And Then There Was Us

Prologue (Edited)

I hate worldly attachments. As much as possible, I keep my walls high and reinforced. I mean, even the cats can smell the sick animosity of the human kind and that is why they prefer to not communicating with us.

I come from a lively family. However, that doesn't mean I grew up in a loving home. The (subtle) problem is they don't appreciate my point of views. They don't respect how much I am in love with books. Well, aren't they lucky that their eldest is addicted to books and not other leaves?

Back to what I was talking about: What is good with being attached to people? It's almost the same as waiting to get hurt. Although there are things in this universe that are bound to leave or stay. You have to figure out who's worthy of being fragile for. To separate the exceptional people from the wastes of time, that's the pain in the ass. You'll never know.

Books: that's another story. Getting attached to books is same as getting yourself delivered to nirvana. The characters never leave you whether they end up dead or alive. You don't accept them in your life; they accept you in their lives. With books, you can dive into the obliterating pain because you know it's going to be okay.

Striving for a chance to be in the publishing industry may or may not be the best or worst decision I ever made.

All I want from London is the paid apprenticeship that was offered to me, and not to travel the whole of England with the ultimate hateful person I met.

"Hey Sasquatch," I turn around and there he is; the only Van Eidel left from the tragic cruise accident in the Pacific. That news went worldwide and cascaded like wildfire. The ratio of those who survived is a hundred to a thousand.

"My name is Lucy," I retort. He's not the nicest, but goddamn he might be the most handsome of all. I need to be understanding in times of his brutal tirades. I don't want to lessen my patience just because his is barely there.

"And I am irritated at you," he hisses at me with narrowed eyes. He passes me a bottle of water and brown paper bag. I check its insides; chicken club sandwiches. I was about to give my thanks before seeing him sit at the other side of the car hood. It looks like he's going to have a feast; a chocolate milkshake, a double cheeseburger, and large fries. As I silently glare at him, I ask for the stars to make him fat as much as he's handsome.

It has been three weeks since we met, and collided. His personality is too hostile. You'll know he doesn't adore your presence when he calls you 'pathetic little shit' and 'a lesser woman' so being called a Sasquatch is... still as bad as the previous two. I think he adores nobody. And that's where the considerate me enters - to be tolerant of the unknown.

Mason Laurent van Eidel, which galaxy were you from?

I hear him sigh. I look up and see Mason, watching the sun sinking in the bronze horizon. I start to chew slowly for an unknown reason. One thing I hate about being aesthetic is how I always see the beauty and benign of everything and everyone. I don't have the immunity to not be riveted by this guy. I disdain the alluring glint in Mason's eyes. It's always there - evident and lingering - whatever emotion he's delving into.

Mason grabs the huge map of England and flattens it on top of the black car hood. He stands in front of the car and bends forward with one hand pressing against the steel. I watch his index finger trace the red line he drew to connect the destinations we've been to. This year's autumn is such sublimity, and the weather is lovely. He's wearing an outfit close to what models wear at autumn photo-shoots; loose V-neck shirt, dark washed skinny jeans, and a huge pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt.

He catches me gazing at me and gives me a bitter expression. Mason fixes the drooping collar of his shirt and starts talking, "We have thirty-eight days more to get that pretty boy back to the book," he says in a hostile manner.

It's funny to hear a pretty boy call someone else a pretty boy.

I look at the map and notice how far I am from London, how far am I from the reason why I moved here in England.

Cheshire is such a rich and beautiful place. Too bad we have to start driving tonight. Mason never let the both of us to stay a bit more in any destinations we went to - he wants to get rid of me and go home as soon as he can. He blames me for conjuring a fictional character, which I obviously didn't mean to. But he doesn't have any other choice because if we don't fix this problem, heaven and hell will become one.

At least my wanderlust is being satiated and these trips are for free.

Under a couple more minutes, Mason and I finish our food. He folds the map and stashes it with the countless brochures we got from the different pit stops. "How does one lose a fucking human?" he asks me as he puts his seat belt back.

"Geez, I don't know. Maybe it flew away," I reply as I sit shotgun.

"Damn it. I miss my car. If you watched over it like I told you to, my car would never been stolen. We would not ended up with this - this repulsive machinery," says Mason after running his fingers through the locks of his dark brown hair. He makes me so damn furious. He has a way of seeing all flaws and rubbing salt on the obvious wounds.

"This is a 1967 Impala, which is as great as your Lamborghini," I reply. To be honest, I prefer this car even if it reeked of lemon and tobacco when we first acquired it, "and without my knowledge of carjacking, we wouldn't have a car now, would we? So please shut up and start driving."

I still have thirty-eight days more before the thread of reality and fantasy snaps. I still have thirty-eight more days to put back Cato Mathias Green inside the book he belongs; Thirty-eight remorseful days with Mason Laurent van Eidel. If I don't survive through this, the chances of seeing grotesque monsters and savage daemons roaming in the streets will skyrocket to actuality.

Because if one comes out, the rest demands the same.