The Power In My Veins

Prologue

Moxie Kline was a slender young girl, with jet black hair framing a round face featuring silver eyes that had flecks of gold in them. Her lips were small, but looked like a Cupid's bow, the top lip smaller with the bottom full and round. She liked to dress in a way that allowed her to blend in. She wore dark colored sweatshirts with jeans and her favorite black converse. When she didn't wear her sweatshirts, she had dark colored t-shirts, most times with her favorite pop-culture or bands printed on the front. Her appearance aside, she was just like any other 11 year old. She loved to be around her small group of friends. She loved being creative. She loved to let her imagination run wild. She did well in school, even though she disliked it like many other kids. Anything that troubled her was taken care of by her loving parents who'd do anything for their daughter. Moxie was happy.

However, she had bits and pieces of thoughts or memories that were always tugging at the back of her mind. She could never piece enough of them together to make a solid memory, but she knew something of it had to be important. Sometimes she would get so lost in her thoughts that she would tune the world out. She could better put together these thoughts when she was in that state. Unfortunately, something always had to pull her back out of it and she would lose the thought she was working on.

It wasn't until her 11th birthday when one of those foggy thoughts was clear enough to remember. She saw a hooded figure in the shadows, turned away from her. It was mumbling words she couldn't quite figure out. It wasn't until she got closer to it when she caught what it was saying, "A year. A year. A year." Over and over the figure mumbled, "A year. A year. A year." She had apparently fallen asleep on the school bus back home when it hit a bump and woke her up. She was covered in sweat. She never told anyone what happened on that day because who would believe it? It must have been a dream, right? She couldn't figure out where she heard the voice before, nor did she know what the figure meant by it's chanting of "A year. A year. A year." She was afraid of what that meant.

It wasn't until she was about 12 when her perfect life started falling apart around her. Her parents started to argue more than they ever had before. Her dad, a chunky man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard that matched, didn't stay home that often. She assumed that he was always working. Her mother,  a very skinny and tall woman, had her light brown graying hair tied up in a ponytail most days because she was always cooking. Moxie quickly learned that her mother cooked when something was bothering her. It was almost always just the two of them, but she cooked like there was an army of people to feed. Her mother took her to donate the extra food they didn't eat to the homeless shelter, who always appreciated the kindness. They always loved seeing them.

Moxie knew that her mom was hurting more on some days because the meals were more elaborate on those days. It was always when her dad had been home long enough for them to argue. She could tell that they still loved each other, but could never understand why they were always fighting. She questioned if it was because of her. She hated wondering if she was the cause. She had a sneaking feeling that she was right. But Moxie didn't realize how right she was.