Walking Shadows

Chapter 1

'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more...'

Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5

William Shakespeare

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Three things you should know before we start: One, my name is Kayleigh Winters. Two, I'm seventeen years old. Three, literature is my favourite subject.

Good? Okay.

I suppose it was my fault. Everything was, after all. I had come to expect – and accept it, so it was with nonchalant, measured movements that I knelt to pick up the books.

"Sorry," I thrust them back into their owner's arms, and looked up to make eye contact as I apologised. It was only polite, after all.

A forehead crinkled. "It's – it's fine. Thanks. Sorry." The boy adjusted his books in his arms, frowning.

I nodded.

He bit his lip. "Are you mocking me?"

"No." I closed my locker door and walked towards the doors, my bag securely over my shoulders. The hallway was quite empty – of course, our school was famous for the efficiency of which its' students left.

"Hey, wait!"

The doors shut behind me, and the silence of the carpark now surrounded me as I began the walk home. People always assumed I was mocking them with my apologies – which really wasn't the case. I always meant them. It was just that doing the same thing over and over had dulled my sense of embarrassment. I really didn't care much.

I liked leaving school late.

The streets were nice and quiet, with only the occasional car driving by. I only lived ten minutes away from school anyways, and the walk was always more preferable without hordes of students cruising past: the guys who would ask anyone if they needed a ride; the girls who would blare their music at what felt like a thousand decibels; the parents who would honk at every red light that stopped the cars. No, I preferred the quiet.

Of course, Elle always offered me a ride, and if the weather was bad, I would take her offer. I rejected her nine out of every ten days, so I don't know why she bothered anymore. Loyalty, I guess.

I checked the post-box for mail, as I did every day, before fishing out the key for the house. It was more than modestly sized – two stories of bricks and large windows, and perfectly manicured green lawns. We didn't need even half of it, and the heating bills were a pain, but for Rory and Melanie, it was home.

They aren't actually my parents, I don't address them as 'mum' and 'dad'. Not that they expect me to, but they treat me like a daughter, and I, likewise, treat them like my parents. I love them – and they do me, so that's really all that matters.

No one was home – it was too early for that, so I went through my usual afternoon routine: a cup of tea, and then barricading myself in my room.

And I read.

I loved reading. I have an entire wall of my room that was one, humongous bookshelf, covered in books of all shapes and sizes in no apparent order. 'Romeo and Juliet' was half crushed under my French dictionary. 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets' was stacked with my collection of Jane Austen classics. 'Captain Bluebear' was sitting on 'Endgame'. The shelf was chipped and obviously struggling under all my books, but it was one of my favourite things in the world. My bed sat next to it rather forlornly, dwarfed by the bookcase. The sheer size of the room meant that I still had a desk sitting next to the window, various pillows straying from my reading area, and a closet (which held more books than clothes). I didn't need all of the space, but it was there anyway. The only spare wall of the room was in the process of being painted with quotes. It was one of the few things I did other than read: I had printed and cut templates, figured out where they would all go, and begun the painstaking process of painting so delicately. My room constantly smelled like paint, much to Melanie's despair, but I refused to move out.

I already all my Jane Austen painted, and Shakespeare was in progress. Harry Potter was next, along with a sneaky few from The Hunger Games. I was saving George R R Martin for last, bless the old man.

'Life's but a walking shadow' would be painted in grey, and 'we know what we are, but not what we may be' in blue. I was running out of green, so Ophelia's flowers were given black.

"Kayleigh?"

"Hm?"

"Time for dinner."

I didn't eat much. Melanie was a terrible cook. Mashed potatoes tasted like glue, and we all knew it, but we ate anyway.

"I'm going to Elle's tomorrow," I said, as I helped clear the plates away. "We have an English assignment due."

"Sure honey," Rory replied, already elbow deep in soapy water. "Will you be staying over?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. I'll bring my things anyway, and she can drive me." It was late – Rory and Melanie had been held up at a business meeting, and dinner had been served at 9PM. It was another hour before I got into the shower, and nearing midnight when I finally left the bathroom (where I had been reading). I was one of the few that showered at night – mostly because I slept late and woke late. I rarely objected when Elle picked me up for school in the mornings.

I never slept in darkness.

It pained me to admit it – but I was scared of the dark. I didn't go out at night. I refused to go anywhere without light. The nightlight's warm glow helped me go to sleep, but if didn't stop the nightmares. I hated closing my eyes. I even hated blinking – to the point that I got contacts, which allowed me to keep my eyes open for prolonged amounts of time. They tended to fall out when I finally blinked, but that was okay.

I was woken by three, violent honks.

That was how I started my day: Elle would show up, honk to wake me up, and proceed to have breakfast with Rory and Melanie while I scrambled around, looking for the clothes that always ended up on the ground despite me having them folded neatly beside my pillow before bed.

Black and white today - as always. White jeans, black jumper, and my pendant tucked safely away. My closet was basically a spectrum of black, grey, and white. Melanie had given up on me finding some colour. And besides: Elle was colourful enough for both of us.

"And she wakes!" Elle's blonde hair was pulled up and she had a huge red flannel scarf on that dwarfed her frame. She was sitting at the bar table with Melanie, chomping a peanut butter sandwich, her bag resting against her feet. "Let's go."

Two granola bars tucked into my pockets and a hug from Melanie later, I was shivering in Elle's passenger seat, watching the rain pound the windows. "Can you please turn up the heater in this thing?"

Elle rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be such a grumpy! Today's a good day! One period, two frees, and one last! We have so much free time!"

I always wondered why Elle put up with me (and why I put up with her). I was moody and she was loud. She was the sort of person who smiled and said hi to everyone. I usually walked around with my hands in my pockets, dogging her footsteps. I loved her more than anyone in the world, though, and I supposed she did me. We were glued to each other. What was the wise statement from Modern Family?

'The dreamers need the realists to keep them from soaring too close to the sun.

And the realists?

Well, without the dreamers, they might not ever get off the ground.'

I turned up the heater myself, and forced a smile. "Yeah. I'll be in the library."

Elle rolled her eyes, but she was grinning as she pulled into a space. "Of course you will."

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Hi guys, Siv here, and thank you so much for even reading this far. I'm really excited for this story, and I hope you are too. I, unfortunately, do not really have a fixed update schedule, but I'll do my best to pump this one out.

Bye for now - see you all next chapter!