PROLOGUE

HOPE ESTHIEM

I met him when I was only nine years old. It was my hometown-everything wasn't as new and bright as other towns. The roads were mostly dirt; we ran out of money, so only the most active parts of town had proper roads. The houses were mostly farms with dirty, broken white fences, brown grass, lots of flies, mud, and trash. Tall, green hills separated us from the rest of the world-only very few trucks came through every month.

My family was like almost everybody else; we owned a small house that looked as if it could be a trailer home's cousin; we had little land in the backyard, where only four cows and a dozen chickens ran free. The pen house where the hens slept was guarded 24/7 by our old dog, Hooper. He kept his droopy ear alert at all times, even though his eyes were closed half the time.

Me? I hardly had any friends; most of the time I was helping my mother with the chores (cleaning the pen house, gathering eggs, feeding the animals). Only a neighborhood girl named Vanille tried to spend time with me, but I continuously denied her. I don't need any friends-I have Hooper. He's the best friend I could ever had, even if he was due to die any time now. I have my mother, too; even though at times she may be rough with me, she can be kind and gentle.

And him... he became the closest friend-even closer than Hooper. I met him when I was only nine years old. When I was dirty, messy, tired. Like always. Like everyday.

Mother asked me to go to the market. She said as she handed me a couple of coins, "Buy some chicken feed. They're hungry, and it'll be hard for them to lay eggs without proper food."

As always, I accepted, and went down the dirt road with the coins jingling in my brown trousers pocket. Looking to my right and my left, I could see dirty, broken white fences, and children I knew very well running and playing with one another. They would always give me that scowl of theirs when I passed. The scowl of disapproval. The same look my father would give me.

"Hey, stupid kid, how is it not going to school!?" One shouted to me as I kept my eyes low. I studied my dirty, bare feet as it stepped one after another on the cold dirt road. Strange enough, even though the air was humid and burning hot, the ground always managed to stay icy.

"Yeah!" said another as he picked up his muddy blue ball. "Are you learning how to take care of your stupid mother at home? It must be easy being a retard!"

Their mocking laughter did nothing to me; it was now easy to ignore them. At first the words stung, like a finger against a rose thorn, or a foot on glass. But, now-now it was as normal as a breeze through my hair, or the clouds in the sky. They were no one to me; if they dropped dead right there and then, it wouldn't matter to me. Flowers died, animals died, trends died. Everything was to die one day.

I managed to turn the corner as they continued to shout; to be an annoyance. One day they would regret ever speaking such words to me. It wasn't even my fault I couldn't go to school; school cost money here. And my father wasn't willing to take very little money out of his savings account and let me have a proper education. It was his gambling money, and he only wanted to spend that money on things for himself. Only for beer, and to gamble more. Only.

The man from the market knew me well, he greeted me by name when I arrived, and said a hearty goodbye when I left ("Why, hello there Hope! What would you like today?" "Are you finished already? Have a nice day!").

On my way home, there were more insults shouted my way, but I ignored them all. Gripping the market bag full of chicken feed tightly, I turned down to my road. Everything was normal; the sun was setting, the clouds disappearing in the darkening sky. The children were being called back home by their parents, them not looking at me even once. My family was the known as the "retards." Mother didn't go to school, father never passed College, and now I wasn't going to school. All the families with successful children were moving out to Pulse, a wealthy city far away, one by one while this was my permanent home. Cocoon was my home.

Everything continued to be normal, up until the usual aroma of baked chicken with rice was shielded by heavy cologne. Cologne... no one could afford any of that here. Actually, they could, but it was a complete waste of money. The cologne was strong; overpowering. My eyes began to swell up in tears as I walked closer and closer to the source of the stench.

Walking straight towards me on the road of my house was a man with hair the color of gold. He wore an expensive looking trench coat, black gloves, and necklaces that sparkled even in the dim lighting of the sun. A hat was forced onto his head-a hat I've never seen in this town before. His eyes captured the color of the large ocean perfectly; it was a magnificent blue. I'd never seen a man like this before... And by the stares of other residents, I'm sure they haven't, either.

He must've been from Pulse. That horrid, terrible town full of bratty children and stuck up adults. All the perfect families went there. And most of them came back to Cocoon just to brag about their fabulous lives over the mountains. So far-over the mountains. I could never imagine what happens over. Maybe Broadway shows everyday, and parties with glass tumblers and only the most expensive wine. Father talks about it every night-when he isn't gambling and drinking beer in front of the TV, he's doing his job as a truck driver. And as a truck driver, he's gone through the city of Pulse. He brings back stories, and every body in town just comes to the end of the street to listen to him. I never go, though. Mother tells me not to. She's afraid the kids will pick on me and mock me like they always do.

