Holding Out For A Hero

Holding Out For A Hero; A Novel

Written by; Ren Elizabeth

Authour's Notice: Hey guys. So today is the day that I introduce to you guys my debut novel, Holding Out For A Hero. You have no idea how much this story means to me. It's my baby. I started it on New Year's Eve and have been writing it since. It's that novel that I can't get to sleep with because the plot keeps me up all night. I've become attached to these characters and I hope you do so as well. I would really appreciate it if you'd comment with your thoughts, like/vote if you feel it deserves and fan if you feel I'm worthy! Thank you guys!

Warning: This story contains voilence and the use of mild language. I do not recommend it to those of you who do not enjoy heavy themes. Whereas the themes may be heavy, it's nothing that'll send you into shock from horrificy. 

*For the protection of identity, the names of authenic people who these characters are based upon and the happenings in this story have been changed. For the fortification of those people, the town names have also been altered. 

Copyright  © 2012 Lauren Dean

All rights reserved. 

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Prologue

Genevieve’s POV

            I was a mystery. No one knew my name; no one knew why I wandered the streets of a Texan suburb sobbing. No one could comprehend why I was covered in mud with my clothes dishevelled, my hair matted with leaves and small twigs. No one could understand why I was wearing a single shoe or why I would glance behind my shoulder at times and start running hysterically as if I was being chased.

I was a mystery to those who answered their door when I pounded against it forcefully with my bloodied knuckles. Anyone who answered would fear me as if I was some wild creature, that would tear into their houses and kill their children, and eat their tiny remains. They would peek around their door and quickly slam it in my face when they responded to my frantic plea.

“No, Harriet Mills does not to live here”

No one showed any sympathy. I knew that it was late, around the time of night when people would be heading up to bed. But it was as if they couldn’t stand to look at me. None of the elders cared that I was the same age as their grandchildren; they wanted me out of their face. None of the parents with children my age cared that I was begging for Harriet Mills, they wanted me off their front porch. No one cared enough to help a person in need.

Scanning the street frantically, I screamed. My throat was raw causing the scream to erupt from my throat in what sounded like agonizing heartache. I crumbled to the road, my bruised body meeting the blistering concrete. The balmy Texan air beat against my body, the sound of crickets rang in my ears louder then crickets would normally sound.

For a populated suburb with dozens of large houses no cars raced by. I was lying in the middle of an empty street, bloodied, bruised and sobbing.

I didn’t fear my fate of dying if a car ran over me without seeing my body sprawled across the road. I wanted that fate. I found myself wishing for death to snatch me up from the road and take me with him. I felt hollow like my heart was beating, without a reason.