Author's note : Everything in this story is completely made up, but inspired by Twilight. Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight, not me. If I did James would definitely not have died!
Somewhere, in some back alley, in a tiny, filthy hovel crawling with rats and all manners of other vermin sat a small boy. His short, blonde hair and his clothes were as filthy as his surroundings. Dirt and muck caked his face and hands which had broken, unclean nails and were covered in rat bites. The boy was sitting on a stool which had two of it's four legs missing, his forehead leaning on a grubby, cracked windowpane. In spite of all this the child had an angelic smile playing about his lips. He was pulling the wings off flies.
A long, long way away a sweet little girl a few years younger than the boy was sitting very straight on a posh, velvet-covered chair. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and she had a pleasant smile on her face. Red curls hung about her face, escaping from the bows designed to hold them in a tidy style. The dress she wore was of the same colour as the ribbons, a dark olive green which set off the fiery red of her hair and her pale, almost white skin. Adults were surrounding her smiling and laughing, drinking expensive champagne out of expensive golden goblets. Everything about the room spoke of wealth, power and luxury. It was the girl's fifth birthday.
The third child, another boy, came from a respectable, middle class French family. His parents lived in a house which was nice and comfortable but small. The boy hated his life and his parents. He was sat on his bed, an open bag next to him throwing things into it. When he had finishes the boy shouldered the bag and ran down the faded stairs past his sobbing parents, who were too shocked to even try and stop him, and out into the well-kept, tiny garden. Without even so much as a glance back at the house the boy strode off down the road, never to return. He was twelve years old.
Should I continue with this story? Please review!