Project HALO

Chapter 1

"One form of dictatorship is being in a prison cell where you can see the bars and touch them. The other one is sitting in a prison cell, but you can't see the bars and you think you are free."

- David Icke

CHAPTER 1

I thought running away from home would be easy.

Man, was I wrong.

I can't even find the damn car keys. The weekly cleaning company left five minutes ago, leaving every room spotless and orderly, and I'm getting more and more convinced my father brought every single key with him on his business trip to Germany. I groan as I search through his desk. Again. It's not like the lack of a car will stop me, but I'd prefer my father's sleek Mercedes Benz to a crowded, smelly bus. The plan had been to use Mikey's car and road trip through Europe, but that's not happening anymore. Not after he ratted me out. Now I'm expelled and friendless. Whatever. It's not like either of us have a license, so it doesn't matter what car I use because I'll be driving illegally anyway. Mikey would have hated that, so maybe it's for the best that he stays here in boring Norway. I'll go on the road trip alone, and I'll make it a permanent one. Yep. Summer 2025 will be great.

Most people would be happy to get an extra month off from school, but the thought of staying at my father's house for three consecutive months sends a scraping sensation through my nerves, pulling at them, urging me to run out the door without a second thought. So that's exactly what I'm doing. I hate vacations. The longer, the worse. I'm used to spending most of them at Mikey's place, but this year I don't have that escape. My hands grow shaky the more I think about my situation. How can I feel claustrophobic when I'm standing inside a fucking mansion? I flex my fingers and move onto the oak chest beneath the double windows, digging into the top drawer. The content makes me freeze. Underneath a couple of notebooks and folders, a golden picture frame sticks out. My stomach sinks. Even though my chest tightens so hard I can't breathe, I pull the frame out. I have to see her. One last time.

There are three people in the picture. It was taken seven years ago on a vacation in Santorini, Greece, with glorious weather and my mother's smile outshining the sun. My lips lift a bit at the edges, but a bitter taste fills my mouth. On the sides of the sun, there are dark clouds. Me and my father. It's disgusting how much I look like him and how little I look like her. As if I didn't hate myself enough already.

I put the picture back in the drawer and slam it shut. With my fists resting on the top of the chest, I stare out at the blooming garden and grind my teeth. I need to get the hell away from this place.

Another twenty minutes pass by before I stop mid-way through searching between the leather couch pillows in the living room, a revelation sparking to life in my brain. I turn slowly to the walk-in closet where we keep our outside clothes and shoes. Of course. I dart inside and go through my father's coats and jackets. At the very end of the row, in a light linen blazer, something jingles in the pockets. It's not the keys to the Mercedes, but I'm not too picky. The Rolls-Royce Sweptail will do.

With the keys in my pocket and a grin on my face, I run to my room to fetch my stuff. It's not much, just a couple of sweaters, pants, and some underwear. Most of my clothes are back at my dorm room, so I have to stop by a mall to pick up a few things. With my backpack over my shoulder, I make my way into the garage. The Rolls-Royce is parked between the Mercedes Benz and a BMW X7.