As you might've guessed, I'm much more of a family type than I am a friend type. I never really had much use of them, because I knew they were going to leave sooner or later. That's the thing with family. Supposedly, they never leave, do they?
I sat up in my bed, not caring about the ridiculous bedhead I always had. There was no stopping it, anyway. If I had to go by what my mom used to tell me, I had light brown hair when I was young, but it somehow got so dark it almost looks jet black now. Because of various reasons, I never kept it long, much like my sister. Mine was cut into a bob, while my sister preferred chopping it all off with the vigour of a viking.
"To the lazy bum still in her bed at 11 AM, there's spaghetti!", my sister shouted through what seemed like a megaphone down below.
"To the crazy person shouting in a megaphone, I'll be down when I get down!" I replied, irritated out of my wits. No one in the right mind tried to wake me up from an early morning nap.
I pushed my blankets to the side, and mentally battled wheter I should actually step out of my bed like a normal person or not try at all. I went with the second choice.
Rolling myself out of my little blanket burrito, I ended up on the blanket-covered floor with a soft thud. I always slept with four blankets and my room had two rugs to make my fall a bit softer. I really liked it that way, even though it seemed like I had a fetish for soft things.
Now only to get to the door with the least effort possible.
I faced the door, got up on all fours and crawled my way to it. Wearing black short shorts and a loose black tee, I didn't think there was even a point in changing yet. In fact, today was saturday. I shouldn't change my clothes at all.
I liked spaghetti, I thought. But then my eyes fell on the book lying open on the floor, face down. I had been reading it last night, on my desk, did I actually knock it off?
Crawling towards the object in front of me, not caring anymore about the spaghetti, I watched it intently. It was like it had been torn... Were did the next few pages go?
I picked it up, sitting down on my butt and examining the thing. The passage I had read the night before was etched into my memory as if it was hacked out in stone.
He saw in Connor's eyes what he always seemed to see: A desperation, a certainty. Revenge. The man had always been very intent on having his revenge. But as an assassin, did he know that there was more to it than just that?
Running his hand through his short dirty blonde hair, he battled with himself. He missed his family,whom had been torn from him at the docks of Boston. The templars had found out about his grandfather and his older brother, but how, he didn't know. The last words his brother said to him had been short, but true.
"Ethan. Don't forget to live." He had said. The look on his face was like that of a soldier about to be excecuted, dignified and unable to be broken.
And that's exactly what he planned on doing. Live. For he couldn't live on revenge. He could only do what the creed had taught him to do.
I turned it in my hands and opened the passage it had fallen open on. Page 88 on the left. But there were torn pages in the middle. It skipped immediatly to page 93. Strange.
But still, it probably had been her sister. Or her brother. Damnit.
Seething with anger, she stood up and dropped the book to the floor, ready to shout things to the closed door of her brothers room that shouldn't even be in the dictionary.
There was just one problem.
She couldn't drop the book.