Unreality

-Prologue-

~Prologue~

My heavy eyelids open to reveal a vast room lined with dark oak bookshelves; deep ruby and moss green leather book spines filling in every gap. I raise my hand to my head as a slow throbbing pain starts in my temples - only to realise that in that hand is a flute of fizzing champagne. I stare at the glass, perplexed. Where am I? What am I doing here?

I glance around, what I think is the library, to see many circular cloth-laden tables scattered around the room, softly lit with the flickering glow of wax candles. There are people here too. Adults in formal outfits, huddled around the tables in groups, all holding similar glasses of wine or champagne; exchanging conversation. The quiet but melodic sound of a blues tune in the background, and the soft chuckles and passing of conversation between the people, make me realise that this must be some sort of formal evening party.

As the throbbing headache begins to prevail, I try to think how I got here. Yet, when I try to remember something, I realise searching my mind is like trying to search for something in an empty room. Pointless. I remember nothing of how I got here, why I'm here and who sent me here.

My heart rate increases slightly at my oblivion to the situation, but I take a deep breath and realise that I've most likely just drank too much and forgotten where I am.

I look around the room again, but this time at the people. There must be someone here that I recognise.

Scanning the room, my eyes catch on a slightly dimmer part of the library, where there are no candlelit tables. The soft silhouette of a man takes shape as my eyes adjust. I take a few steps towards him, to be met by a pair of striking blue eyes. A sudden stroke of familiarity sparks in my mind, so I carry on stepping towards the figure.

The intensity of his gaze, compels me to move faster - the tapping of my heels absorbed by the plush carpet beneath me.

Before I realise it, I'm standing right infront of him. He grabs my arms and urgently whispers, "We need to get out of here, Louisa. We need to get out of here now."

He's young, I realise. Younger than all the guests here. He has soft blonde hair, combed back to match the formality of the navy suit he's wearing. From a distance, he'd look like a fully grown man, but up close, the suppleness of the skin on his chin and neck, and the fact that his voice wasn't as gravelly as I expected, gives away his youth. He can't be much older than eighteen.

Before I have a chance to respond, he's already pushing me towards the other end of the library, where the door stands.