The Repeat

Before you start to read, just know that I can't write and this is a draft. I've never really written anything, okay? ._.

Prologue

   Years past, many years. America, along with many other countries, have fallen, the very few left are pinned down in depression. What was the reason for the sudden downfall of our world? War. Weapons, stronger then Humanity could handle. The small pockets of survivors were able to put together small cities of the rubble that was once theirs. The simple things we took for granted then, is now more precious then safety.

   Militias were formed through these rare cities, one in particular who call themselves the Unknowns. Further groups, not directly under the lose governments are people who scavenge off the barely living, snatching anyone they could get their hands on to work for military and putting the world back together. These people work on resources, working on anything to keep Humanity running. The 'Givers,' they call themselves, should they be seen as Gods, giving life back to the people, in a way?

   They are seen as cold enemies to the survivors of Hardwood. The Givers don't give away freely. Dogs, pets, children, machinery, anything the Givers can use for themselves, they often take in return for a small cloth bag of fruit and a sliver of meat.

   The World is in ruins, the weaponry that destroyed it still runs in the air, a combination of dreadful gasses that can kill with one intake. Residents of Hardwood are only given three masks, ones that were discarded from military use. These lack of reliable gas masks are what keep the people from leaving their homes, isolating them from each other, preventing rebel groups or plans to leave.

This is a world, love, where saftey is not an option.

Chapter 1

Hati

   Mom stood at the counter, chopping onions, and sliding then into a black pot of boiling water. I listened to the rhythmic sound of the kitchen knife tap against the wooden cutting board, then scrape it's work down into the water, splashing then the diced vegetables drowned into the blackness. The single light bulb that cast the kitchen in dark looming shadows, flickered and whined. The small room was hued by yellow light, a quite relaxing kitchen scene.

   Ruesia sat at the center chair, scowling at flash cards on the table before her, her brow line creased so her dark eyes were shadowed. Mom began to hum, thumping the knife to rid of stray onion cubes, then danced over to the cabinets, patting Ruesia's hair on the way.

   "Having trouble, Dear?" Mom's singsong voice rang through the kitchen.

   " Seven times eight doesn't add up to twenty-three." Ruesia growled, her golden hair hanging over her forehead as she bent down for a better look at the problem. "It..."

   "That's because you wrote the eight wrong." Mom reached her arm around Ruesia's shoulders to reach a pencil. "Your eraser marks makes your three look like an eight. I don't think we have anymore rubber," Mom's eyes were blank as she turned her gaze to a dark knot in the wood of the table. "Hati?"

   I lifted my head slightly as an answer.

   "What happened to that block of rubber we used to keep by the pencil stack?" Mom turned her gaze to me, her eyes still blank.

   "I don't know." I kept my eyes on hers.

   My hands started to sweat over the soft lump I held under my long t-shirt. I locked my fingers into the lump, feeling past the soft touch to the toughness of the rubber.

   "Didn't we use it all?"

   Mom shrugged, sighing. "You can take a break now, Ruesia."

   Ruesia's chest heaved in relief, tossing the tattered math papers off the the side with her arm. Her dark eyes met mine, her mouth forming a thank-you once Mom returned to her cooking. Her golden hair fell over her shoulders, down to her collarbone. Her young face was framed in the light gold, her side bangs falling over her right eye, partially covering the dark orbs.