A house too small for a family of six.
A father; hard-working and stern, with his face always buried deep in a newspaper—his shirt stained with spilt coffee.
A mother; kind and comforting, with her hands crammed into the soapy water in the sink—fondling dirtied dishes, bowls and cups.
An older brother; diligent and rude, with his muddy boots tracking footprints around the house and his oversized toolbox clogging the kitchen table.
An older sister; lazy and mean, with her headphones shoved impossibly far into her ears and her breasts overflowing from her too-small and too-tight tops.
A younger brother; loud and playful, with his hands stained from finger-paints and his bare-feet painted green and brown from the muddy lawn.
A younger sister; too small to cause trouble, with her tiny hands balled into fists—clutching her bedsheet tightly to scare away the monsters hiding underneath her cot.
Elliot; in the middle of it all.
I am skinny.
I am pale.
I am sick.
I'm the only one who got left behind.
A/N: I rarely leave author's notes, but this is important.
I intend for this novel to continue, but updates may be infrequent, as I have school work and such.
Note: This story will not all be in this type-setting. It'll get better. Promise :-)
YOU ARE READING
Into the Grey
SpiritualitéA chilly, autumn night. A full moon. A rainstorm brewing whilst thunder rumbles in the distance. A sea of clouds clogging the midnight-blue sky. An unlocked house. A family missing. A sickly boy all alone in the deep, dark woods.
