeling by assuring me that it was probably just my sister arriving home from being at her boyfriend or soon to be fiancé's house. My gut on the other hand was keeping my eyes alerted, and my fists balled.

     I carefully planted one foot on my carpet. As a result of that my floorboards made a loud squeaking sound. I prayed that it didn't project loud enough to be audible from downstairs.

      Using quiet feet, I tip-toed slowly to my door. I could hear a voice in my head telling me to cower and hide, or better yet, risk my life by jumping out the window and running to the nearest person's house. The rational voice in my head kept screaming that on foot it would take me roughly twenty minutes on foot to find the nearest person's house. Not to mention that my house was covered in thick trees because we secluded ourselves from others.

Where I lived, the elements tended to be harsh during fall. Since it was almost pitch black outside I'd be out all night searching. The only thing I remember learning from castaway shows was that the human body can only survive a few hours without shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food.
      My father said he kept guns hidden somewhere just in case we saw a bear roaming around. The thing is that I was the only person who didn't know where he hid them.

    Though I didn't have a gun to protect me, I had something else.

   I opened my closet, thankful that I was crazy and liked collecting knives. I chose one with the sharpest blade. The grip was sturdy. I had received it two years ago as a gift from my grandpa.

    The door stood in front of me. I touched the knob hesitantly at first. Now fueled by agression, I twisted the knob in excitement. My grip tightened as I stepped outside my room. The small hairs on my arms were erected. My heart pounded loudly, and speedily. My body was frozen still.

      I looked around the living room as I reached the last stair. Everything was the same. My sketchbook was lain on the coffee table, and so were the pencils and pens I used. Daringly, I checked around the downstair's rooms. There wasn't a single sign of a break-in.

            How? I asked myself.
   I opened the door. On the little rug was a crumpled up letter. A small stain of blood caught my eye almost immediately after picking up the letter. The letter reeked of a powerful scent that my nose knew was familiar, but couldn't get grasp a hold of. 
     Then the handwriting, a handwriting so neat, it looked like it came straight out of a computer.

Hello, Tess

This isn't the first time we've met. Certainly won't be the last either. I've decided to stick around. I've been watching you. I've observed everything about you. I know your pet-peeves, your likes, and your dislikes. Everything about you. You have something that belongs to me. I want it badly. I dream about it every single day I observe you. It would be such a shame if I were to tell you what I from you right now. You'll be hearing from me soon.

Until we meet again, my love❤️- XXXX XXXX

      The moment I got done reading the letter, a white tailed deer ran into the woods. My head snapped to the side, my ears wanting to perk up. The reaction nearly caused me whiplash. I could hear the sound as the deer got deeper into the woods. Then all of a sudden....the noise came to a halt.

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    Ooooohhh, who might that be? ;)
     Stick around for the next chapter.

Please give me feedback. What am I doing well, what can I improve? Be honest. Your opinion matters so don't hold back.
    I don't get offended much but if you dare say Alex is ugly then it's about to be a girl fight.