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It's pretty basic & simple, but it's my first attempt at a novel at all, and I'm only 15. Constructive criticism? Motivation? I could use both, ha. Thanks, if anyone responds.
Introduction
The alley was dark, and something seemed to be dangling from above, waiting for the perfect moment to fall upon an unsuspecting passerby. If the buildings had been alive, chills would no doubt have been crawling down their spines, and as each moment passed, the sense of impending evil was more and more prominent.
Hours earlier, the sun, which appeared as a sphere set into fiery flames during the day, had fallen gently behind the distant hills, and continued on its never-ending mission to light up some other part of the world. If one were to float above the town, gazing down upon the homes and businesses, it was at this very hour that nearly every light flickered off. Meddleton was falling asleep, person by person.
One would also be sure to notice that, on this particular night, the last light to dim was in the middle of town, close to the aforementioned alley. Getting closer, it was easy to determine that the light had belonged to a quaint little bakery with a sign outside that read “Frosted Cupcakes & Delicious Desserts.” A plump lady, probably in her early thirties, hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck in a pleasant-looking bun, wiped flour from her hands and untied her worn-out apron. It was done in the most inattentive, monotonous way, which would make an onlooker assume two things. One, that her mind was elsewhere, perhaps focused on her family back at home, presumably snoring away beneath their blankets, and two, that she had been working there for many years. Her round figure showed a personal taste for goodies, and laugh lines written across her face were an indication of being good-natured and possessing an endearing sense of humor, one of those that are universally adored.
She glanced nonchalantly around the petite shop one last time and made her way to the back exit. After stepping outside, she paused, reached into her left pocket, and removed a small flashlight. Once it was turned on and a beam of light pierced the darkness before her, she turned, and walked swiftly in the direction of the darkened alleyway. . .
Let us shift our focus, for the time being, to a small neighborhood downtown. It was the sort of neighborhood that, to those who were poorly acquainted with Meddleton, would appear very dangerous and threatening. From taking a look at a few of the occupants, it was easy to guess the major details in their lives. The men were of a gruff appearance, clothing stained with dark soot or oil, vehicles mainly consisting of beaten-up, old trucks, paint chipping off the sides, beer bottles scattered throughout ditches along the road; the women, slender, disappointment in life tattooed across their faces, and red, cracked hands; the children ran about barefoot, wrestling and “sword-fighting” with sticks snapped from tree branches, their hair scraggly and clothes tattered. It was easy to conclude that these families were far from wealthy, and the men most likely worked long shifts at low-paying factories or mines, while their wives washed dishes at local restaurants. Their clothes were never new, though not utterly distasteful, and the children’s faces were often covered in youthful joy when they went inside at night. However, this could all be ascertained simply from physical appearance, but what of the individuals themselves, not as a whole?
Inside of one house, a man was stirring about. He crept noiselessly from the cramped, cluttered bedroom, while his many years of stealth-practice from previous teenage years kicked back into gear. Each movement was premeditated, and he was sure to be stepping in a meticulous manner across any step that might let out a creak, were his body weight placed upon it. That beautiful voice whispered in his ear, tottering on the verge of madness and blissful intuition, guiding each footstep along the way.
The moon was peering out from behind a dense, grey cloud in the starless sky. By its light, the man saw the path, the one he was predestined to take. It was a mystery to him, as he followed the invisible line in that direction, why he must go here. As he neared the alleyway, the moon concealed itself once more, and ahead he saw the beam of artificial light penetrating the darkness.
“This is it,” the loudest voice of all commanded in a strong, deep tone. In the distance, he heard shouts of “No, no, no!” but he knew who he was to obey. The only one he had ever obeyed, the easiest to hear, and the easiest to understand.
Chapter 1: Nostalgia
She turned to look in the mirror, excitement brewing in her saucer-sized eyes, and squealed childishly. Deep, rose-colored blush formed imperfectly-drawn circles on her puffy cheeks, blotches of dark blue eye shadow clung to her crinkled eyelids, and her top lip was coated with a line of raspberry lipstick. In her seven-year-old eyes, she had become a grown-up; mature, beautiful, and finally an equal with her mother and role model.
Face beaming, blonde ringlets bouncing hurriedly behind her, she ran downstairs to show off. Midway down the steps, she halted abruptly, grabbing onto the railing for support. A man stood at the open door, wearing a crisp uniform and sorrowful expression. His shaved head and staunch posture were frightening to the little girl, who had abruptly forgotten her newfound maturity. She took a step back up the stairs, gazing at her mother’s back, waiting to understand what was going on. However, the woman who turned to look at her, the same one who had offered comfort during her worst nightmares, had suddenly transformed into a stranger. There was a look of horror plainly visible on her perfectly chiseled features, and streaks of eyeliner ran down her sunken face.