"You're from that city up over em' mountens, aren't ya?" Old man Withers from down the street says as he drags his bad leg towards the golden-haired man. They're stories about from when he was younger; he lived in Cocoon his whole life, doing drugs and hanging out with the bad crowd who still live two blocks away. When he was in his late teen's, he got in an accident that crippled him for life. His wife, Mrs. Martha, stood from the gate protecting her house, just staring with uncertain eyes. No one has ever seen her leave her property, except for when Old man Withers goes to the doctor, which isn't very often at all.

The golden-haired man ran his eyes over the old man, and even though he wasn't looking at me in such a way, I felt an excited shiver go up my spine. Such intensity in his eyes even grabbed me in its hold, and I found it hard to look away.

The man, then, grinned, flashing pearly white teeth. The kind of white teeth only the families blessed with good genes in this town had. Mother had white teeth; the whitest in the town. Father drank too much coffee and hardly brushed his teeth, though, so his were yellow. Mine were just like mother's, though. I felt lucky, sometimes, when I'd look into the mouth of the kids who picked on me, and saw their jagged, yellow teeth.

"The name's Snow. Snow Villiers. I'll be staying here from now on, so please take care of me," he said, his eyes studying every residents face who dared to come out of their house and silently greet him. And then his eyes met me-those ocean blue eyes. They were the perfect storm of icy and dark blue. Another shiver ran up my spine as I stared back. His eyes happened to stay on mine for quite awhile; I counted four seconds exactly. I was young then; All I could understand was this strange feeling every time I stared intently at his face. But, what I did know and understand was that I wanted to get to know him. Why was someone like him staying in a place like this? Shouldn't he be back in Pulse with his Broadway shows and wine parties?

I was going to find out- I'm a curious boy.

The next day I woke up in my bed with the light of the sun in my eyes. I dreamed about Snow; I dreamed talking to me and understanding me. I dreamed of me understanding him back and asking him all kinds of questions about his life back in Pulse. But, every time he talked, I couldn't hear anything. All I could see was his pink lips moving, and his perfect storm blue eyes sparkling.

Squinting, I looked at the broken blinds of my only tiny window in the room. My floral print bed sheets had holes, revealing its age, and my pillow was so dirty it was brown. That meant it was wash day. We only had wash day once every month; we couldn't afford any more than that. And that meant I had a lot of work to do today.

Breakfast was the usual; barely cooked eggs and beef with hand squeezed orange juice. Mother liked to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner from scratch because it saved us a fortune. Eating the same thing every single day was a pain, though; but I didn't dare complain. That only made father angrier. And when my father was angry, my life at home was hell.

"Here's some money," mother said to me in a whisper as father watched TV in the other room with a bottle of beer. "Go to the laundry mat and wash your father's clothes first; he needs to go to work tomorrow. The basket is in th-"

"The closet; I know, ma." I said carefully, so she wouldn't get upset at me for back talking to her. She seemed calm, though, her face was as gentle and cute as a rabbit's, but her looks were deceiving- when she wanted to be, she was as strong as a chimp.

"Now go- hurry," mother dropped the coins into my dirty palm. "And as Mr. John if you can take a shower at his house again; you're filthy."

I didn't mind the filth. The filth showed how hard I worked every single day; it was a badge of honor. The filthier you were here, the more respect you received. But, we all listened to our mother's at the end of the day to wash up. Some kids who were wealthier than other washed more frequently. Kids like me, with no education, washed only about once every two months.

"Yes, ma," I said, and then left through the front screen door. The sun greeted me like it usually did, but I don't tan; I only burn. Mother makes it her duty to buy sunscreen, no matter how little money we had. She didn't want me to be in pain, which I appreciated. Mother was always kind to me- that's why she was one of my only best friends.

I walked to the back of the house, where a giant pile of father's clothes was sitting. Entering through the back door, I rummaged through our tiny closet and pulled out the basket with the broken handle. I worked out in the hot sun, stacking his T-shirts and jeans and undergarments into the big gray basket.

After finishing, I walked back around to the front of the house and trotted down the road. The street kids, as usual, were playing with their muddy ball. Their innocent smiles and carefree lives made me angry. So angry, in fact, that I wanted to pick up the broken wooden stick on the ground and beat them with it. They looked at me, and their mocking grins appeared again. The urge to hit them only intensified, but I turned away and walked faster, not wanting any unnecessary confrontation.

