Cold air snakes around my ankles, the breeze sending goosebumps up my arms. I finally force the window shut with shaky hands, warm air now surrounding me.
As I take my seat again, I find myself staring out the window at something particular. Something I don't have anymore. A young girl is crossing the street with her mother, the girl's hand tightly intertwined with the woman's.
Sadness races through my veins, everything beginning to hurt inside. God, I miss her. If I could just spend one more day with my mother, I would take that offer with both hands and cherish it forever. But sadly, people don't magically come back from the dead and spend quality time with their loved ones. One can only dream.
A sudden knock at the door breaks my train of thought, the sound nearly giving me a heart attack.
"What?" I snap. Nobody really gets mad at me when I'm rude. That's probably due to the fact that I was adopted, so they want to keep me happy. At least, for the first week of me being here. Hugh and his servants are bound to begin punishing me for my rude behavior soon.
"Dinner's ready!" Rosie, one of the servants, informs me. She has a thick accent when she speaks, but I still can't tell where she came from. It's kind of a game I play, since I have nothing better to do.
All of the servants and maids that work in the mansion are foreign, each with their own unique accent. Trying to figure out where exactly they originate from is difficult, yet highly entertaining.
"Alright, coming!" I yell back. Before exiting the room I now call mine, I snatch my gray hoodie from my dresser, carelessly slipping it over my head as I begin my journey down the winding stairs leading to the kitchen.
Well, one of the many kitchens spread out across the entire mansion. To be completely honest, living in a mansion always sounded like a fantasy to me. A paradise you claim your home.
Actually living in one isn't what I pictured it to be, though. Not at all. Hugh, the man that adopted me, is an extremely wealthy man. His father passed down this house to him before he died, basically handing him something that people work for their entire lives.
Without a large family, the mansion just feels empty and sad. The only people living in it are Hugh, me, and his staff. That's it. It's pretty depressing.
Once I take a seat at the kitchen table, plates and silverware are immediately set in front of me, the hot steam from the food now burning my cheeks. The smell of whatever sits on my plate isn't exactly pleasant either. I nearly gag at the sight of it.
"What are we eating?" I ask cautiously, my nose wrinkling in disgust. Before one of the servants can answer, Hugh slides into the seat across from me, now speaking up for them.
"Pata Negra, Caspian caviar, and Parte de Campagne Forrestier." He informs me, the words basically sounding like a foreign language to me. I just nod as if I understand, slowly taking a bite of one of the foods.
A horrible taste explodes across my tongue, the sensation nearly bringing the food back up. Nobody seems to notice me almost gagging to death across from them, so I just continue, forcing myself to eat the rest.
"How are you enjoying your new room, Jessi?" Hugh suddenly asks me, his eyes not meeting mine.
"It's big," is all I respond with, trying my best to not express my struggle in finishing the food on my plate. Hopefully this isn't how things are forever. Not being adopted for ten years was one thing, but this is much worse.
When I pictured myself being adopted, it was me joining a big happy family. A mother, a father, and siblings close to my age. Of course, that was an unrealistic dream of mine.
Nobody wants a fifteen year old; everyone wants to adopt a baby. I grew up being unwanted, always wishing someone would soon claim me as their own. Now that I am wanted, I regret ever wishing I was.
"Well, I hope you're enjoying yourself. We love having you here," Hugh continues in a bored voice, his eyes still not looking up at mine. The way he talks about me is as if I'm just a temporary guest and not his daughter. All I've ever wanted is to be loved by someone. Hugh is definitely not that someone.
I didn't even notice that I was staring at him until now, his eyes now darting in my direction.
"What? Is there something on my face?" he asks as he rubs his hands across his cheeks, beginning to search for the nonexistent substance. His face is not what has my attention right now.
I stare at his upper arm where a tattoo is partially covered, the bottom tip of a red number six slightly poking out of his shirt sleeve.
"No," I reply softly, my eyes continuing to study the tattoo closely. His eyes finally notice where I'm looking, his fingers immediately tugging the shirt sleeve over the ink.
"Why number six?" I ask with an eyebrow raised, my eyes wide with curiosity.
He jabs his finger in between his wide framed glasses, forcing them higher up on the bridge of his nose. "It's personal," he replies with a slight frown, his shaky hands dragging the newspaper closer to him.
That's a clear sign that the conversation ends there. I stuff the last few bites of food into my mouth, forcing them down with a glass of water. Rosie immediately begins cleaning up my mess, signaling me to head to bed.
Oh, did I forget to mention that I have a bed time? Ten o'clock is the magic number, summer or not. The trip up the winding stairs isn't fun either, each time more tiring than the last.
I collapse onto my bed, the soft fabric tickling my cheeks. My body twists around in discomfort, the room growing extremely cold again.
I groan in frustration as I make my way over to the slightly cracked window, my weak arms forcing it closed again. The clock ticks furiously behind me, the numbers revealing that I only have five minutes to get ready for bed.
I quickly strip of my clothes, swapping them for an old t-shirt and pajama pants. The shirt belonged to my mother, the thought nearly bringing me to tears. Why do I do this to myself? I'm never going to get over her death if I just dwell on the fact forever. I know I will never change, though. She will never leave me.
My fingers gently unwind the holder keeping my hair up in a ponytail, my long blonde hair soon collapsing to my shoulders. I brush through the wavy strands with my hands, the hair beginning to straighten out to it's usual appearance.
Just as I'm about to reach for the brush on my dresser, a loud sound catches my attention. Not just a loud sound, but an eerily close one. I spin around to face the door which has been thrown open, my eyes now meeting Hugh's.
He stares coldly into mine, his lips now twisting into a devious smile. A familiar object rests in his right hand, but it's too late by the time I realize what it is.
Hugh lunges for me, my body hitting the ground with a thud. His hand wraps around my mouth, my voice immediately cut off from screaming for help. My head is twisted to the side, his hand now forcing my ear to the ground.
"Sleep tight," he hisses against my cheek, his hand lifting above my head. I scream out for help, but no words escape my lips.
Hugh jabs a syringe into my neck, the serum it held now pumping through my veins. Pain rages throughout my neck, everything slowing down inside me. Before I even know it, I'm out cold.
My eyes slowly flutter open, everything inside me now throbbing with pain. I tilt my head forward, things now beginning to come into focus. My entire body is strapped down into a chair, an I.V pumping a blue liquid into my arm.
I tilt my head to the side, a person sitting on the other side of me, them too strapped down and attatched to an I.V. It's a boy around my age, his dark hair messily covering his forehead.
My body jolts forward, pain shooting up my torso. I screech out in pain, my fingers clawing at the restraints holding them down. It's no use trying.
As I study my surroundings, what it is suddenly hits me. I've seen them before in movies and on TV shows; I'm on an airplane. I thrust forward again, this time the pain coursing up my arms. My teeth dig into my lower lip, my mouth beginning to taste of metal.
As I slightly twist my back around in the chair, I notice more people are on the plane; all of them teenagers around my age. Two more boys and two girls, them still out cold.
I just want to wake up from this nightmare. Please wake up. Please wake up.
"We're almost to our destination," a voice says from the front of the plane, someone responding. I can't understand what the other person is saying.
Almost to what destination?! Loud footsteps now echo throughout the plane, each sound growing closer and closer.
A woman dressed in a red suit steps in front of me, her brown hair tucked back in a military-style hat. She adjusts something on my I.V, her face painted in absolute disgust.
"Sweet dreams," she whispers in a cheery voice, her lips twisting into a smile. I twist around in my seat, everything beginning to rage in pain again. My vision is growing blurry, the sound of the woman laughing now distorted.
Then I blackout.