Resurrection

Chapter 1

My heart raced wildly. I ran as fast as I could and hid behind a large oak tree. I took quick, short breaths, lightly resting my hand over my mouth in an attempt to quiet my gasps, so he wouldn't hear me. The sound of twigs snapping echoed in my ears, becoming louder as the footsteps that sent leaves and twigs cracking neared closer to me. I circled clockwise around the tree, my back against it, my head turned towards the empty field that was on my right. I couldn't take the anticipation anymore; I peeked around the tree into the clear space of mossy grass in front of it; nothing. I peered around the opposite side of the tree and then behind me through the trees similar to the one I leaned against. My eyebrows furled in confusion before a finger tapped my shoulder lightly from behind and I spun around, eyes wide.

"Found you!" my little brother stood tall, with a sense of accomplishment showing on his face. His hands were shaped into fists and they rested on his hips, making him look like some kind of superhero.

"Okay, you win Midget, you are the true master of hide and seek." He laughed as I ruffled his black, curly, ear length hair into a piled mess. He pushed his locks back into their places, but his hair always looked messy anyway.

"My name is not Midget, it's Owen. Say it with me, oh-when." He answered with an annoyed tone. He always hated that I called him midget.

"I'll start calling you midget when you're taller than me; don't worry it won't take long." He wouldn't get much taller than me, I was only 5'2"; neither of our parents were very tall, my dad stood at 5'10" and my mother barely made it to 5'1".

The chirp of a whistle rang through the air, and I raced Owen out of the small patch of forest that was in the center of hundreds of miles of field and into the hot sun, toward a medium-sized, tattered and peeling white-painted house. There was no sign of life for miles around, and I liked it; it was always so quiet and a gentle breeze constantly battled with the heat, it was a great place for kids to play and run without parents worrying about where they'd wander off to or what type of trouble they'd get in.

We filed in, walking left into a small dining room with dark wood paneled walls with a matching floor; a dim chandelier hung from the ceiling over a long, also wooden table in the middle of the room. Four seats were pushed in at each side and one on each end. Owen and I sat next to each other while six other children took their seats, one of them unfamiliar. I stared at her unknown face, looking down every time she noticed, and wondered what her past was. We all waited in front of our empty bowls on the table, Owen and I sitting quietly while the others talked amongst themselves.

After a few minutes, a stout, red-faced lady appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a large metal pot in her hands. She set the pot on a cloth set in the middle of the table, while a skinny, tall woman with long black hair walked behind with a tray of rolls. They each took their places on each end of the table; the red-faced lady tucked her matching red, frizzy hair behind her ear and began to speak.

"Good evening boys and girls, I'd like to introduce you to a new member of our family, Monica."

The unfamiliar face was given a name; she nodded slightly, her small body leaning back in the chair with her face to the floor. Her long blonde hair covered one of her gray-blue eyes; she didn't look older than twelve.

"I expect all of you to welcome her lovingly and include her in your daily activities. Monica, welcome to Bryarly Group Home."

I still cringed every time she mentioned that this was a foster home, even though I had been back and forth to and from this place for six years. I loved the red-faced lady, Miss Dawson; she was always sweaty and constantly wore an apron, cooking or cleaning; this assured me that she was working hard to take care of the kids that stayed here; she really cared about us. When I was younger I used to think her frizzy, shoulder length hair was that way because of the stress, and if we were all nicer to her that her hair would eventually straighten out. She stood at 5'4" and couldn't be older than 45. At first she seemed grumpy and mean, but once you got to know her, she treated you like one of her own; she was the closest thing I had had to a mother in six years.