I sat in the moving van, scanning my dictionary that was rested in my lap. My Mom sat to my left, she has beautiful straight brown hair that rested on her shoulders although their were a few strands of grey hair. It was tucked behind her ears. Her blue eyes were highlighted by the small bit of purple eye shadow she was wearing. She hadn't really been out there since the divorce.
I looked quite different from her, since I wasn't technically related. I had soft auburn that curled towards the ends. My eyes were a dull green. I hardly put makeup on. I could never be bothered when I woke up in the morning.
"Sam?" Mom asked. "Sam, are you listening to me?"
"Pardon?" I asked, turning to face her.
Mom chuckled at me. "I was just pointing out you're new school." She nodded towards a huge old building to our left. It didn't really look like a school, more like a museum, maybe?
"Are you okay?" Mom asked. "I know that leaving LA is a big change, honey."
"I'm okay, Mom," I told her which was the truth. "Anyway, California has nicer weather. I'm sure it will be fun in Beacon Hills."
A comfortable silence fell over us as the drive to our new house continued. I finally found my word of the day.
cha·ot·ic adj. /k-ot-ik/
completely confused or disordered: a chaotic mass of books and papers.
It seemed like an accurate description of my life. It was just so incredibly chaotic. Everything that has ever happened seemed so difficult or, well, chaotic. It had been like that since I was born. My Mom had died during my birth and my Dad gave me up almost immediately. Great start, right?
Luckily I was adopted quite quickly and life started to pick up. My new Mom, Minerva, and Dad, Tom, were both very nice to me and they loved me like their own daughter. Until something snapped inside my Dad when I was around six. That's when the abuse began. He began to hit and starve me while my Mom was out and revel in my pain.
My Dad scared me to much and I refused to tell my Mom, not wanting to break up their marriage. I was a very deep thinker for a six year older. The abuse carried on until I was twelve, when I went to the pool my Mom and I refused to take off my shirt because if the bruises. My Mom had forced it off and was horrified at the sight.
Needless to say, Mom had gotten permission for divorce as fast as she could. Then puberty hit and my view on life changed. I had to start shaving legs, washing my face and I had to buy a bra, the whole nine yards. Boys started to notice me but all I could see were the bruises and scars.
When I was fourteen, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I had woken up one day with a black eye and absolutely no idea how it had gotten there.
I had cried to my Mom about it but she insisted that I didn't have one. I could not believe her! It was clearly there. When I had looked in the mirror again, it wasn't there.
But that wasn't the only thing that happened. I'd get mood swings all the time and I was not able to explain it. It was as if every emotion in the world was directed at me.
But the guidance counselor at my old school had been really helpful. She had always told me to focus on myself. Since then when I focused on my own emotions, I was okay. However everyone else thought it was just the meds helping me but it wasn't. I hadn't taken med in quite a few years. I just managed to magically make them disappear...
Our car pulled up into the small suburban house on a street called Lunar Street. The house was a quaint two story building. It's grey walls complimenting the white walls and shutters. The drive way led to a small garage, which already held my car which I had paid for. Her name was Bluebell and she was a black 1967 chevy impala.
As my Mom began to unpack the rest of the house, I went to find my own room. The walls were all a soft lavender colour apart from one which was a calming cream colour. It looked great and it meant I could stick posters all over the plain wall and not worry about ruining the paint.
The best thing in it was the abundances of bookshelves. I took great joy in reading and was actually pretty clever. Not that I would tell anyone outright. Suddenly a huge wave of sadness consumed me and tears spilled from my eyes. I lost control a flood of tears racing out. It was as if I was tuned into the world's emotions.
My Mom walked into my room, "Honey?" she questioned as I wiped away my tears. "Are you okay? How about you go look around. I'd be fine if you left, only if you want to that is."
I gave her a small smile. She was right, like usual. New places had always fascinated me. "That'd ve awesome. I'll see you soon, Mom. Love ya," I called out as I ran out of the house and into my car, speeding off. I cranked up my music 'Arctic Monkeys' blasting out of the speakers. As I drove around I spotted an animal hospital which I would definitely check out later. I didn't want to be a vet when I was older but I loved animals and it would be a great job.
Soon I found the one place I wanted to visit. I wasn't looking for it, everyone told me it was an unhealthy habit but it definitely eased the pain. It acted as an anesthetic on an open wound. I walked through the cemetery, looking at the names and inventing lives for all of them.
