In a world full of ordinary, Valarie Perone didn't expect to be any different.
However, witnessing a strange and brutal murder at the age of eighteen catapulted her into the world of the unknown. A reality that could fracture the simplest of...
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I SPENT days locking myself up in the comfort of my own room.
Despite the cowardliness, it helped me suppress all of the emotions that threatened to boil over that was inside me. The fear of being hunted. The guilt of surviving while the other died. The confusion of how I managed to fight back, with little-to-no training, and how the cuts and bruises from my struggle healed before I even got out of my car. It was all too overwhelming.
My father was concerned more than ever. He was confused about why I was self-destructing in front of his very eyes. At first, he thought I was mad at him for the uproar he raised when I arrived home so late; running upstairs before he saw my blood-soaked clothes, he was clueless as ever. After an endless amount of apologies, he realized logically that Valarie Perone would never overreact to something so small.
The only time I sneaked out of my room was to watch the news to see if they noticed anyone missing or presumably very dead. Strangely, no reports came up about the murdered girl. Fostered with a strange combination of fear and denial, I continued to keep my mouth shut.
My dad knew whatever got me this way was serious so he let me be. Well, as well as he possibly could, I mean.
Soft sounds of gentle knocks erupted from my bedroom door interrupting my internal conflicts.
"Valarie," my dad said cautiously, wary of what side Valarie Perone he will face today. "I've brought dinner."
"I'm not hungry," I muttered still wrapped up in my makeshift blanket cocoon.
"Well too bad, walnut," my dad replied. "You're eating whether or not I have to stick a tube down your throat like how I have seen it done in the movies."
As he opened the door, light poured into my room, something that became foreign for a week now. It was not a very luxurious setting. Most of my things were hammy-downs or rummaged from a garage sale. White walls that were stained and drawn on- from my artistic phase when I was a kid. The lopsided nightstand that had the book I was recently reading lodged between one of its legs for support and a barely standing bookshelf due to the insatiable amount of books that were placed in it.
My room was a mess. It concurred to the state of my present mental well-being.
He waved an In-and-Out take-out bag in the air. The smell of a delicious burger wafted around my surroundings. "Come on," he said encouragingly, "It's your favourite."
With my face still nuzzled and hidden by my comfy pillow, I reached my hand out in defeat.
He made his way over and sat at the edge of my bed with a wide grin breaking out on his worn-out face. I immediately devoured the burger as soon as he gave it to me, throwing every common form of etiquette out the window.
My dad looked at me with the same glance he had been giving me for the past week: puzzlement and uncertainty. With concern written on his face, he said with a grimace: "It's not a boy is it?"
