AN: Please bear with the initial slowness of this chapter. You can't contrast the supernatural with normal life without first showing the ordinariness of it all. Plus, this chapter sets up the personality of the main character. I promise the end of the chapter is more exciting, and will continue to have lots of action as the story goes on.

Winter. Such a pleasant season. My favorite, in fact.

I sighed blissfully, cupping a mug of peppermint hot chocolate between my cold hands. The half-decorated Christmas tree stood before me, leaning slightly to the right. A Siamese cat played with one of the ornaments on the lower boughs, face reflected in the golden bulb. Growing bored, he turned and gave a pitiful "mrrrow" directed at me. I arched a dark eyebrow, and watched through the steam of the mug as he crossed the thick, carpeted floor to join me on the couch. He jumped up lightly, and curled into a furry ball beside me. I stroked him absentmindedly.

It was nice to be home for the holidays. College had been stressful, lately, my freshman year now behind me and real classes starting to kick in. And to top that all off, being on the dance team took up most of my free time. I wasn't sure I'd survive when finals came around. But I had showed them. Hahaha. I had practically chained myself to a bench-seat in the stacks down in the library basement to do it, but those finals had been taught who was boss. Now it was all gingerbread and hot cider and warm, fuzzy blankets from here on out.

My mom came out of the kitchen doorway behind the living room couch I was currently occupying, and stood behind me, ruffling my dark purple hair. I tilted my head back to look up at her with laughing brown eyes.

"I see you and Mr. Persnickety over here are bonding," she said in her calm, smooth voice as she proceeded to ruffle the cat's fur next. I laughed at the disgruntled look on his face.

"It's good to have you home. My baby's grown so old!" she gripped me in a bone-crushing hug from behind, nearly choking me and causing the chocolate to slosh dangerously in my mug. "19 already!" she wailed.

"Yeah, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel," I commented dryly.

She sniffed, and released me, "Well, excuse me, but soon your brother will be off to a college of his own, and then little Kaiya... I don't know what I'll do when there are no more children around to torment." My mom joked, throwing her hands in the air.

"Ah, the empty nest syndrome," I said, taking a sip of my drink. It slid down my throat, instantly warming me from the inside out. "You two love birds will think of something, I'm sure. Probably fill the nest again with some other little chicks."

My mom glared at me and punched my shoulder playfully. The ceramic of the mug clinked against my teeth. "Ow. Watch it, mom," I grumbled.

"Alright. Just remember if you end up with some new little brothers or sisters that it was your idea," she retorted, and ruffled my hair once more, walking out to go check on the cookies.

I just continued to sit, nestled on the couch, watching the rain fall against the windowpane. It didn't snow here, but around Christmastime it would consistently rain for about two weeks straight.

A while later the front door opened, the small wind-chime attached to the handle jingling to announce my father's arrival. He removed his suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. My brother followed after him. He was 17 now, and he often went with my dad to work. And it was for fun. I wrinkled my nose; I would never understand. I could just imagine those two, huddled together over some sketched-out plans for their next grand invention.

My brother, Dale, shook the rain out of his shaggy, dirty-blonde hair he had inherited from my now-gray father, looking for all the world like some mutt that had just strayed in. My mom's dazzlingly white-blonde head poked around the kitchen doorway. Ah, yes. Alas, it was my misfortune to inherit my hair from her side of the family. But I had quickly corrected that problem with a couple of boxes of hair dye at the soonest opportunity. I had left just one long, thick streak on the right side of my head undyed, and it mingled with the rest of my hair that reached to my mid-back. People said my white-blonde hair was nice. Personally, I think it made me look like a washed out ghost. So I dyed it. My eyes have always been brown. I'm still working on the whole convincing my mom I need color contacts thing.

Just then, my little sister, Kaiya, stumbled down the stairs, clutching a fuzzy blanket to her small chest. She sleepily rubbed her blue-grey eyes, the only one in our family besides my mother to have escaped the brown eyes syndrome. "Daddy! Dale!" she called, jumping up to greet them like a little lost puppy. Our father looked at her with smiling brown eyes from behind his rectangular rimless glasses.

Don't let Kaiya fool you. She's really 15, though she usually acts half her age. And I supposed it works, her being as short as she is. The two guys of the house are fairly tall, and my mom and I are both of average height, as women go. I don't really know how Kaiya ended up being such a little squirt. She barely reached my shoulder, and Dale could use her as an armrest. Which he was currently doing, in fact.

Kaiya's hair was long, like mine, except dirty blonde and falling in tight waves. I don't have a clue where those came from either, but I think she's probably adopted. That would also explain the naturally tan shade of her skin in a house full of pale people. Okay… so she's not adopted. I remember meeting her in my mom's swollen watermelon of a belly. But she could have been switched in the hospital. I have a changeling for a sister. A very cute, deceptive little changeling imp.