The man’s eyes remained kind, filled with empathy, and he looked up at the small child standing on the steps. She thought, for a moment, that he might run to her and hug her, the way her daddy always had when he was at home, but he didn’t. Instead, he muttered a few words, incoherent to the small child, turned, and silently walked from the porch. Next thing she knew, her mother was collapsed on the floor, moaning out unintelligible words and shaking. The child stood, paralyzed mid-step and felt something she had never felt. At that moment, she realized the woman she had looked at as invincible for years was merely human. This person on the ground beneath her, incapable of standing up straight, was someone she had never seen.
Just minutes previously, all she could think about were the stains of bright color painted on her face, and now, that was the least of her concerns. Quietly, she crept down the remaining steps and hovered over her sobbing mother. Words were not an option; her mouth could have easily been permanently stitched together, for the way she was reacting.
Suddenly, her cheeks were burning, her eyelids on fire, and she felt nauseous. If I hadn’t been playing with mommy’s makeup, I could have been down here, protecting her... She turned on her tiny heels, scrambled desperately up the stairs, and washed the color from her face with shaking hands.
Years later, that afternoon still engraved vividly in her memory, Leanne’s skin remained naturally unaltered. From her first experience, she had decided that makeup was more harmful than beneficial, and had thus never worn it again. Each year at homecoming, her friends had questioned this.
“Why,” Brianne had asked in a curious tone, “don’t you even put on a small coat of mascara? Are you allergic or something?”
She felt uncomfortable whenever her friends addressed the topic, and perhaps repressed the memory into some far corner of her mind, so her response was always quite simply, “I don’t want to.” There was nothing that could be said or done to influence her opinion, no matter how many times anyone tried, so they had given up by senior year. She was looked upon by most as stubborn, mysterious, and impersonal, for no one but she knew the real reason for her actions. Those who had never taken the time to speak to her individually would probably not even have noticed her existence, for her mouth remained shut most of the time. If anyone showed an interest in becoming friends, she would oblige, but with few words and when she did speak, it was with a quiet wisdom rarely found in a teenager girl, or anyone else, for that matter.
Introduction
The alley was dark, and something seemed to be dangling from above, waiting for the perfect moment to fall upon an unsuspecting passerby. If the buildings had been alive, chills would no doubt have been crawling down their spines, and as each moment passed, the sense of impending evil was more and more prominent.
Hours earlier, the sun, which appeared as a sphere set into fiery flames during the day, had fallen gently behind the distant hills, and continued on its never-ending mission to light up some other part of the world. If one were to float above the town, gazing down upon the homes and businesses, it was at this very hour that nearly every light flickered off. Meddleton was falling asleep, person by person.
One would also be sure to notice that, on this particular night, the last light to dim was in the middle of town, close to the aforementioned alley. Getting closer, it was easy to determine that the light had belonged to a quaint little bakery with a sign outside that read “Frosted Cupcakes & Delicious Desserts.” A plump lady, probably in her early thirties, hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck in a pleasant-looking bun, wiped flour from her hands and untied her worn-out apron. It was done in the most inattentive, monotonous way, which would make an onlooker assume two things. One, that her mind was elsewhere, perhaps focused on her family back at home, presumably snoring away beneath their blankets, and two, that she had been working there for many years. Her round figure showed a personal taste for goodies, and laugh lines written across her face were an indication of being good-natured and possessing an endearing sense of humor, one of those that are universally adored.
She glanced nonchalantly around the petite shop one last time and made her way to the back exit. After stepping outside, she paused, reached into her left pocket, and removed a small flashlight. Once it was turned on and a beam of light pierced the darkness before her, she turned, and walked swiftly in the direction of the darkened alleyway. . .
Let us shift our focus, for the time being, to a small neighborhood downtown. It was the sort of neighborhood that, to those who were poorly acquainted with Meddleton, would appear very dangerous and threatening. From taking a look at a few of the occupants, it was easy to guess the major details in their lives. The men were of a gruff appearance, clothing stained with dark soot or oil, vehicles mainly consisting of beaten-up, old trucks, paint chipping off the sides, beer bottles scattered throughout ditches along the road; the women, slender, disappointment in life tattooed across their faces, and red, cracked hands; the children ran about barefoot, wrestling and “sword-fighting” with sticks snapped from tree branches, their hair scraggly and clothes tattered. It was easy to conclude that these families were far from wealthy, and the men most likely worked long shifts at low-paying factories or mines, while their wives washed dishes at local restaurants. Their clothes were never new, though not utterly distasteful, and the children’s faces were often covered in youthful joy when they went inside at night. However, this could all be ascertained simply from physical appearance, but what of the individuals themselves, not as a whole?
