*Book 1*
*Completed but Editing*
Saphira Colby doesn't actually exist. The memories she comes up with, the family she describes and the appearance she takes on isn't real. It's a disguise. A disguise to hide the real her, the her that's being hunted...
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Chapter 7 "Blast From The Past"
Saphira's POV:
The rest of the week passes by with a strange repetition. I'd wake up at around two in the morning gasping for air, only to find an empty house waiting for me. I can't get back to sleep after that, simply sitting on my window seat and looking out at the dead city my street becomes as darkness falls.
My morning routine of showering and chucking random clothes on is spent with me acting like a zombie, only to fake being awake and happy as Myra and Tori drive me to Jamaica Blue for the same meal every morning.
We're usually joined by Emma and the three girls would fangirl over anything they can get their hands on. Usually it's about what Nate and I share. Which is currently nothing and will forever stay as nothing.
Speaking of, the blonde devil has in fact been using his knowledge about my lying to his advantage. There'd be comments about 'bonding' and little conversations about how to tell when someone isn't telling the truth.
Not to mention the small smirks and knowing looks he sends me every chance he gets.
During history, however, he's a lot stiffer than usual. He's more alert and observing than he is when with his friends. It's like he's looking for answers, abiding his time until there's something for him to snatch up.
Add all of this on top of Matthew being suspiciously inactive and you have a very confused, frustrated and weary Saphira.
So here I am, staring up at the blank, white ceiling. I can practically feel the bags under my eyes getting bigger; the dark circles spreading. Most of the effort I have goes into turning my head, watching as 7:59am turns into 8:00am.
Way too early to be awake on a Saturday.
I exhale deeply, the air passing through my lips slowly as my chest falls. The silence in the huge house threatens to suffocate me, just waiting to strike at the mere thought of someone breaking it. I tap my fingers against the mattress beneath me, restlessness making my body move.
I want to run.
On instinct, my hand gently probes my ribs, checking for any sign of distress. Only a slight ping of pain is created as my finger pokes a certain area. Shrugging as best I can whilst lying down, I swing my legs out from under the covers, pulling my body up at the same time.
