It happened every month; on every second Sunday, at exactly 11:59 P.M. the screams would start, echoing around the world like a dreadful reminder. Anyone, human or not, who heard the screams of pain and terror would know that once again, The Event had started. Routines were the same everywhere. Mothers would usher their children into their homes, whether big or small, while fathers and father figures alike would silently protect and pray; pray that The Even never hit their towns or came near their families. Children under twelve years of age would be left curious, once again wondering about what had caused the shrill screams and why. If above the age of twelve, children would join their fathers in praying silently in their hearts; for they knew the consequences of The Event. But there was always one category of people that prayed the most, hoped the hardest, and worried constantly. During The Event, one could often find females, between the ages of thirteen and twenty-one sitting in corners, surrounded by those who would give their lives to protect them. Tears would be rolling down their cheeks as even their screwed shut eyes leaked them. Most would bite their lip in order to contain sobs, so hard that often, there were also small, thin streams of the dark liquid tumbling down their chins. The terror they felt, naked and strong on their faces, made it hard for anyone to lay their eyes on the females during The Event. They had everything to fear, because they were the ones being hunted. It happened every month; on every second Sunday, at exactly 11:59 P.M. the screams would start. And then, at precisely midnight, the screams would silence immediately, letting the world know that The Event was over for the moment. Everyone knew that, somewhere, a girl between the ages of thirteen and twenty-one had been taken, and would never be seen again in history. This time, that unlucky girl just happened to be me.