Hello there and welcome to my first story about the Divergent trilogy. I've written before stories before, but I kind of lost my email and my password of my first account, so here I am, writing with on a new account. Anyway, I just finished reading Allegiant a couple of days ago, and as many of you are, I'm sad about what happened to Tris. So this idea built inside my head in just a few hours, threatening to come out. The story takes place after the last book.

This is the prologue, so it's pretty short, but I'll try to update the first chapter as soon as I can.

I do not own the story. If I had, I wouldn't have ended it this way, obviosly.

Summary: Second chances usually don't exist. At least I didn't expect I'd receive one after I had died. And it isn't the kind of second chance you see in movies nowdays because the history repeats itself, warning us that there may be a few changes, but the ending will be the same.

Prologue

We would like you to attend...

Monday. Another Monday when I'll just be happy that by the end of the day I'll be finished with everything. Another Monday when I'll just wait patiently for Math, History and all the other classes to pass by in slow motion. And another Monday when I'll look like I didn't sleep well the nigh before. Which is actually true. Because every nigh since I can remember I've had these strange dreams. The dreams in which I see my mother, I see my father, sometimes both getting killed, sometimes living with them in a house, along with a boy I don't know, wearing strange gray cloths that are hiding almost all our skin. And sometimes I dream a few people, my age, that even if I hadn't met in my life, I feel like I've know them for the longest I can remember. And then, there is him. Tall, with tattoos covering almost most oh his back skin.

I've been having these dreams since I was little and during the past few years I've cataloged them as nightmares. Because they are violent and they are keeping me awake. Not because I am afraid of them. Which is strange. One fact about these dreams I have is that I can barely remember these peoples' faces. I feel like I know them but I don't know where from. The only reason that I know my parents are in my dreams is that I can feel their presence. Sometimes I accept these dreams because I rarely see my parents. Even before I was born, my parents started their own company and some of the profits were always meant to help people around our city. But their company grew larger and in just a few years it has gotten known in the USA and in some other continents, and so has their help.

I am proud of my parents, I really am. But I would prefer them to stay a little longer with me, because I just need them. I need them when I wake in the middle of the night, all sweaty and waiting for one of the characters from my dreams to come and kill me.

"Beatrice, can you help me out with this exercise, please?"

I look up at the voice's owner. Laura, one of my classmates if looking with her big black eyes at me, pleading me to help her out. I sight and I mutter a "Sure" making her laugh a bit. I look at the exercise and start explaining it to her, making her understand it, which actualy makes me explain it three times.

"Understood." she starts singing, happy that she can now do it on her own. "You know, I don't understand one thing." she says as she looks through the window. At this I look at her, norrowing my eyes. No way am I going to explain it for the fourth time. I jerk a little when I think about the number four, which i don't understand. It always happens when I hear or say this number and I can't explain why, which is frustrating.

"What?" I ask, and I think that Laura can guess why I sound so irritated.

"Don't worry, it's not about the exercise. It's about your accent." she says as she looks at me. "You said that you have been living in San Diego ever since you were born, but your accent it sure sound like the one from Illionis."

I struggle at this. "I know, but that's just the way my parents speak." The way I said it made her understand that I don't want to continue this conversation.

But still, what she says it is true. I don't have an accent from here, and neither do my parents. They have a lot of secrets - I figured this out a long time ago - and this may be one of them.

I brush a little my hair so I can gather it in a ponytail. My hair is pretty long, just a few inches above my elbows, so I can't really run or do anything in my sport classes with it hang loose. I look at my reflection in the mirror and I can see my blond hair and my blue eyes standing out. I'm not tall, not at all. Most of my classmates tell me I should wear high heels so that I can't be confused with a thirteen year old. But I don't care and I usually don't wear high heels. The only time when I did was when I had to go with my parents at an important dinner party at the the spring prom. I don't like standing out.

I run my hand over my face, tired of everything and glad that this is my last class for today. I can't really think of anything else, except that when I get home I'm going to take a nap and hope that at least now I'll be able to sleep well.

When I get home, all I can think about is a hot bath. Not even food can make me happier than a hot bath and an hour of sleep without nightmares. As I unlock the door to our house, a house which I can feel it's pretty big knowing that the only person that usually lives here it's me and sometimes Jane, a woman in her late thirties who takes care of our house and of me when my parents aren't home.

"Beatrice!" I hear my name as I enter the house. How I said, it looks big, at least to me. The house has three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom and a room for Jane. To me it looks like it.

"Yes?" I answer as I enter the kitchen and feel the good smell of whatever she is cooking.

"You received a letter, dear."

At this I rise one of my eyebrows. A letter? I don't have a lot of friends. Actually, I can't say I have any. I am in a group of people from my school, yes, but I don't feel like myself around them. I move to the table and reach out for the letter. I don't see any name from who sent it, just my name and my address. As I tear the envelope, I have a strange feeling. My stomach feels funny in a way I can't explain.

For Miss Beatrice Prior,

Because I have known your dear parents for a long time, and because I longed to meet you for even longer, I wish for you to participate to the party I am holding this coming Friday. The event will take place in Chicago and a car will be taking you from the airport. I have already bought you a ticket for on of the planes. You will meet there with your parents.

Wish you well,

J.M.

Well, that's it. This is the prologue of my story. Do you know who J.M. is?

Would love to read your reviews and your opinions about this.