Betrayed ✔️

Chapter 1: "Behold"

ADA

EVEN BEFORE MY best friend tried to kill me, I was having a pretty rotten day.

I awoke to having my eardrums cursed by my teenage neighbour's heavy metal music- and that wasn't even the rotten part.

Unfortunately, he had reached the circle of hell even Dante couldn't dream up of known as puberty. He was convinced his life was some sort of epic novel and felt the need to 'rebel'. I had tried, many times, to talk to his parents about how it was not socially acceptable for their son to blast music at four in the morning but they brushed me off, saying it was 'just a phase'.

What kind of phase goes on for six years?

Somehow, I managed to escape my dilapidated apartment with my senses intact, but then I was immediately accosted by my landlady- Mrs. Wallaby- who honestly should've retired years ago.

"Hello dearie!" Wallaby warbled, revealing two rows of incomplete and jagged teeth.

"Hey Mrs. Wallaby." I laughed nervously, pressing my back against the door as my nose was assaulted with the stench of week-old cabbage and cheap, musty perfume. "Look, I'd love to chat but I have to go!–"

"But dearie–!" Wallaby stretched out a gnarled hand, eyes glinting with greed.

I didn't wait for her to finish, pushing past the old hag and sprinting down the stairs, and adjusting the strap of my blue backpack over my shoulder. I risked a glance backwards and saw her wobbling towards me at a frightening speed, determination splayed across her vulture-like features.

"Dearie! I just want to talk!"

"Sorry, Wallaby!" I shouted back, jumping down the last four steps and shouldering open the door to the building. "I'm late for work!"

The car was on the other side of the parking space. There was no time to get it. I glanced at the bike shed with its corrugated roof and flimsy door that looked as if one strong cough would blow it over.

I picked the lock and grabbed the most sturdy-looking bike, just as Wallaby appeared in front of the property. Her beady eyes reminded me of how the cheetah looked at the gazelle seconds before striking the final blow in the David Attenbourgh documentary I watched last night. I started pedalling furiously, whizzing through the empty car park.

"See you later, Wallaby!" I called, laughing when I heard a frustrated scream in reply.

I cycled through the busy roads of London, a tiny smile lifting my lips as the warm sun caressed my face with its gentle fingers. Passing the closely packed grey buildings, a wave of nostalgia hit me as I became submerged in many memories.

"Watch out!"

What the–?

I swerved just in time to avoid a motorcycle and toppled off my bike with a volley of curses directed at the rider.

My head struck a long pole and black butterflies exploded in my vision. They crashed and clashed against each other, temporarily blinding me and sound blended into the background as if someone was holding me underwater.

A searing agony jolted through my body and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to ease the piercing pain that erupted in my skull. Tiny pieces of gravel were embedded in my palms and I focused on the dull ache, using it as an anchor to guide my way back to reality.

"–Wilson? Wilson, are you alright? Hey, come on, talk to me! Chief Wright will kill me if anything happens to you–"

"Carter," I grounded out. "Shut the hell up."