I managed to turn the corner without any insults my way. I felt satisfied, and began trotting faster, listening to my panting and the pitter-patter of my feet against the dirt ground. My feet were always dirty; always slightly bloody and sore. It was just another regular trait now, though- just like using your hands to eat.

I continued to walk down the street, feeling strangely better about myself. But, suddenly I immediately met the man I just dreamed about the night before. He was sitting on a bench on the corner-just sitting there-looking up into the sky. The sun made his hair and eyes literally glow. My mouth absentmindedly parted, and I couldn't look away.

He sat there, not noticing that I was standing there, staring at him. He was holding something tightly in his gloved-fist. It was glistening between his fingers, just like the necklaces around his neck. Why wasn't he at home? Why was he not doing something productive, like feeding his chickens or making breakfast?

Snow blinked, and then slowly, lazily, turned his head and looked at me. My heart practically stopped in my chest, and it felt as if he was moving in slow motion. His grin appeared, it appeared slowly, as if treading through ocean water. It was a smile that pulled me towards him, like a magnet.

"C'mere, kid." Snow's deep voice said as he patted the spot beside him. I hesitated, and then trotted towards him, ignoring my mission for a few minutes. Or hours.

I reached him, and then took a seat. The wooden bench creaked underneath my weight. His perfect storm eyes didn't look away, his eyes were still running over the features of me face. A stronger shiver zipped throughout my body, and my breathing halted.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked.

"Hope." I muttered. "Hope Esthiem."

I looked away, but I could still feel him staring at me; studying me. I couldn't help but feel self-conscious. I smelt bad, didn't I? I looked like a homeless kid, right? Snow probably thought all of that, and that made me feel like bigger crap.

"Hope," he repeated, as if thinking. "Hope," he repeated, except he was calling me.

I flinched a bit- I flinched at his deep, husky voice. It was even deeper than my fathers. More dominant, demanding, yet in a soothing way. "Yes?"

"Do you ever think of breaking free?" He asked, looking back up at the sky. His fist weakened a bit, and I could see a bit more of the shining silver object in it. An urge to reach forward and open it completely overcame me, but I held back for as long as I could.

I placed the basket at my feet, and then stuffed my hands between my legs. "Breaking free?"

"Getting away from your old self. Breaking free." He said. His eyes were somewhere distant; lost in thought.

I looked back ahead and shrugged. "I... I guess so."

Snow laughed; his laugh was new to me. The way he tossed his head back, narrowed his eyes, and just let himself go was strange. "You're too young to understand, aren't you?"

"I'm not," I muttered, looking at his fist. "I'm old enough to understand. If you'd let me."

Snow looked at me- I could feel it. And I looked back, getting caught up in the stare once again. His eyes ran over my face; looked deep into my eyes. And then a cat-like, devious grin appeared onto his face. The grin made me feel as if something bad was about to happen.

"Can I trust you, Hope?" He asked, his eyes narrowing into a serious stare.

I spoke before thinking- "Of course." I wanted him to like me; to confide in me. Just like in my dreams, except, this time I'd actually like to hear him speak. Hear him talk with his soothing voice.

"If I can trust you, you can trust me. Right?" He asked.

I gave him a hesitated nod. "Yeah."

"Then." he began. "This is our little secret. Just ours." He opened his fist, revealing a beautiful silver necklace. They're were tiny silver balls and twirls on it, and it looked magnificent. I carefully reached my hands forward, my eyes darting from his face to his hand.

Once he gave me a certain grin-nod, I picked up the necklace and studied it. I've never seen something look so pretty before! It looked like it was worth a fortune! Why would he give it to someone like me?

"You act like a caveman that discovered fire or something," Snow laughed again, except a more deeper, joyful laugh.

I couldn't help but crack a smile. "Why are you... giving me this?"

"You're the only one I will trust in this town, Hope," he said, without missing a beat. "You have the kind of face. I'm sure we'll be great partners."

I unhooked the necklace after a bit of work. Snow took the necklace from my hands and re-hooked it once he pulled it around my neck. He stunk of cologne; it was overwhelmingly strong, but it was no longer foreign to me anymore. It was welcoming.

"Keep this safe," he said, quietly. He gave me a stern look, and I couldn't help but nod.

"Y-Yeah. I promise."

"Good." He smiled. "Don't come here for the next 12 months. Just keep walking and do your business. And don't lose the necklace. Understand?"

I blinked slowly. "Where will you be?"

Snow patted my back. Another shiver zipped through me. "Don't worry about. Just trust me, okay? Don't forget this moment."

I nodded enthusiastically. I wouldn't; and he knew that. He knew it as impossible for me to forget.

I never did.