Inside of one house, a man was stirring about. He crept noiselessly from the cramped, cluttered bedroom, while his many years of stealth-practice from previous teenage years kicked back into gear. Each movement was premeditated, and he was sure to be stepping in a meticulous manner across any step that might let out a creak, were his body weight placed upon it. That beautiful voice whispered in his ear, tottering on the verge of madness and blissful intuition, guiding each footstep along the way.
The moon was peering out from behind a dense, grey cloud in the starless sky. By its light, the man saw the path, the one he was predestined to take. It was a mystery to him, as he followed the invisible line in that direction, why he must go here. As he neared the alleyway, the moon concealed itself once more, and ahead he saw the beam of artificial light penetrating the darkness.
“This is it,” the loudest voice of all commanded in a strong, deep tone. In the distance, he heard shouts of “No, no, no!” but he knew who he was to obey. The only one he had ever obeyed, the easiest to hear, and the easiest to understand.
Chapter 1: Nostalgia
She turned to look in the mirror, excitement brewing in her saucer-sized eyes, and squealed childishly. Deep, rose-colored blush formed imperfectly-drawn circles on her puffy cheeks, blotches of dark blue eye shadow clung to her crinkled eyelids, and her top lip was coated with a line of raspberry lipstick. In her seven-year-old eyes, she had become a grown-up; mature, beautiful, and finally an equal with her mother and role model.
Face beaming, blonde ringlets bouncing hurriedly behind her, she ran downstairs to show off. Midway down the steps, she halted abruptly, grabbing onto the railing for support. A man stood at the open door, wearing a crisp uniform and sorrowful expression. His shaved head and staunch posture were frightening to the little girl, who had abruptly forgotten her newfound maturity. She took a step back up the stairs, gazing at her mother’s back, waiting to understand what was going on. However, the woman who turned to look at her, the same one who had offered comfort during her worst nightmares, had suddenly transformed into a stranger. There was a look of horror plainly visible on her perfectly chiseled features, and streaks of eyeliner ran down her sunken face.
The man’s eyes remained kind, filled with empathy, and he looked up at the small child standing on the steps. She thought, for a moment, that he might run to her and hug her, the way her daddy always had when he was at home, but he didn’t. Instead, he muttered a few words, incoherent to the small child, turned, and silently walked from the porch. Next thing she knew, her mother was collapsed on the floor, moaning out unintelligible words and shaking. The child stood, paralyzed mid-step and felt something she had never felt. At that moment, she realized the woman she had looked at as invincible for years was merely human. This person on the ground beneath her, incapable of standing up straight, was someone she had never seen.
Just minutes previously, all she could think about were the stains of bright color painted on her face, and now, that was the least of her concerns. Quietly, she crept down the remaining steps and hovered over her sobbing mother. Words were not an option; her mouth could have easily been permanently stitched together, for the way she was reacting.
Suddenly, her cheeks were burning, her eyelids on fire, and she felt nauseous. If I hadn’t been playing with mommy’s makeup, I could have been down here, protecting her... She turned on her tiny heels, scrambled desperately up the stairs, and washed the color from her face with shaking hands.
Years later, that afternoon still engraved vividly in her memory, Leanne’s skin remained naturally unaltered. From her first experience, she had decided that makeup was more harmful than beneficial, and had thus never worn it again. Each year at homecoming, her friends had questioned this.
“Why,” Brianne had asked in a curious tone, “don’t you even put on a small coat of mascara? Are you allergic or something?”
She felt uncomfortable whenever her friends addressed the topic, and perhaps repressed the memory into some far corner of her mind, so her response was always quite simply, “I don’t want to.” There was nothing that could be said or done to influence her opinion, no matter how many times anyone tried, so they had given up by senior year. She was looked upon by most as stubborn, mysterious, and impersonal, for no one but she knew the real reason for her actions. Those who had never taken the time to speak to her individually would probably not even have noticed her existence, for her mouth remained shut most of the time. If anyone showed an interest in becoming friends, she would oblige, but with few words and when she did speak, it was with a quiet wisdom rarely found in a teenager girl, or anyone else, for that matter.