Running from Lions - A Novel by August Perez

Running from Lions - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The way I see it, we were all put here on God's green earth for a purpose. Some's may have been to invent innovative technology, others' to cure cancer, and maybe, just... maybe become renowned spies, like my family. As for me, well... my purpose seems to be dragging down the geniuses I call my siblings and being an embarrassment to the Connell family name.

Yeah, my family are all spies. It started with my great-great grandfather, who then trained my grandfather to be a spy, just like him. My grandfather, Richard Connell Sr. moved from London to Edinburgh in 1950 when he was 27 for a long term mission. There he met Mary Ainsley, whom he wed and had my father, Richard Connell Jr. with 3 years later. Then came Marcus Connell, but sadly he died as a young boy from influenza. Only after the Connell family had settled down did Richard Sr. tell his wife of his true profession (he had originally said that he worked a desk job for a sales company). She was enraged that she had been lied to and she, naturally, left to go live with her sister, Margaret.

Richard was angry and depressed, so he took it out on my father. He didn't beat him or anything... no! But he did train him rigorously to shape him into a proper spy, just like his father before him. Apparently, his harsh training methods rubbed off, because my father is brutal.

My grandfather died in 1973, when my father was 20. Of course, my father carried on being a spy, and eventually met Amelia Calhoun on the job. They married in 1977, and had their first child in 1988, Richard III, or better known as Ricky. He's definitely my parents' favourite, with the right mix of brawn and brains to show for his 15 years of training with them.

A bit younger than Ricky is James, by far the most intelligent Connell child. He was accepted into Oxford at the ripe age of 15! Younger than James, and my favourite sibling, is Abbigail, my sister two years my senior. She's pretty and incredibly athletic. She was captain of the lacrosse team in high school and only God knows how many track medals she has hanging on her wall.

Then there's me. Finlay Marcus Connell, 16 years old with the body of a prepubescent 12-year-old, mediocre grades, and 0 talent. And I'm not even exaggerating. I really can't do anything. My parents have signed me up for every class and course and lesson under the Sun, but to no avail. I guess, I'm just the bad egg. It's no wonder why my parents hate me.

But anyways, enough of this, you're probably here for the story, hm?

lt all started on a Monday morning, where I was running late for the underground. Father was in a particularly foul mood for whatever reason; angrily flipping through the pages of the morning paper, and Mother was keeping quiet and drinking her tea. I was rushing to get ready for school, multi-tasking to make sure I wouldn't miss the Tube. I rushed past the dining table into the kitchen to get my toast, where it had decided to pull a stunt and land next to the toaster.

"Finlay, will you stop?" Father snapped. I grabbed the toast and zipped past the table again to put on my uniform's blazer one-handidly. "What?" I asked. "You know what!" he retorted, slamming the paper on the table with a loud whack!

"Actually, I don't," I replied, straightening the blazer and wiping some crumbs off of the cuff. "Don't test me, Finlay Marcus," he growled. I simply shrugged. "I'm just getting ready for school, Father. I don't see what's wrong." Father grumbled something along the lines of 'stupid bag of shit,' which earned a shriek of 'Richard' from my mother. I didn't see the point of him saying it quietly, though. I'm already reminded every day, so it wouldn't make much of a difference. I pretended not to hear, though, and grabbed my ridiculously tiny school-issued backpack.

"Goodbye, Mother," I said, pecking her on the cheek. She smiled meekly and patted my cheek in response. I looked to Father and nodded at him, then headed out the door of our Victorian mansion. I noticed something had been... off about them. Mother was normally a Chatty Cathy at breakfast, prattling on and on about every detail of her life, to which Father normally just grunted in acknowledgement and sipped at his black coffee. And Father wasn't normally this cross about everything. I decided to just shake it off and start my half-hour long walk to the underground station.