The Overlooked

Prologue

Hello, you lovely people. Please heed that this is the only warning I will be providing throughout this book because I do not wish to disturb the flow. The entirety of this story is centered around themes of death. That means it will include descriptions of crime scenes and an all around dark tone. I also don't mean to romanticize death or murder in any way, remember that this is a work of fiction. Basically, fasten your seatbelts. Love ya!

The metal tip of her pen scratched again the parchment, barely audible over her ragged breaths. The inky trails it left behind were wavering and imperfect, which was a fault of her trembling hand and the dire need to be unusually speedy. For the same reason, her words were rushed and unthoughtful.

A broken sob left her lips at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Suddenly it was real, despite the fact that she had silently hoped she would be wrong. The first tears to be shed that night formed a glistening coating over her eyes; tears that were ultimately wasted on her predicament. For what use was it to cry? It wouldn't change her fate. The pesky liquid did nothing but smudge her letter.

In the same way, what use was it to run? The answer was clear in her mind; to warn the others. 

As moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes, she brought the page up to her lips. No outwardly noticeable mark was left behind; nothing but her bittersweet well-wishes, like a maiden's blown kiss to a departing sailor.

The thunderous crash of books falling to the floor resonated around the library, a reminder that time was of the essence. She jolted to her feet and, with letter in hand, darted in the opposite direction.

Her shoes clacked loudly against the tiled floor, but it didn't matter if she was heard. She was going to be caught regardless. 

The rows of looming bookshelves were faintly illuminated by sporadic oil lamps, casting barely enough light to make out her path. She zigzagged desperately between the aging tomes as her pursuer's steps grew closer, her mind clouded over with purpose. She could only hope she'd make it in time. 

Her tears left glossy trails from her eyes to her ears as she ran. They blurred her vision, stinging in the cold air. She gasped as her shoulder collided painfully with the edge of a bookshelf, but continued nonetheless, clutching her aching upper limb. 

The advancing footsteps, matching her heartbeat, became awfully quick and booming. She dared not look behind her, for fear of seeing the sharp silhouette of her attacker. For fear of making it more real than it already was. Some hopeless part of her believed that if she did not acknowledge its presence, it would remain as nothing but a pair of footsteps. That notion quickly disappeared as the predator's harsh breaths joined her own. 

That was the only way she could think to describe it; a predator. In her mind, it took the form of a great grey wolf with dripping fangs and glowing eyes. Strangely, it was a consolation to her. She'd rather have faced a ravaging animal than a despicable human at any rate. 

Making a sharp turn into another aisle of shelves, a spark of hope ignited within her as she recognized the dusty novels.

If she was going to die, she was at least going to leave some good behind. She was going to spare another from coming to the same fate, or do so to the best of her ability. If she could help it, a couple faded newspaper articles were not going to be the only proof of her existence. She was going to have lived for a greater purpose; it was the only way she would accept death.

If the circumstances had been any different, she would've relished the feeling of the familiar leather spine in her grasp. She would've noticed the ornate cover as she tore it open and the silky pages between her fingertips, but none of these things were very well-suited for urgency.

Instead, she resorted to giving the parchment one last melancholy look of farewell as she slipped it between the pages and returned the book to its resting place. 

Her movements were slow now, for there was no longer a necessity for rush. Her pursuer, her doom, drew nearer as she looked out into the dark. She let out a shaky sigh, believing herself to be ready. Although, she subconsciously wished that she had been given more time. Time to prepare herself, time to explain things, time to say goodbye. 

She would've liked to think that she didn't fear death, that the only thing that scared her was being forgotten, but she was too young to come to such a conclusion. She was too young not to hope for a way out. It took everything in her to keep herself from running, to stand and wait for the end.

She stayed put, for it was the courageous thing to do.