Don't Let Me Go

Chapter 1

The pitter patter of rain fell against my window as I look at the sky filled with dark grey clouds. The warmth of our wood fire made me sleepy as I slowly turn the pages of "Emma" written by Jane Austen. "It's such a happiness when good people get together."

I feel so privileged to read the work of such an accomplished writer. English literature is my passion and someday I aspire to be like Jane. I can quite easily relate to Emma's character. Clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition.

I glanced at the clock and it appeared to be 10pm. I am still waiting for my father to come home from work. Being the only child in my family, I enjoy the peacefulness of being alone but I do miss the company of others.

We live out of town, on a large plot of land which belonged to my late grandfather. He owned a middle-sized mansion and I liked to believe that every time I visited, it made me feel like I was a character in a Jane Austen novel. When my grandfather died of cancer all of his property was given to my father. So when I was five, my parents made the decision to shift our family into the estate.

My stomach grumbled and it dawned on me that Elva, our maid, had set the table for dinner three and a half hours ago. I walked across the cold wooden floor to the dining hall. Two place mats adorned the table, each with it's own white porcelain plate and sliver cutlery, accompanied by a tall glass and napkin. It looked so empty for a table fit for twelve.

My father is an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital and my mother is a manager of a law firm based in London and Chicago. Due to their jobs, I very rarely saw them together when they were married. Ever since I was little, I can always remember Elva taking care of me, as a result of my parent's constant absence.

I had come to accept my circumstances growing up, but nevertheless, I was still devastated when my parents informed me of their divorce. I always knew in my heart of hearts that my parents never truly loved each other and yet, some small part of me always held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe they did.

I wandered into our large kitchen and opened the refrigerator doors. A cold breeze escaped and sent chills over my body. A waft of chicken soup assassinated my nostrils, making my stomach churn. A piece of pepperoni pizza caught my eye and without hesitation, found itself on my plate.

As I impatiently waited for the sacred pizza to heat up, I felt my iPhone vibrate in my left pocket. Looking at the screen, it displayed that Marcel Styles was calling.

Marcel has been my best friend since I was three years old and he is only a few months older than myself.

His father owns a mansion on the other side of the lake. It's the meeting point of where our property finishes and theirs starts. His parents divorced, and at the age of seven, he moved to the city with his mother. We remained friends because every second summer he chose to spend with his father. Those summers were a welcome escape from the loneliness that haunted my days.

Marcel and I never attended the same school because I have been home schooled my whole life. My parents tried to keep me as sheltered as possible, so they eliminated all areas of negative influences. Despite my parents wishes, Marcel and I have applied for the Imperial College in London. It has always been a dream of mine to get accepted into their literature program.