Hope

Chapter One

Chapter One
The Boy Who Lost It All

Meeting Myles Thorne was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I'd like to tell you before I met him, I was actually having a pretty good day, but that, my friend, would be a flat out, total lie. My family had been killed by our neighbours, at Camp Dirk, just that morning, and I had just managed to flee during their beheading. My clothes were burned in inconvenient places and my hair was singed at the tips. I was angry, I was hungry, and I wanted to die, but I was stalking through a field.

I won't lie, I was sort of hoping there'd be a zombie there. There wasn't, of course, so I was pretty much just throwing a three-year-old's tantrum through some deserted grass. I shoved my hands in what was left of my soaked jacket as a last resort solution to keep warm and continued to walk, keeping my eyes on the endless grass ahead of me.

I was minding my own business. I was keeping to myself. I was miserable enough.

And what do you know? Some idiot decided to be oh, so nice and shoot me with a taser. That idiot was Myles Thorne.

The jolts of electricity reached from the pits of my stomach to the tips of my fingers, making me wince involuntarily and rattle in the air. My lips went numb, my vision was wavering, and my anger dissolved into fear. Then I dropped to the ground, the dry grass offering absolutely no cushion protection.

I couldn't speak. I gasped and grabbed my abdomen, which was cramping worse than it did during menstruation, and made an attempt to stand. Key word being attempt. I couldn't.

Myles Thorne, with his platinum blonde hair and squared glasses, stood above me, holding the source of my pain, his face as blank as mine had been before said pain was inflicted on someone who had previously inherited no hatred towards any passerby. Previously. Now, I was boiling.

"Y-you just—" I could think of a number things to say to Myles Thorne. "You—you onion!"

Myles Thorne did not react to my struggles to speak. He pocketed the taser and simply said, "I'd love to apologise, Kirstin, but I'm sorry, I'm not sorry." I felt ready to stand up and give him all he had coming, but my numbed legs felt differently. The next thing I was ready to do was ask him how he knew my name. "Myles Thorne, if you're wondering. And I want to know where you've taken my friend."

"I want to know what your problem is," I snapped back, trying to rise to my feet. I supported myself on my one arm that sustained feeling. "And how you have any friends. I don't know what you're talking about," I snarled through my teeth, imitating a wolf. He squatted down so his face was at the same level as mine. I imagined I was terrifying, that I would send guilt running through his very veins—but that monster remained expressionless. He was unfazed to, almost unaware of, how angry I was.

To some degree, this only made me angrier; but to another, this made me calmer. His expression was empty, it was vacant. But somehow, it was also full of depth and story. It made me want to know what had happened to him that would make him this harsh and cold towards someone whom he had never met.

"Don't lie." Myles' voice was short and quipping. It trimmed at my courage and feasted on my flinching. "Where is she?"

My eyes stung with tears as pain crept up my sides and clawed at my head. I didn't know what he was talking about, nor did I really care. Whatever taser he had used had a far more dramatic effect than all the ones used at Camp Dirk. "I told you, I don't know who you're talking about!" I lost control of my volume. He lost control of his anger.