She flopped down on the couch, disturbing Mr. Persnickety's nap. Grouchily, he hopped off the couch and glared at her. Her head fell heavily onto my shoulder, and she snuggled closer to me, clutching her blanket around her small form. "Jeez, girl. You've got a heavy head there. Keeping it full, are we?" I teased her.

"Mmhmm," she responded, idly watching the flickering Christmas lights that danced over the half-decorated tree and ran over the top of our fake fireplace.

A highly suspicious crunching sound emanated from the kitchen. In the blink of an eye, I had hopped over the back of the couch and dashed into the kitchen, leaving Kaiya to fall over on the couch behind me with a small sound of protest.

"Dale!" I screamed, panicking as I looked at the remains of one of my army of freshly baked gingerbread soldiers. He was headless, having died a gruesome, gruesome death by teeth. One of his Red Hot eyes lay unblinking on the counter. Dale looked at me, startled, cheeks bulging. His eyes were wide in false innocence. It didn't fool me. The crumbs on his cheeks betrayed him as the culprit. We were frozen, staring into each other's eyes. He blinked.

"That's it! I'm gonna kill you! You are sooooo dead. Dead! Do you hear me? DEAD! Just like my effin gingerbread man!" I lunged, ready to rip out his jugular. A hand caught the back of my shirt collar, restraining me. My arms flailed in the air before Dale's face, just out of reach. Drat.

"Now, now. Calm down. Let's not be hasty," a deep voice of reason said.

"Dad! How can you side with this thief!" I shot back.

"Ooh. What's this? Gingerbread men…" I watched in dismay as a large hand reached over my shoulder, snatching up another helpless ginger-soldier. I stared, agape, frozen in place though the restraining hands were no longer holding me back. My feet were frozen to the floor. I heard a satisfied crunch.

"Nooooooooooooooooo!" I collapsed dramatically to the floor in the wake of this betrayal. Before you make any snap decisions, I just want to say I don't usually act like this. But as I'm sure you know, being in the presence of your immediate family alone gives you the license to behave exactly as you feel. They're your family, you know? They're pretty much stuck with you. No matter how strange you are.

After a moment, a hand tapped my shoulder. I looked up. My brother stood there, looking rather sheepish. He pulled me to my feet and shoved a glass of milk and a gingerbread cookie into my hands. "Thanks, Dale," I muttered, and he easily draped an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the couch.

Our family was reunited again, clustered together in the cozy living room. I sat on the couch, sandwiched between my siblings, Kaiya's fuzzy blanket-monster nearly swallowing us all. My parents flanked us in their deep, padded armchairs. Together, we watched the flames that flickered between the fake logs in the fireplace. Twinkling Christmas lights lit up the room in splashes of color, and we listened to the patter of the rain as it slid past the window. Like any family, we had our issues to work out. But it sure was nice to be together again…

I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up sometime in the middle of the night surrounded by warm bodies. The thought briefly crossed my mind to get up and move to my room, but my eyelids soon drooped shut and closed once more. I slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

When I awoke, it was to the pleasing smell of my mom's crispy bacon. The rain continued to splash against the windows, but that wasn't a surprise. The living room was vacated. I wandered into the kitchen, where everyone was already standing around. My dad hovered over a pan of blueberry pancakes, and I grinned when I saw him.

"Well, look who's finally up," my mom commented lightly, stacking the bacon on a paper towel.

"We decided not to try to wake you and throw away our lives so needlessly," Dale commented, and mimed dying from his seat in the kitchen chair.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. My sides are splitting," I retorted, brushing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Hey, better yours than mine," my brother replied, and broke out his wolfish grin.

I was ambushed from behind as tiny arms wrapped themselves around my neck, pulling me slightly backward. "Hiya!" my attacker said with great cheer.

"Good morning to you too, Kaiya," I told the small girl currently threatening to topple me over, freeing myself from her death-grip.

My mom brought the bacon to the table, causing us to immediately gather like sharks to a wounded baby seal. I noticed the eggs over easy that sat already on the table in a skillet covered with toast to keep them warm. My dad brought the tall stack of blueberry pancakes to the table. He slid a Mickey Mouse shaped pancake onto my plate, and I grinned. He just winked at me.

"Waaaaa!" my sister wailed, "How come she gets a pancake shaped like Mickey and we all get stuck with boring, circle pancakes?"

"They're not boring. Look, they're shaped like planets. Yours is the moon. See? The blueberries are the craters," Dale tried to convince Kaiya, knowing she would refuse to touch her pancakes otherwise.

My mother spoke up, to put an end to my sister's pouting: "Now, now, Kaiya. You know blueberry Mickey Mouse pancakes have always been Friday's favorite."

