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PROLOGUE.Letharia Vulpina NOVEMBER 7. 2011
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THE HOUSE ON THE END OF ELM STREET SAT ON TOP OF THE HILL. The end of the long dark street with a culdesac that connected to the long driveway that lead to the white house with green roofing and details. Plants that were once neatly gardened were now starting to rot from lack of love and the cold November air. The yard that was once regularly mowed now had grass pass your ankles. The grass was turning yellow. Maybe they'd be lucky and a gust of snow would cover it for the winter. It's California, who could be so lucky?
The house was empty, mostly. Lights are off. Silence filled the air. It was as if it was abandoned, if it hadn't been for the small cat that ran across the floor, taking its hiding spot under the couch. Its green eyes reflecting in the moonlight. She was shades of orange, black, and white. She was small and dainty, much like the rest of the house.
A shoe stepped in front of the cat's eyes. Black. They moved so quietly. A figure moving with unnatural stealth. The house was on mute. Maybe it was empty. He would've thought so, if he didn't know any better.
The cat's entire body stiffened. She didn't move, but she watched the figures movements. Pale fingers wrapped around a glass vase of flowers on the dining table across the house.
CRASH.
The cat skid across the floor, sprinting far away to another part of the house. The figure's head snapped upward.
She snapped awake. A mess of blond sits up from her bed in tired confusion. The teenage girls eyes flicked towards her alarm clock. It was one in the morning. She fell asleep over an hour ago. Groaning in dismay, the blond girl pulls herself out of her bed, tearing off her flower patterned sheets.
Cordelia was used to this, by now. When Mom came home drunk, she often tripped and smacked something. Or her cat would be into something she shouldn't, and run off. Neither her mother or her cat were very graceful. It was why she slept so lightly. She couldn't let her mom hurt herself.
"Mom?"
Cordelia's voice echoes through the house. She hears nothing. No mumble or groan from her mom, or the scratch of a feline. She sticks her head over the stairs, peering down. A mess of blond. She couldn't see a thing. She sighed, starting to walk down finally to see what mess her mother or her pet made now.
Bare feet patted against the floor. She had a hop in her step. She was in her pajamas. Shorts and a big sweatshirt. Her father's sweatshirt. It was dark green, and the strings were frayed from age. She was wearing shorts. She hated the feeling of pants when she slept. She claimed it felt like she was suffocating.
