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Note: The summary has been changed. I thought it was A) too short, B) too revealing, and C) not descriptive enough. So here I have a better summary that reveals less, yet describes more. The last one sort of gave it away, and people didn't want to read it because they knew exactly what the story was about. So now I changed it, and here it is. She leaves him for another. He's forced to start over in a new town, at a new school. He's positive he can never love again. She loses her mother in a terrible homicide. She's forced to pick up the peices and try to live again. She's positive that the hole in her heart will never be filled. When the two heartbroken pessimists meet, they notice that the other is strangely detatched, and horribly sad. Neither can figure our what made the other so bitter, until they open up. After all they have been through, can they learn to trust again? Can they learn to start over? Can they learn to forget those that hurt them? Most importantly, can they learn to love again? Chapter One has been rewritten. The story line is completely different, yet somewhat the same.


3. Chapter 2: Memories

Rating 5/5   Word Count 1355   Review this Chapter


Around me, excited voices called out to each other as people reunited with their friends after a long summer.

Summer. It had once been an escape to me, a way away from the tedious classroom torture. But now it was only a reminder of what I had lost.

I remember the day very clearly. School had just let out, and I ran home from the bus stop one last time for the 2007-2008 school year. I burst through the door and hurried to the kitchen to get a snack, but stopped in my tracks.

The house was eerily silent.

I dropped my backpack to the ground and cautiously entered the living room. It was empty. I made my way up the stairs. The hallway was empty as well. At the end of the passageway, my parents’ door stood ajar.

As I walked towards the single shaft of light thrown by the crack in the door, my footsteps echoed in the emptiness. I heard my heart beat accelerate as I dreaded what I would find.

Cautiously, I pushed open the door ever so slowly.

Red liquid stained my parents’ white sheets and dripped onto the hardwood floor, where it pooled and slowly ran towards my foot.

My mother lay on the bed, motionless on top of the white and yellow quilt.

On her vanity, her jewelry bow lay overturned and empty.

The spare cash box rested on the floor, empty as the jewelry box.

My scream echoed in the silent house and through the open window.


After the long first day of school, I was grateful to leave. I discovered that I had only one more class with Edward, and there was a similar occurrence in that one as well. He didn’t say anything unless he was spoken to, and barely looked up from his desk. It was as if he were purposefully alienating himself.

I entered the house and was immediately hit by the smell of cigarette smoke. In the living room, my dad was sprawled out on the couch with a can of beer and a cigarette in his mouth. Scattered on the floor around him were crushed beer cans and containers filled with ashes and cigarette butts.

I hurried up the stairs and threw my bag down on my bed, then back downstairs to clean up after dad. I grabbed a trash bag and began picking up sticky cans and dumping out ashtrays. He didn’t seem to notice me.

Ever since mom’s death, dad’s been rather…detached. He quit his job and has been getting by on mom’s insurance. He only leaves to buy more beer and cigarettes. If I didn’t buy groceries, my brother and I would starve to death.

I’d been forced to get a job at the Wal-Mart down the street to pay for groceries. I try to work as much as I can and earn as much as I can, but it never seems to make ends meet. Not when my stash constantly gets raided by dad.

The door slammed, as my brother arrived home from school. I looked up from my cleaning and we exchanged wordless communication for a brief moment. My look told him, “Keep it down, Dad’s in a mood.” His look obliged.

For the most part, Dad was usually in a somewhat vegetative state in front of the TV. And I liked it that way. Though he didn’t do much but drink and smoke, at least he was quiet.

But at times he got violent. Like if he’d had too much beer, and we tried to ask him something. He would yell, and once he even hit me.

It’s not like he’s doing it purposefully, just that the beer turns him into a monster. But it sort of numbs him, and I think it’s so he doesn’t think about mom. I know how he feels.

Back in the kitchen, Kellan is getting himself a glass of water.

“What do you want for dinner?” I whispered low enough that dad wouldn’t hear.

“I don’t know,” he whispered back after a moment. “What do we have?”

I quietly tiptoed over to the cabinet and opened the doors, turning the possibilities over in my mind. We had spaghetti sauce, but no noodles. We had bread crumbs, but no ground beef. The only thing I edible I could find was a box of macaroni and cheese. I went to the fridge and found a package of hotdogs.

“Looks like macaroni and cheese and hotdogs,” I whispered to him. He nodded. Usually, he had no problem with something like that. Of course, neither did most other pre-teen boys.

Once I had cooked the macaroni in a pot on the stove and nuked five hotdogs, I grabbed three Styrofoam plates from the cabinet. I heaped two spoonfuls of macaroni onto two of the plates, and then scraped up the last of it onto the third. I put two hotdogs on Dad’s and Kellan’s plates and one on mine.

Kellan took his without a word and sat down at the table to gulp down his food with a glass of milk. Timidly, I took dad’s plate out to the living room.

“Daddy?” He looked up at me with blood-shot eyes. “I made dinner. Would you like some?”

He grumbled something like a yes. I set his plate on the coffee table with a glass of soda. I hurried back into the kitchen and sat down next to Kellan as he finished up the last of his macaroni.

Just as I was about to shovel a forkful of macaroni into my mouth, my dad called from the living room in a hoarse voice.

“Lily, what is this shit?” I shut my eyes and rested my face in my palm. I hated it when he got so drunk that he thought I was mom.

“Lily! I said, what is this shit? Can’t you cook anything better than this?”

Trembling, I stood and shuffled into the living room.

“We had this yesterday! Isn’t there anything else in that damn kitchen?” He slurred glaring at me from the sofa.

“No, dad, there’s nothing else to cook.”

“What good is a wife that can’t cook?” He growled.

“I’m your daughter, dad. Mom’s…mom’s gone.”

He pretended like I hadn’t spoken at all.

Angrily, he dumped his plate onto the floor like a child.

“Now, make me some real god damn food!” He thundered.

“Daddy, there’s nothing else to make! You know I can’t cook much,” I squeaked.

“Why don’t you teach that good for nothing daughter of yours to cook, eh?”

“Daddy, it’s me, Ravyn; your daughter! Mom’s not here.”

“I said; go make me some more goddamn food!”

“There’s nothing to make, Daddy!” I cried, moisture from my eyes flowing down my cheeks.

He rose from his seat, swaying drowsily from the booze.

Oh god. I knew what happened next.

Fuming, he made his way to me, grabbing my arm roughly. I cried for him to let go, but he didn’t. He drug me up the steps and down the hall to the bedroom no one ever went in.

“Daddy, please! Don’t do this, please!” I screamed, trying to loosen his grip. He said nothing but continued to shuffle down the hallway drunkenly.

He pushed the door to their room open, and it creaked from disrepair. The bed was stripped of sheets, now only a mattress.

I felt my chest constrict as I knew what was happening next. I closed my eyes shut and wished for the fear to go away.

As he pushed me onto the mattress, I went limp, knowing that fighting would do me no good. One last time I begged, “Daddy, please don’t.”