I blink slowly, my eyes taking in the pattern of the chipping sparrow brown walls with the ever so delicate poppy wallpaper that is a sham of an attempt to cover it. My hands feel the edges of the wooden legs that hold up my twin size bed. My face is expressionless.
I swig my legs over the side and the springs under my mattress and the wood creaks. I heave myself up, my legs shaking; they'd been asleep.
Today was the day of the annual Manhunt game that me and my friends play. Dangerous, but fun. And it will be especially exciting this year because my sister turned ten, and double digit aged people who are related to us or friends with us get to play.
However, my sister is indignant because of what she's grown up seeing. The environment we live in is dangerous and certainly not plentiful with safety for younger kids or even fifteen year olds like me.
I'm Sara Bluestone. I live in a future that no one can explain. Last year, my family and I immigrated from Trout Bay, in what is left of Florida.
It was a mess down there; a little black and white town with no meaning but for daring kids with trashy, clueless parents. The rare kind, the parents that are worrisome and thoughtful, come about every ten years.
My sister and I love each other, but we are used to the barking of orders shouted from room to room, the drunk orders of our tired mother, and the blank ideas of my father that reminded us of our crappy life. Our first home sweat stress and sorrow, but here it is much worse, I can tell you right now. There is always tension, and terrorists roam the woods.
Remember WWII? Oh, this could be much worse.
There is a man. He graces newspapers, social talk, worries, and my nightmares when I am sleeping.
His name is Governor Reinhard. He is German, and he runs camps similar to concentration camps from the past.
Every year, people from the U. S., which is being bombed by his troops, must leave to come to Germany or they will hunt you down and even kill you.
And when you come to Germany, only your descent and an ancestors matter. Your will to live vanishes.
This man is mentally insane. He believes that Hitler shouldn't have been threatened to be persecuted; he wants the people who Hitler hated killed.
He hates gay people. Mentally or physically insane people. Opponents of his clan, the future nazis, the goons. JEWS.
I am not Jewish. I've got about nine percent in me. But I don't have blonde hair. I have blue eyes, but if Reinhard ever saw me, I'd be killed--- he wants people with blonde hair AND blue eyes.
My mother has naturally dark hair, and green eyes, but she recently sued it platinum. My father has blue eyes and blonde thinning hair. Lucky him.
Except no one feels safe today.
I grab my shoes and stuff my small feet into them, tying them triple ways. Then, I pull my elastic from my pale wrist and cram my light brown hair into a bun. A short blonde strip of hair glides down my face, kissing my freckle less cheeks.
My sharp, big blue eyes see that my sister is still asleep, lying so still under a red quilt that has thousands of tiny holes in it. I grab a light brown backpack and stick in a pink lady apple, some salt, salted pork, and a little jug of water.
I run outside into the warm July air. The sky is blue for once, but the weather is ruined with the sharp look of a German guard. I suppose I'm running too fast past him when he, all of a sudden, shoves a big, cold hand into my stomach.
I fall backward, gasping for air. My butt hits the rocky road, and my pinky bends backwards as I attempt to stop myself with my hand.
"What's your name?" He questions, face flat.
I don't answer. I can't get in trouble! Not now!
Instead, he jerks me forward up to his face. I gulp, my hands and legs shaking from the impact of his grasping, large hands.
