Hopeless - (Bellamy Blake - Book 2)

Chapter 0

~*~

4 years ago

The Ark was always a boring place to live. No freedom. No incentive to live. No adventure.

My friends and I always managed to find the loopholes in the latter. We would make our own adventures, our own stories to tell to our kids when we grew older, instead of the usual "keep your head down, don't get caught doing what you're not supposed to," bullshit that we got told.

Well, we would still tell our kids that last part—Don't get caught.

Now, that's easier said than done, especially when you live in a space station orbiting Earth. There's not a lot of places for a kid to hide, unless you're good at hiding.

But today...today is the day that I did get caught, and I don't regret it at all.

*

My parents are arguing again. It's not exactly a small compartment that we live in, but it hasn't  got tons of space and hallways and big rooms like the apartments of council members do.
We have our main living quarters—large enough to fit a table and a couch, and a couple of drawers. Along the left wall are three doors. One leading to my room, which holds only my bed and a box for my clothes—same with my parents room, and a washroom barley big enough to fit a toilet, a sink, and a person all together.

They're in the main room. As always. I'm not sure if they know I'm lying on my bed, waiting for them to stop so I can leave, or if they just don't care anymore.

My mom is sick, but not med bay sick—she says things that don't make sense, talks to people that aren't in the room. It's scary sometimes.

It started a few years ago, I can't remember when exactly, but one day she started talking about her mom, and how good she was at sewing and how she wished she could help her sew the tear in my dads work uniform. That was fine. That was normal.

What wasn't normal, was when she started calling out for her mom, as if she would walk through the door at any moment.

My grandma has been dead for 5 years.

Mom only got worse after that incident.

They're shouting still. Well, dad's shouting, mom sounds like she's crying. She always cries when he shouts at her, and shouting is all he seems to do now. It's like he wants to help her, but he doesn't know how, or he's just so fed up being responsible for her...so he just gets angry.

It's Unity Day, Finn and Raven are waiting for me so we can go to the celebration. They're probably worried about me. Or they're too busy making gooey eyes at each other, which I've noticed has been happening a lot lately. I'm not jealous—I'm happy for them, they're cute together and they're always teasing each other, which is different to how they tease me or vice versa.

Raven's my best friend, and Finn is like a brother to me—but also my best friend. We're a team. We're inseparable. The Troublesome Trio. That's what my mom used to call us. She started calling me Trouble at first, when the teacher used to walk me home and complain to my mom about all the disruption I caused.

She...doesn't call me Trouble any more though.

I wonder how long they'll keep at it until I can sneak out. If dad catches me he'll tell me I need to take care of mom, then he'll go celebrate with his friends and drink illegal alcohol and won't come home until early in the morning, if at all.

There's the sound of something colliding with the floor and breaking, it sounds like glass.

I crawl out of bed and onto the floor, slowly opening my bedroom door and peaking out into the main room. Mom's crying a lot heavier now, her hands covering her head as she rocks back and forth on the floor. Dad's pacing the short length of the room, shouting out words I can barley hear over mom's anxious mutterings.

"Worthless...! Waste of my time...I work so damn hard...!"

My heart beats so loud in my chest I can hear it. My fingers curl against the wall to stop my hands from shaking. Why am I shaking? He's said things like this before...normally after he gets drunk, but... mom has never looked like this before, cowering on the floor like she's afraid for her life.

I look around, glass litters the floor at their feet from some ornament that was on the table. My dad's work tool belt has been discarded on the floor with his jacket. He kicks the wall and mom shrieks and rocks more, muttering something about how sorry she is for making him angry.

I take deep breathes as I watch them, because what else can I do? I can't intervene, the last time I tried to stop him from scaring her...my left cheek was red and sore for two days. I'm no use to my mom if I'm also in a heap on the floor.

But last time all he did was shout, and all she did was cry. This time is different. I don't know why.

He's pointing his finger at her, telling her to get up. To get up and look at him. She won't do it, she's shaking her head.

I don't remember much after this point, but I remember my dad grabbing my mom's crouched body by the back of her neck, and lifting her head up to look at him. I remember her crying out in pain, the tears that have been a constant flow down her rosy cheeks, and the absolute fear that widens her eyes as she takes in my dad's angered face. He looks like he could kill her, right there and then, and he wouldn't care.

That's when I realise I've had enough.

I shout something, then run out of my room and towards my parents. Then there's a heavy silence and blood, so much blood...and a blade from my fathers' tool belt stuck in his chest.

Someone screams, I don't know if it's me, or my mom. The buzzing silence rings the scream in my ears. He stumbles backwards until his back hits the wall, then he slides down onto the floor, a smear of blood running down the metal wall behind him.

So. Much. Blood.

Not once do his eyes leave mine, and I make sure to hold his gaze.

I don't remember what I felt in that moment, but it wasn't a good feeling...at least, I don't think it was.

I couldn't think of anything in those long minutes, not about Finn and Raven waiting for their friend that would never arrive, not about my mom curled up on the floor screaming, not about the life I'll never get to live.
It wasn't long before the guards turned up from all the screaming and saw what I did.

The only thing I could think about, were his dark brown eyes staring straight at mine and a ghost of a smirk resting on his face.

My name is Christine Carter, I am thirteen—almost fourteen—years old, and today is the day that I murdered my viscous father.

~*~