Alright, here is the first story I'm putting up. It is all death and gore. Consider yourself warned. This is going to be a one-shot and is extremely OOC.

The way this story is written is in two different time periods. The normal font is one scene, and the bold italicized font is another. Hopefully none of you will get confused.

Oh, uh. And I own nothing.

Enjoy,

Dess.

I treaded lightly, careful to make no noise. I walked through the hallway, the wood all rotten and dark, with no light to reveal where the walls still stood or where the chandelier hung useless and dead. It was alright, though. I knew this house by heart. This home. Not my home; no one's home now.

I was at the dining room table, my entire family was there. My four brothers, Jacob, Quil, Embry, and Paul. They all sat next to each other, Sam on my left. On my right sat my aunt Leah, then next to her Charlie. Across from him sat Renee and Phil. This was the first holiday that we had all been together after the divorce.

The front stairway loomed overhead; kept together by only threads of wood. I stood in front of the large oak door and paused for a moment.

The table was an oval shape with a large white table cloth that draped off the ends. The dishes were our nice china; only used for special occasions. Everyone was happy.

I turned to gather my last glimpse of the magnificent dwelling before me. I stared. I stared, and stared, and stared; possibly for hours.

The plates were white pearls that glowed with dancers teetering on the rim. The bowls had flowers in the center that were magically revealed when I cleared my plate.

I prayed. I prayed as I watched the spider devour the moth caught in its web. I reminisced about a happier time, a joyous moment. I wished for a life better than this one, for a choice that does not lead to pain. I prayed and hoped to a god unknown and not believed in.

The cutlery was silver with long, sharp handles that glistened with the reflection of the chandelier on the ceiling. Three forks, each one smaller than the one next to it. There was one spoon and one knife. A dull, boring knife.

I opened the door and stepped out into the crisp, stiff, cold air. I smelled the sea close by – it smelled like salt, foam and fish.

Paul was ornery, and had gotten upset because he wanted two potatoes in his soup, rather than one. I didn't understand his temper-tantrum over the potato. He was always such a hothead. And he always got seconds anyway.

The doorknob slipped out of my hand as I reached toward my pocket.

Aunt Leah was garrulous and very boring too. I never liked sitting next to her; but I always had to because I was smallest.

The tranquil evening disturbed me. The world should have been screaming, should have been crying. Should have been scared. The full moon and bright stars mocked me with their fake joy. The wind rustled the leaves into false laughter.

I was happy. I was content.

Anyone else would have been comforted, should have been comforted, by the peace and serenity. But not me. No, never me.

My tummy was full and I was laughing at something Embry had said.

I clutched the lighter, still in my pocket; already regretting what I was about to do. "I have to. I have to. I promised." I murmured to no one.

It was a knock-knock joke, a knock-knock joke that the grown-ups never thought was funny; but I loved them. They had always made me laugh. A lot had made me laugh, I had been so happy.

I glided down the porch steps, the front door still wide open, and stomped into a small bush with dry leaves front autumns visit.

I bent down and lifted a shrub that resided next to the larger plant. My breath created little puffs of cloud transcending over the leaves while I brought the lighter into the frigid air.

My dad stood up and raised his glass to make a toast. I couldn't hold my cup without spilling some, so Jacob held it for me. He was my favorite, and he liked me the best.

The branch caught on fire quickly, burning a bright yellow color that disturbed my vision. I threw it into the bush I was standing in, and quickly found my way out.

Aunt Leah stopped talking for a brief moment, out of respect to my dad. All my siblings quieted. My father never talked much, but when he did, he spoke poetry. We all loved the way he talked, like words in a Shakespeare play.

I trotted about a hundred yards away, believing that the fire would not reach me there. I watched as the fire consumed the moldy wood; it all happened fairly quickly.

Sadly, before Daddy said a word, there was a knock on the door. It was a normal knock, not threatening or anything like that. There was no hint, no warning.

Then the house collapsed; that I was expecting.

My father went to open the door as the knocking persisted.

What came as a dark surprise to me was that the burning timbers leaped far from their origin, lighting a fire wherever the greedy tongues spread.

