A Tale of Graves

Part 1

There's heat, but I'm shivering. There's light, but I can't see. They're chasing me. I can hear footsteps next to me, as I race away from a monster I can only hear, because I will never be able to see it anyway. And as I'm telling you this, I'm dying, and no one can prevent it. And that brings up the question why am I running from death when I know it's inevitable.

I'm getting ahead of myself. This won't make sense to you until the end. And for all of you that think this is just a story, I'll save you the fear, and let you think that's the truth. And for all of you who are reading this to survive, good luck, because I didn't. But let's get to the part where I finally tell you who I am. My name is Iris, and I'm 14 going on 15/death. Last time I checked, I had light brown shoulder length hair, silver-green eyes, and tan skin. My fashion sense isn't so great, since almost everything I own, everything's been given to me out of pity. I've worn the same pastel green hoodie for 7 years (it's been washed), and it's so faded that I don't even remember what the words say on it. It used to belong to my older brother, but he was murdered 7 years ago. My hair is always in a ponytail, and my face, well it's my face. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I have a scar on my left hand, that runs from my pinkie to the base of my thumb. I've hidden it from everyone for almost 7 years (hence the baggy sweater), except from my best friend/foster sister, Khalida, who knows me better than I know myself.

Khalida has been there for me since the beginning. Not this mess that I'm in, but since I became orphaned, and we got put in the same foster home. She's 17 years old, has pale skin, short silky bleache blonde hair, and about 4 piercings. Two small rusty bronze spheres on both of her ears, a golden septum ring, and another one on the top of her right ear which connects to the bottom with a maroon chain. She's tall and skinny, close to looking sick, and always steals her clothes from stores, so she's always dressed fashionably. Somehow, she gets away with it.

"Speed it up hotshots, you're gonna be late!" A raspy voice screeched. Yelling at us was our foster mother, Dominique, and Khalida and I raced down the stairs from the second floor to the first, the floorboards creaking under our pounding feet. The smug-faced, wrinkled, dyed/gray haired, alcoholic, had her bare feet raised up on the kitchen table, her red polished toenails glaring like her attitude. Surrounding her feet were broken beer bottles and plastic red party cups from the rave that she had thrown last night. She might have been fifty six, but she still knew how to throw a rager. "Get down here, or I'll make you!" she hollered at us, not knowing that we were already downstairs.

"Wow Dominique, you're almost as deaf as you are dumb, how did you not hear us," Khalida remarked, mockingly.

"You little-"

"I thought you had a swear jar," Khalida reminded her. She was the only person known to this earth that dared to talk to Dominique that way, as if tempting a hungry shark with your hand covered in blood-stained gloves . Dominique glared at her from from her rickety chair, rocking on only the back two legs, unbalanced.

"Just get to school, before I lose my streak of not cursing," she growled, defeated. Khalida tossed her backpack over her shoulder, a smug expression resting on her face. I picked mine up as well, but when I went to swing it over my shoulder, it hit Dominique's chair knocking her on her back. Glass bottles grazed her bare arms as they shattered on the floor. The chair fell to the side, hitting the yellow water stained wall, and making a dent. Before I could apologize or be yelled at, Khalida grabbed my wrist, and yanked me out the door. We started scamper in the direction of Khalida's car. Dominique definitely broke her streak of not cursing, and she shouted them down the street of our quaint little "kid-friendly" neighborhood. The rusted baby blue pickup truck screeched down the road, the smell of burnt rubber floating through the window.