I'm on my computer downloading music onto my iPod. Illegally, of course, but that's not the point. It takes so long to get all 486 songs onto it but I guess I have to just deal with it. While waiting for it all to download, I pick my iPod and buy more books with the gift card I've been saving up a year for. I'm not quite old enough to have a real job, so I've been babysitting to make some money. It's a slow way to get money, but it's the only option I have without asking my parents; who would say no.
I've saved 150 dollars. Most people would've spent it on something more practical and useful but I love reading and writing so usually I spend my money for those kinds of things. I have my notebook next to me on the bed I'm sitting on. In the little note I've started writing my own books. I've always had a passion for writing; even in my earlier years of elementary school.
I go into the iTunes Store and buy a few books I've been waiting to buy for a while. I buy two whole series of books, which should keep me busy for a while; even if I am a fast reader.
"Bailey! Dinner's ready!" My mom yells from downstairs. I quickly get out of my black rolling chair and speed down the stairs.
The smell of spaghetti fills my nose. I hate spaghetti; especially the red sauce that coats the slithery noodles. My dad also wrinkles his nose when he comes down the stairs from an adjacent room to mine.
"Out of a can?" I ask. My mom shrugs. She was never that good at cooking. My dad was a good cook and I favored his cooking over my moms any day, but tonight he was too lazy to cook. He's not this lazy all the time, thank goodness.
His blue eyes peek a gaze at me with a slight smile on his face; we discreetly no in agreement about what would happen next.
"Well I'm going to take Bailey to the library," my dad says, shrugging on his overcoat, "She's been bugging me nonstop about it anyway."
"That's good because there really wasn't enough for all four of us to begin with," my mom gives a plate to my smaller sister, Rose. Rose was only five, but certainly acted younger. She still refuses to eat unless someone fed her, which is kinda annoying.
I quickly put on a jacket and follow my dad. He ushers me out the door and we get into his truck. We speed off onto the roads.
"So can we go shooting?" I ask my dad while we drive on an empty road. It's eerily empty. No cars or anything.
He smiles at me, "Where else would we go right now? The library's closed at this point."
We do this quite often. Dad takes me gun shooting at a range whenever we're bored. Mom doesn't know, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?
Sometimes, when I'm at school my dad will pick me up because of "my great uncle Marty died" or some excuse like that so we can go shooting. It was how we bonded; my dad an I. I have a great shot too, with all kinds of guns. Mainly handguns though. Machine guns were a bit too much for me; I didn't like the kick they give, or how heavy they were.
We finally pass someone on the street, they are stumbling everywhere. My dad must've seen it too because he says, "Must be some drunk," but he seems to be trying to convince himself that's what it is. I look at him funny.
My dad ignores my gaze and keep driving. There aren't any cars on this street.
We pulled into the parking lot of the shooting range. Even though it was only five o'clock, the sun was beginning to fall behind the trees and into night. Which meant the place was about to close. But I wasn't concerned because dad works here and he can pull some strings. He's cool like that.
We enter through the side door that's locked away from customers. The door has at least five locks so no one can get in. It's the supply closet where extra bullets and guns are stored; so it only makes sense to have so many locks on it. I grab a 22 mil and a half empty box of extra bullets and my dad leads me through the building to the range outside. I put up a target of a person on the wooden back and step back 30 feet. I aim at four places: both knees, the center of his chest and his head. My dad stands by me and smirks. I smile and look at him.
"Maybe we should try something new," he suggests, with a hand on his chin.
"A different kind of gun?"
He shakes his head, "No, a different kind of combat technique. Hand-on-hand combat."
My dad was in the military for a couple years when he was out of highschool. He seems to think there will be a war in America soon. I don't object because I like going shooting and training with him. He never talks about his experiences though. Even when I ask. I think Mom said he has PTSD.
He takes me back into the supply room and opens another door into a different room I hadn't been in before. It was filled with all kinds of swords and other blades. I didn't expect there to be a separate weapons room like this. I thought it was solely a gun place. I picked up a jagged blade with writing on it. The hilt was made with a black leather. It had "phantom flame" engraved in calligraphy on the metal of the blade. My dad chuckled.
"Of course you pick that one," my dad says quietly and laughs silently. He picks up a strand of my red hair. "When I found that knife, the shaman in a village said that the person who owns that dagger has terrible luck. Their life is riddled with death and blood."
I look at him and he drops my stand of hair, "Whose was it before you found it?"
"The dead chief," he says. His eyes darken, and I assume he's thinking about his memories in the military. Why did he have the blade here, though?
I was about to ask more questions but my phone rings unexpectedly and we both are surprised, I see the caller ID is my mom and answer the phone. I put it on speaker so my dad can listen in too.
"Yes?"
"Get home," Mom pleads, "there's something in the house!" I hear her scream. Her phone must've slipped out of her hand, because there was a cracking sound, and the line goes dead.
"Mom?" I scream, despite me knowing she can't hear me. My dad heard all of it, and his eyes become dark.
"Bailey," he says darkly, "Let's go."
A.N.: So I'm rewriting this entire fic because I first wrote and published it when I was 12. and thats not good. Not that being 16 will make my writing immensely better, but at least I can get rid of some of the bad spelling and editing choices I used to have. Also, because I'm really only editing it, I'm not changing much of the events that happen; meaning, all of the cliche moments are going to have to stay. (Sorry)
Anyway, thanks for giving this a read. I'll see you next chapter! :)