In my earnestness to find out who was at the door, I jumped out of my chair and ran towards the door. But as the saying goes: curiosity killed the cat.

One burning branch hit a tree to my right, another onto the grass in front of me. The fire began to spread, very, very quickly.

I saw who was there and I froze. But not for long, I didn't have a chance. What I saw scarred me forever.

The dry leaves and grass gave perfect burning material for the fire to absorb within seconds. It ran toward me, like a stallion running from a lion. It ran faster than I could.

I saw my dad falling, as if he had tripped. The only clue as to what had actually happened was wedged deep into his skull, that and the blood that was staining the carpet. The blonde man in black glared at me, the pistol still in his right hand.

The crunching and popping was overpowering. The heat paralyzed me. The fire got closer and I couldn't move.

I almost screamed, but the man was fast. He put a smelly black glove over my mouth and lifted me from my head. It hurt me, but I couldn't cry out.

I snapped out of my revere when I noticed the flames were less than a yard away. Adrenaline struck my blood and I was finally able to move. I bolted down the slope, heading away from the fire. Brambles scraped against my jeans, my hair whipped around; the curly springs stinging my face.

The man walked, half carrying me and half dragging me in a very painful choke hold. He went into the dining room. My mother was startled when she found that it was not Charlie who had walked in. the man shot her before she could even make a sound. He shot her right between the eyes.

I bounded across rocky landscape, now scrambling up boulders; still trying to spare my body a witch's death. The fire followed, gaining on the heels of me shadow.

Everyone started to scream, but one by one they stopped. One by one they created their own stains on the carpet. One by one I watched them die, powerless to help them in the grip of this murderous stranger.

I travelled up and up, I had no idea how long I had been running, but my breath was coming in gasps and my lungs burned from the frozen air.

I had long since stopped struggling, but the tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes, my family was dead; he had killed them, he was going to kill me.

I looked up and saw a peak. I felt a tiny spark of hope and attempted to snuff it, hope only brings pain.

In the distance I heard sirens, hope filled me and I thought I might be able to get out. The man turned and dropped me. I scrambled away, ducking under the table as he shot at me and missed. He hit a lamp, then a dish, then the table. But I kept moving, blindly stumbling up the steps. He tried to follow, but there was a loud bang at the door as the police came in and caught him before he caught me.

I reached the peak, the fire not far behind. What I saw made my breath stop and my eyes widen.

The police arrested the man and found me weeping at the top of the stairs.

During my panic the clouds had moved in, the wind picked up, and a storm was brewing quickly. It seemed that the world had taken my pain into consideration, and made the weather match. I looked down and almost fell off the edge of the jagged, rocky cliff. A thousand feet below the black waters churned and crashed, sending drops of spray hundreds of feet up into the air.

They brought me down the stairs and I saw my oldest brother, Quil, still breathing. I ran over to him and squeezed his hand. He looked up me slowly, struggling to stay alive. "When you get old enough, when you turn eighteen, burn this house. Burn the past. Burn your memories. Burn our sins. You will understand. Promise me. Promise." Those were his final words, then his hand dropped limp and his eyes blankly stared at something beyond what I could see.

I stared, my predicament momentarily leaving my mind – my conscious attempting to grasp at a scene, a reality that was not my own. I stared, hypnotized. That is, until I felt the singe of flame against my back. I jumped forward, barely regaining my balance; I had no choice. The flames had trapped me, they had won.

"I promise. I promise." I whispered to the corpse.

I was going to die. The realization was no shock to me, I had seen death before. I had watched my family die.

The police led me out of the house, out of that life. They led me out of the cold, crisp dusk. The sun reflected on the water that crashed against the nearby cliff. The sea could be smelled in the air.

By now the flames had reached my hands. I screamed.

I knew that one day I would have to come back, not because I wanted to, but because I had promised.

I jumped. I jumped and I flew, I fell for a second. A frozen second, a second paused in time. I felt the spray; I smelled the waves. Then I hit the water, the freezing water that put out the flames that soothed the burns. I hit the water hard, like falling on concrete, but I barely felt it. I barely felt it at all.

So what do you guys think? Review Review Review! If you hate it, tell me. If you love it, tell me. Thanks for reading,

Dess