Yes. That's my real name. Friday. You must now surely be convinced that my parents are delusional. But there's an explanation. They were going to name me Kaiya, until I was born on lucky Friday the 13th. My mother, being a spur-of-the-moment kind of person decided then and there to name me Friday. I still think they're delusional, but whatever. A name is a name is a name. Friday works just fine for me. And as far as I can tell, I've had a fairly regular run of luck. For the record, I happen to like Friday the 13th. It's my special day. The day that others shy away from.

We settled down to a normal holiday breakfast, gathering our strength before going to demolish the rest of the gingerbread army. Ordinarily, we wouldn't spend so much time together, but it was a holiday, and so everyone gathered in the living room despite pursuing our own pastimes.

I snuggled deep into the armchair situated under one of the windows, and rested my head against the cold glass pane. A steaming mug of hot apple cider rested on the small table next to me. I pulled my warm blanket tighter around me, and opened my book, burying myself in its yellowing pages until lunchtime. There's nothing quite like the smell of an old book. The corners of my mouth turned up in a contented smile.

Night came swiftly, and I made my way up the stairs to my room. My stomach growled contentedly, still digesting the large meal and late-night holiday treats. I patted it, saying, "I know how you feel." It was late. I could feel it in the way one is vaguely aware of unscheduled holiday time. I sighed and fell facedown onto my bed, arms stretched wide and hair splayed about me. The pillows engulfed my face. I just waited, holding my breath, listening to the sound of my heartbeat in my ears as it slowed. It felt like I laid there a long time before finally rolling over on my side and taking in a deep breath of oxygen. My neon blue digital clock face told me it was almost 1:00 in the morning.

All I wanted to do was lay there, but my more freak of a germaphobe side screamed at me to shower. Body protesting, I dragged myself into the bathroom and under the warm stream. Finally returning to my room, I pulled on some comfy clothes at random. I flopped backward onto my bed, damp hair leaving wet spots on my pillows. I flicked off the light and climbed under my heavenly down comforter. Within seconds, I had drifted into a deep sleep.

.

.

.

A dull darkness surrounded me. I took note of the sound of my feet, slapping against the hard ground rhythmically. Wind tugged at my hair and clothing. From out of the blackness, colors slowly started seeping in, as if pulling me from its depths. Tall, grey walls blurred as they rushed past the edges of my vision. So, I was running.

A sudden prickling sensation at the back of my neck set off a burst of warning bells in my head. There was something to be afraid of. I could feel it behind me, but I wasn't sure I wanted to look. My feet pounded against the concrete with a new sense of urgency. I couldn't stop the surge of panic rising in my throat, choking me, making my breath come in ragged gasps.

What am I running from? A very good question, to be sure. But I don't have an answer. It was just… one of those dreams. I hate those dreams. You know the kind I mean. A dream where you're running for what seems like forever from some unseen evil always close on your heels. Oh, it never catches you. A dreamer can't be caught in their own dream if they do not wish it. As long as the dreamer keeps running, that is. Once they stop, all bets are off.

And so the dreamer feels a surge of terror, goading them on, driving them to keep running. They could wake up, of course. That was always an option. One I often toyed with, myself, in fact. The trouble is, I never could quite break through to the realm of the conscious. At least, not when I was having a dream I wanted to escape from. No, life takes great pleasure in pulling you away from the good things, the peaceful moments that only come with sleep. But fears weigh the dreamer down. They make the dreamer forget how to wake up. At least, that's what I believe.

So now I'm stuck in this dream, running from some monster of my twisted subconscious' own creation. Yet another one in a long series of overplayed reruns. A "B movie". And though the plot is terribly boring and predictable… I can't fight the fear that consumes me, that makes me flee until my legs tremble and my lungs burn. Such dreams even have the gall to affect the realm of the waking; one wakes up exhausted, covered in sweat, with dark circles under one's eyes, after what was supposed to be a time to escape the troubles of the day. I would have sighed, had it not been a waste of precious oxygen. I wish they would just cancel this show already. But as everyone knows, there's just nothing good on anymore. All the channels are the same. Good stories sit abandoned to be covered in virtual dust.

My feet sting, like I'm walking on needles. I look down and can't stop the frown that comes to my face. Why in the name of Hades am I out here barefoot? Really, subconscious, this is the best you could come up with? But the outrage doesn't stop there, of course. Oh, no. As I look down, I notice I'm still in my baggy black sweats and light grey zip-up hoodie. I groan, mentally, knowing this means all I have on underneath is a black sports bra. How do I know this, you ask? Well, this time I do have an answer. I fell asleep in this, of course.

If you ask me, though, I'd say my subconscious really needs a good dose of this thing called imagination. I mean, seriously. It's not hard. It doesn't even have to make up something completely original. It could find some clothes for me from a magazine, or a friend's repertoire. Hell, just pick something from my own closet, for all I care. Just as long as I'm not running around in my bra, through a city, at night, barefoot, being chased by an effing monster-thing. Oh, the humiliation!

At least it's only a dream…

AN: Please review! Thank you for reading :)