Undercover//N.H//(A.U)

Undercover

A/N

Hello! I wrote this book when I was 15/16 and the writing in it, is not the greatest. Now having a look at these stories I wrote when I was so much younger, I see good ideas, but maybe not executed in the best ways. 

I hope to over the next few months go through my old stories and rewrite them in a style that is much more cohesive than they were originally written. 

This is not about bashing "younger me's" work, I have grown and therefore, feel the writing should as well. If you have already read this book and see this message, hello! If you are new and reading it for the first time, thank you! 

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I was always strong.

Being thirteen and hearing your mother has passed away is shit. My Father's voice still echos around my head. 

"She's gone Kate, I'm so sorry." 

That was a feeling that defined my very first panic attack. My breath stuck in my throat, as if my lungs had shut a locked door to it. I swallowed, but felt my throat restrict, my chest now starting to work overtime to compensate the breath I was no longer taking. I stared at him, his tears streaming from his eyes in two rivers that now stained his face. 

I gasped, feeling the air around me to be warm, and the sweat starting to bead on the back of my neck. I wringed my hands, my nose stinging and I needed to do something, I needed to get out of my room. I needed him out of here. 

"Get out." 

"What?" My father's heartbroken face looked back at me, and I turned from him, trying to focus on something else that would distract me from my breath that I could no longer get into my body. I suddenly felt it. 

The rage. 

I swung my hands round, grabbing my curtains, pulling them straight from the pole, letting it fall round my feet. My hand pivoted round, circling into a fist and it hit the wall. I hissed as a pain shot up from my knuckles up my arm, but it was giving me the distraction that I needed. 

"Kate stop!" He yelled, grabbing hold of me.

He needed to get off me. I needed the distraction. I needed it. 

The more he held my wrists tightly, the more I could feel them threaten to make an appearance.

"Get off me!" I yelled in a panic, trying to twist out of his grip. He didn't let go.

It happened. 

I felt the first tear fall from my eye, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not stop the rest. A breath that I did not know I had rushed out and I inhaled, and as I did, I verbally cried out. my knees gave way and I fell to the ground, my father following me down as he pulled me into his chest and rubbed my back. 

"It's okay, I promise we'll be okay." He whispered. 

Lie.

I don't feel I was particularly gifted in reading the future, but I was right. 

My father entered a dark depression, one where he was no longer able to look after himself. I would come down to go to school in the morning and he would be in kitchen, in the same chair, staring out the window.

"Dad?" I would always ask.

"I'm fine, I'm just sitting for a few moments." Would be the reply.