AN: Hello, dear readers! This is my first attempt at writing a story for Charlie and Monroe, one of my all-time favorite "non"-couples. The basic outline for this story has been bumping around in my head for a while now, and I'm so excited to finally have the time to write it! Please let me know what you think - fresh perspectives are ALWAYS helpful. Thanks for reading!
This book belongs to
Charlotte Matheson Monroe
I haven't had much use for this book before. It seemed too empty. And I wasn't sure what I'd fill it with anyway. But maybe this is something I should remember. Because the past few years are already fading away. I should be glad to forget, but with all the bad that gets taken away, the good is stolen along with it. And I'll need to remember something good someday. Even if that good doesn't come for a long time. When it does, I'll be waiting.
I thought that the Revolution was… hard, I guess. It was. But at least I knew I still had my family. Now I have this book.
I gripped Annie's hand. Hard. I could feel my heart running a marathon in the front of my chest, just below the skin. Roars and shouts echoed from the rooms below. The crash of whisky bottles against the walls of my home forced me to remember my mom's glass angel. I never got why it meant so much to her – something about it belonging to my grandmother. It's stupid to have something so fragile – even more stupid if you care what happens to it. Things always break. But in that moment, my stomach nearly heaved when I pictured the small figurine lying broken on the floor next to some shattered liquor bottle. I should've kept it in my bedroom. But he'd said he didn't want it near him. He's always hated her – hated my mom. I used to get that.
He was still entertaining his friends, and wouldn't bother to remember me for at least another hour. And by that time we'd be too far out of his reach – past the Republic's border. And he'd never find us.
My husband will never find me.
Annie checked the empty hallway leading to my bedroom for any sign of him, while I worked open the stiff windows. He hadn't yet put locks on them at least. Probably due to the fact that they were on the fourth story of our- his house. Fortunately, we've been through far worse than a forty-foot drop. We survived the Revolution.
But that's all I can say. We aren't safe (yet). We're going to look for Miles in Texas first. It's an obvious move, but I'm not sure what else we can do at this point. But wherever we go, we'll need a head start if we're going to outrun my husband – President Sebastian Monroe.
Charlie Matheson
Charlotte Monroe stared down at the nearly-two pages she'd filled with her ramblings. Brushing her fingers over the inscription on the first page - her mother's beautiful script, so unlike her own - she barely recognized her own name. Charlotte Matheson... Monroe. Suddenly, she slammed the little leather journal shut and threw it, along with an ancient pen into her bag. Gaaa, she was pathetic.