A connection to the past

Chapter 1

The moment I stepped foot out on the street I knew that my life had changed. I knew I could never go back. I knew that my journey was set. No one was by my side. I was all alone.

I kept walking and walking and with every step I took I became more aware of my situation: I had nowhere to go. I knew no one else besides the people from who I was running. 

Picking a street to go on when reaching an intersection wasn't hard. I just had to pick randomly. It didn't matter which one I picked. In the end, for me anyway, they led to the same place: nowhere. That's the place I was going: nowhere. Because wherever I went they would find me eventually. Because no matter how far and fast I ran, I would ultimately reach the end of the street, the end of my journey...

As the sun set and the moon rose I got to a place where homeless people lived. I realized that it was a good a place as any other to spend the night. I was one of them now, one of the people without a home. The lost ones. The forgotten. I went closer and tried to find the one in charge. It wasn't hard to. He was a tall guy, probably no older than eighteen. He had dirty brown hair and piercing blue eyes. You could see beneath his shirt that he was a muscular guy. If you took away all the dirt, you could actually say he was handsome. Of course, that didn't matter in his case. I hadn't been long on the streets but what I did know was that looks didn't get you anywhere. It doesn't matter what you look like. If people see you wearing rags then they avoid you.

His clothes were dirty, exactly what you'd expect from a homeless person, but the difference between him and the others was the way he carried himself. He acted like he belonged there and nowhere else, like he was proud to be there, to be the leader of those people. But I'm sure I was reading him wrong. Why would a homeless person be glad they're homeless? What would be the point? The way I found him was pretty simple. I just looked around and saw that he was going from shelter to shelter, asking the others if they needed anything. It was weird, the way he seemed to care about everyone there, like they all were his family.

He saw me eventually, so I kept looking at him until he reached me. "What is your business here? Go along! Back to your house and warm fireplace! This is a place where survivors reside! You aren't one of us so goodbye!" and with that he turned his back to me and started walking towards his people. I was stunned. After seeing him being so nice and caring with the others I wasn't expecting this: the coldness and carelessness he showed me. But I shouldn't be affected by his words. He was right. Why would he be nice to me? I wasn't one of them. Not yet, anyway. I wasn't about to give up that easy. "Wait!" I shouted after him. He turned around with that cold stare. Which, by the way, I was totally fascinated with. How could that stare frighten me and attract me like a magnet at the same time? He kept looking at me, as if wandering why I was still there, but also a bit curious about what I was about to say. "I..." I started. He raised an eyebrow. Why could everybody do that but me? "I...wanted..." I cleared my throat, feeling his piercing gaze on me. "I wanted to stay with you. I have nowhere else to go. I have been walking the streets for a long time and I think I finally found a place where I could stay. Please don't make me go away." His expression changed. I don't know if it was because of what I said, or how I said it, or the fact that he was surprised I could muster so many words after barely being able to say one. Then his expression changed again, this time into an almost friendly face. After clearing his throat, he said: "Well then, newbie. Welcome. They call me Tommy." He said, reaching his hand to shake mine. As I shook his hand he asked: "Do you have a name? Or am I going to have to call you Newbie for the rest of your stay?" The smirk on his face could have been seen from a mile away. With a tiny smile I answered: "I do, actually. My name's Sloan."

After Tommy found a place for me to sleep I went out like a light. My dreams were very diverse but I woke up to find a figure coming into my 'room' with a dagger in its hand, ready to strike.

"You should hurry up with eating breakfast or you're going to be late for school. On your first day!" she yelled from the living room. "Yeah, mom, I'm hurrying!" I really wasn't. I was actually thinking about what had just happened. But I didn't have time. No matter how annoying, mom was right. I was going to be late if I didn't hurry. So I finished my milk and cereal as fast as I could. I went upstairs, got dressed in the clothes I had prepared the previous night, and went in front of the mirror to have a big look at myself. My big brown eyes were the first thing I saw. I didn't like them but my parents always told me that they were beautiful, that they made me look like a princess, next to my long brown hair, which reached the backs of my knees when flowing. I usually braided it in a long single and simple braid. Today was no different. My shirt was blue and long. I wore ripped jeans and my favourite boots. They were ten centimetres over my ankle and five centimetres high. They were black leather and so very chic. They cost me a lot of money but they were worth it.

After looking in the mirror for at least two minutes I realized I don't like the shirt that much and that I'd prefer another one. This was bad. Panicked, I changed my shirt into a dark red sleeveless one. I took my backpack, which didn't contain that many books since it was just the first day of school. I went downstairs, put my black leather jacket on and told my mom that I was ready. She wanted to drive me to school on the first day and I didn't have anything against the idea, especially since I was now in a hurry.

And so we got into the car, and she began to drive the short way to school. The only thing she said was: "It happened again didn't it? During breakfast?" I looked at her and met a concerned motherly gaze. "Yeah..." was my answer. She knew me so well. "Want to talk about it?" I could hear the concern and love in her voice, and the sadness at the thought that there was nothing she could do to help me. "No, not really." I kept my tone neutral, not wanting her to realize how hopeless I felt. It was never going to stop. I knew it in my heart. Not if I don't do something about it. But what? "Okay then." She finally said. The rest of the way I looked out the window, lost in thought. I kept thinking about the poor girl... I was snapped back to reality when my mom said: "We're here, Maeve."