It All Started With An Apple

Chapter 10

I wanted to kill someone.

Someone was shaking me.  It was rude enough to shake someone awake, but to shake them with such ferocity, such violence—this was just uncalled for!  I mean, they seriously expected me to listen to them when they were acting this way?  I didn’t even know who it was, and I really didn’t care.  I wasn’t going to open my eyes for them, no matter what they said.

“Brianne, Brianne, wake up!”

I pushed whoever it was blindly away from me, pulling my sleeping bag over my face.  “What the hell do you want?” I snapped sourly.  “Are you aware of what time it is?”

Wait.  I didn’t even know what time it was.  What time was it?

All of a sudden the sleeping bag was ripped away from my face.  I blinked, opening my eyes.  Britain stared down at me with a wide, frightened gaze.  I blinked again.  Why was Britain so scared?  Why was he shaking?  What could possibly have scared him so much?  I tensed, completely on edge now.  “What happened?”

“Vincent is missing!”

I shot up in my sleeping bag.  Vincent—Vincent was missing?  My Vincent was missing?  I felt my insides go cold as a sheer panic raced through me.  Did someone take him?  Did he run away?  No, he couldn’t have possibly run away.  What reason would he have?  Was he abducted in the middle of the night?  I wanted to ask Britain all of these questions, but instead I settled on a frantic, “What?”

I kicked my covers off before hopping up and searching frantically for my shoes.  I rushed over to them, struggling to get them on.  Britain stood there, watching me with wide, watery eyes.  He and Vincent had always been close.  If anything happened to Vincent, I had no idea what Britain would do.

“What do you mean he’s missing?” I demanded, grabbing my sweatshirt off of Britain’s bed and throwing it on. 

Britain brought a hand anxiously through his hair.  “He’s not anywhere!” he cried.  “Apparently he got in a fight with Maria and then he took off!”

I was going to kill that stuck-up thirteen-year-old.

I stomped toward the door, stepping over Kyla as I went.  I paused a few steps from the doorway, stealing a glance at Dannon.  He, like Kyla, was passed out, using one of his arms as a pillow.  Hair fell into his face, almost covering his eyes.  I bit my lip.  Should I wake him up?  He was probably the only one who wouldn’t be cranky and would actually help me.  I quickly decided against it and hurried out of the room, storming toward Maria’s room now.

“Maria!” I hissed, throwing open her bedroom door.  Maria, like Britain, had her own room (it was common in this household to share a bedroom).  However, unlike Britain, she’d demanded one.  Spoiled brat much?

Maria lounged on her bed, doing her nails.  That only pissed me off more.  Vincent could have been anywhere, and she was sitting there trying to look pretty?  What an asshole!

“What?” she demanded coolly, barely sparing a glance at me as she worked.

I shoved my hands under my armpits, clenching my teeth as I tried to contain my bubbling anger.  It wasn’t working very well.  “What the hell did you do to Vincent?” I spat. 

Maria looked up now, her hazel eyes flashing.  She struggled to flip her dark, straight hair—she straightened it excessively because apparently it was bad to have curly hair—dramatically as she glared at me.  “I didn’t do anything,” she snapped.  “The little brat came in here demanding one of my stuffed animals.  Wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him one.”