Chapter 1-"The Beginning"—Draft-10-28-07

I stalked off, not wanting to be around there anymore. Most of the time, my parents and I got along pretty

well, but recently the tiniest thing could agitate one of us. Maybe it's because I'm home schooled, or

because I don't have as many friends as my parents would like. But whatever it is, it can't possibly be

because I don't love them. I've always been close to my parents; in times of tragedy, happiness, or plain

complication; we've always been there for each other. But I remember one time in particular when all of us

needed each other, when all of us needed the comfort and support. It was when I was about five years old,

(it's odd that I can remember that far back, it's been close to seven years) when the third terrorist attack

took place. I can remember laying in bed with the sheets over my head, because it was nearly and hour past

my bedtime. But I was so intrigued by what happened that I couldn't sleep. So I stayed up, with my radio

on, watching the screen intently. There were people running everywhere, oxygen masks that had been

disregarded, mom screaming, children crying. The news reporter's voice is only a blur now, but I can

remember what she looked like as well as if it had happened only seconds ago. She had short black hair,

dark eyes, pale skin, and--to me--she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And I still think she is. I

can remember her looking very young, but now I can't be sure. It was then that I almost burst into tears. I

saw people's bodies lying on the street, people bleeding from limbs, limbs; I had been focusing so intently

on the words of the scene that I didn't bother to look at what was happening around it. All of a sudden, I

was launched into a wave of terror and shock. I couldn't contain it any longer; I let out a wail. The only

thing I can remember after that is my mom cradling me in her arms, with my dad standing watchfully next to

her. Then later they told me that Uncle Dyer had been killed in the attack and I—again—started sobbing

uncontrollably. Uncle Dyer was my absolute favorite person in the whole entire polluted, corrupt planet. He

visited every two months, spending a week with my family. And he called me every week with my family.

And he called me every week (usually on Friday afternoons), telling my about his week and asking an

infinity of questions about mine. I always enjoyed talking to him. I a way, he was my best friend. I could tell

him anything, ask him anything. Uncle Dyer was really a kid at heart, even though he was already 37. We'd

sneak around the house playing pranks; we'd make a tent in the living room. Sometimes he would even

take me to 'The Great Indoors'—where the outdoors are specially kept unpolluted and harm free, for kids

and adults (even though the adult section is in another building). We'd play a game of 'Mummy Space

Warriors' (a game he and I had made up during one of his visits), running around and jumping off of rocks

and climbing over fallen trees. If the playground-bot didn't complain about the racket we were causing, I'm almost positive he and I would have stayed there until they closed.

My mom was devastated when she heard the news. My mom only had her brother (My Uncle Dyer) and her

mom left. My grandpa passes away before I was even born. And my dad's parents died just shortly after—

leaving their only child to fend for himself and his newly expanded family.