I needed a good name, something that suited him. I soon discovered the name Timothy Prosser. Close enough. I knelt down in front of the grave, fresh red flowers were placed in front of it.
"So here we are," I spoke to the grave. "I finally got away, huh, Thomas? You don't know how glad I am that Mom moved us away from fucking LA. She's so doing so much better without you. I wish you could feel what I feel. I wish you could feel what she feels. But you can't hurt me or her anymore. Beacon Hills is our new start."
I could feel the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. "I don't understand why you did what you did. I was six years old. Six years old! I'm against wishing people dead, it doesn't seem fair. But you've probably moved onto some new innocent girl who isn't prepared for what you will do."
I was practically seething now, each word was laced with fury. "I fucking hate you. For hating me. For hurting Mom. For giving me a false sense of security. For forcing us to leave LA. For absolutely everything. I hate you.
"Who are you talking to?" a soft young male voice spoke from behind me.
"My father," I told him, not turning to face him.
"Timothy Prosser?" he asked. "He died in 1925. I'm not sure you've got the right grave?"
"Oh my father's not dead," I explained, standing up and facing a boy who couldn't be a head taller than me. He had short curly sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes. "I only wish that he was."
"You're crying," he stated. "Do you need to talk? No one should want their Dad dead."
"He's not my Dad." I told him angrily, "You don't understand," Before I could storm off the boy grabbed my hand.
"I'm trying to storm off it doesn't work when you stop me."
"Wait," he said, letting go of my hand. "It helps to vent. Don't worry I'm used to it working ina grave yard and all"
"How do I explain that my Dad is a total asshole. He abused me for nearly six years and I didn't stand up for myself? Or that my Mom was forced to uproot us because of some halfwit who talked about us behind our back?" As I spoke, I could feel the tears building up, taking a deep breath in I held the tears back.
"You don't have to." he said simply.
The way he was so understanding made me feel worse and I couldn't help but cry. As I sobbed, he took me into his arms and rubbed my back. He was obviously used to this from people crying about their loved ones.
I pushed away from his angry and confused. "I... I've got to go. But th...thanks for listening." Without another word, I left him standing alone with a massive tear stain on his shirt.
I made sure that my eyes weren't too red and puffy before driving off to our new house. She'd managed to unpack the entire house and make carbonara in the short space of time I was gone.
"Hey, honey!" she greeted me cheerily. "Find anything interesting?"
Shrugging off her question, I grabbed a bowl of pasta and sat down at the table. "I did spot a vet clinic. I was thinking that maybe I could apply for a job there. That's if they're hiring."
"That sounds like great fun!" Mom told me. "You could go after school tomorrow and see."
"Speaking of jobs," I said changing the subject, "When do you start work at the elementary school? Did you say tomorrow?"
"I start at the school tomorrow but I'm going to start at the preschool on Saturday," she reminded me. My Mom was a kindergarten teacher but after the divorce had started teaching preschoolers on the side to pick up on what we'd lost.
As we eat we talked a bit more but there was no real purpose behind the conversation and I never mentioned the guy at the cemetery. I went to bed not looking forward to school but actually looking forward to applying for a job at the animal clinic.
Isaac Lahey sat at the crane, earphones in. Digging graves, was surprisingly boring and incredibly morbid. He couldn't help his thoughts drift to the girl he'd seen earlier that day. He never even got a name not that he normally did when it came to crying visitors but she was different. He could relate to her except she'd been able to escape and he was yet to escape. He couldn't help but wonder if she was starting at his school but something else quickly captured his thoughts.
He heard a couple of strange noises but he tried to ignore them and focus on his music. However they just continued. He caught a quick glance of something digging up a grave. Then suddenly that thing ran towards him, tipping over him into the grave.
He lay, helpless in the grave. He heard the sound of twigs snapping. He was going to die. Whatever it was, was going to kill him and he wouldn't have a chance to escape like the girl. But he wasn't killed. Instead the crane stopped and he could see a man standing above him, ready to help him out.
Far away on Lunar Street, Sam Winchcombe jolted awake, screaming. The only memory she had of her dream was an intense feeling of fear.
Running into her bathroom she splashed water onto her face. When she looked at herself in the mirror, her left eye was black as if she'd been punched in the face. She didn't freak out but instead closed her eyes and focus on her own emotion. When she opened her eyes again, the black eyes was gone.