Hello all my Fellow Wattpad Addicts. This is my story, The Malosian Trilogy. I apologize for any grammar mistakes, just go with the flow. I would love to make this story Famous here, so if anyone has any techniques to getting views on stories, tell me. The wattpad story won't always be up to date. Check out my channel here http://wafflekitten1020.deviantart.com/ for newest updates :) feel free to watch me here too!
Chapter One
Dreams. That’s what haunts me. Being chased by shadows. Fire. Resulting in waking up drenched in my sweet sweat. Leaving me grabbing at my heart in terror. Over and over, I am killed, people die. Every night, the same monsters chase me.
I wake up from my latest terror only to see the sun shining brightly through the blinds of the window next to my bed. I look around my square room, at my crowded dresser and blue walls. I smell sausages and pancakes wafting from the down stairs. I sit up, wiping my head with the sleeve of my striped pajamas. My stomach growls eagerly, leading me to my door and pulling me down the stairs. I place myself at the end of our dining table.
My Dad sits beside me, read New York Times and sipping his coffee. He is silent, but smiles at me when I catch his eye. My Father, Robert, is a man of few words. Most he says to me in a day is 2 sentences. A lot of kids take that as their dad is angry at them, but I grew up with it. He is a well built man, and his face hard looking. Most people think that he is really moody at first sight. His eyes are soft, green as a jungle, deep. His hair is dark brown and his old western moustache well trimmed. I remember that when he kissed my forehead when I was five, it tickled me and I would laugh.
I smiled at the thought as my mother, Amy, burst out of the kitchen holding three plates of pancakes and sausages. My Mom is a thin woman with a slight case of OCD and over excitement. My neighbors believe that she is bipolar, they complain about her joyful personality. People are so judgmental. Our house is in complete order because of her case of OCD. When she is upset, she goes and reorganizes the whole house, it seems to make her feel better. She bleaches her hair because she does not like the gray strands growing out of her scalp, she says they clash when I can’t even tell which ones are blond and which are gray. If she fails to dye her hair, she starts to pull it out. Her eyes are always really jittery and moving from side to side, as if she is expecting a sneak attack from behind. I always wonder how such a taciturn man like my Dad could marry such a noisy wreck like my mom.
“Markie, glad you’re up” My mom yowls happily “I was afraid I would have to walk up those wretched stairs with my high heels”. Did I mention that my mother never takes off her favorite pair of high heels?
I am not in the mood for talking so early in the morning, so I take a bite of my pancake and cradle my head in my hand. My parents aren’t my biological parents, they adopted me as a baby. I always used to dream about my actual parents, wishing that they would want me again. I loved my life here, but I always felt that something was missing. Like I was never even home.
Thinking about this made me lose my appetite; I pushed my plate away from me and walked away. My mom didn’t notice, for she was to busy trying to carry on a conversation with my dad, who just nodded his head politely. I went up to my room and changed out of my pajamas and slipped into some boot cut jeans that hugged my waist and a simple black tank top and dark blue over shirt. I brushed out my milk chocolate brown hair and went across the hall to the bathroom. Bland. That’s the word that popped up in my head when I glanced at my reflection. My nose was slightly pointed and my lips pouty. My camo green eyes were large and bold. Along with all these features, my cheeks were dappled with minuscule freckles. I looked at myself pitifully. I never wore make-up, so this is how I always looked. There was nothing special about my vanity, I was plain and simple. Just how I liked it.
When I arrive downstairs my Mother throws several compliments in my direction, she straightens my shirt and brushes her long fingers through my hair. After claiming I looked perfect, she bustles into the kitchen to make me some hot chocolate for the walk to school. I slip on my black beret that my Dad had bought for me on a business trip to France and put on my gray tinted zip up jacket.
My Father is a traveling salesman; he has been to every continent except Antarctica, because he hates the cold. Even though he has a quiescent nature, he knows at least 5 languages minimum. Because of his job, he is gone a lot of the time. Which means I get a lot of time with my insane mother, that was sometimes good and sometimes bad. Every time he goes somewhere, he gets me a souvenir. Most of the time it is clothes, but once he got me a necklace from Australia with a kangaroo charm hooked to the chain. Such a petty item, but I use it as a good luck charm and never take it off. It’s my security blanket, reminding me that I have a good family.
I rub the smooth surface of the marsupial painting plastered on my necklace. My mother comes out of the kitchen, carrying a huge mug of steaming cocoa.
“Big is always better for my little pumpkin” My mom says enthusiastically. “Thanks Mom” I say, and she acknowledges that I am in a better mood than I was earlier this morning.
I say my goodbyes to my mother and father, then walk out the door of my apartment. I turn the corner as I sip my beverage, but spit it out in a trashcan. My mother used salt instead of sugar in my hot chocolate! I swirl the taste around in my mouth and make a horrible face as I unscrew the lid and dump out the remaining cocoa into the trash. I grouchily lumber down the stairs, but undaunted about the fact that my morning drink had been tainted with sodium. I always stop at the mini mart a block down the street on my way to school.
*~*~*
As I exit my apartment, the winter wind of New York City tugs at my unzipped jacket. At this time of year, the city looks extra dirty. The snow turns a brownish color on the roads because of the traffic. That’s one of the things I hate about NY. I walk down the paved stairs and into the bustling crowd brusquely, warming my hands within my jacket sleeves. Once I reach the end of the block, I take a sharp turn and enter the Mini mart titled “Marty’s Mart”. A bell rings from above my head and the clerk looks my way intently.
“Ah, Markie” the man behind the counter says in a thick Italian accent, raising his arms in greeting “How is my number one costumer?”
“Great,” I say, holding up my hot chocolate mug “only my mom ruined my hot cocoa.” “Again” he replies, cocking his head to one side. I nod, making puppy dog eyes “if only I had a something warm to drink so I wouldn’t freeze on my way to school”. He smiles and gestures to the hot coffee machine in the corner “on the house.” “You never fail me Marty” I say gloriously. I stride to the machine and find the hot water, pour it into my mug, shake in some apple cider powder, and stir it around. Once I have finished the process, I make my way to the door, knowing that I will be late if I don’t get moving.
“Good luck in school today Markie!” Marty shouts from behind me. I wave my hand behind me in acknowledgement and then close the mini mart’s door. I walk down the street father, avoiding the ubiquitous crowds and staying away from traffic. Once I reach about 3 blocks, I take a right and find myself practically at my middle school, Washington Junior high.
I am an eighth grader here, it is my very last year here at WJH. Thank God too. Middle school ultimately sucks, and the school smells like my great Grandmother’s house, which is not a pile of flowers since she can’t get up and walk to the toilet. I might be rid of it forever, I have overheard the younger teachers talking about it being torn down and replaced next year. Yay.
Suddenly, the first bell rings and the crowd of teens outside the door squeeze together and rush in through the double doors. Seeing I have about 50 feet to go until I reach the doors, I walk slowly, letting the snowy wind blow my hair and sting my ears. It seemed like a normal day, but I’m notorious for misjudging things.
