TPoB (First Draft)

Chapter 7

When Attwell opened his eyes he was met with great surprise. He was no longer in the dank cellar, but rather in the passenger seat of his father's car. He wasn't sure why or where he was going, but he certainly didn't like any of the ideas that came to him. He looked to the driver for answers only to find that it wasn't his father in the seat, but rather the woman from his dream the other night. To his horror, the woman was deathly pale and slumped over to the side. It wasn't until then he realized he also wasn't in his father's car. Instead of the old green pickup his father drove, he found himself barreling downhill in a little blue Impala. Before he even had the chance to react, he heard the loud crashing and banging as the little car wrapped itself around a large tree.

"Attwell!" Edmond called from the top of the cellar steps. "Come and eat before your pop wakes, I don't want you tryin' to run the plow on an empty stomach!"

Hearing Edmond call for him was such a relief, because though his nightmare was short lived, it was jarring all the same. He was never sure what to think of these sorts of dreams anyways. Though something did gnaw at his mind. For a moment it seemed the woman was someone much more familiar, though he couldn't figure out who.

Attwell tried to pay no mind to it as he climbed back up the stairs and into the light of the morning where his grandfather awaited him. When he reached the top he took a look around at the fields. They had always gotten the barley planted early on in the year, as soon as any snow cleared up, but now was the time for the corn and potatoes. Or would it be soy and fruits this year? Nevertheless he and his family had plenty of work ahead of them.

Attwell was just about to head out to the barn when Edmond stopped him.

"You heard me kid, I've got oatmeal on the stove for us." Edmond firmly stated with a grin.

He quietly led the boy inside and sat him down in the dining room with a steaming bowl of oatmeal. As much as Attwell didn't want to risk getting himself or his grandfather in trouble, he was famished after not having eating anything the previous night. After having devoured the oatmeal he set right to his room, changing into his working clothes, then to the old barn out past one of the larger fields.

The damned thing could hardly hold itself together now, with its peeling paint and cracked wooden walls you'd have thought no one had touched it in years. When he opened them up Attwell was surprised the doors held to the hinges. For once Attwell didn't take the time to revel in the beauty of how the morning sun shone through the gaps in the woods, for once he just wanted to get his plow ready, hop in the tractor and set off to work.

The day was long and the work hard, but Attwell didn't mind much. To be honest, he'd liked the work since he was a kid. Out in the fields he didn't have to be the perfect child, but rather only someone who was getting their work done. He could happily drone on thinking only of the fields and what would sprout from them thanks to his hard work. The task didn't take up too much of his conscious, he could think, and wish, and dream of anything he so pleased.

Normally he'd dream of golden sunsets and sunny shores, but today he felt much different, as if he was a completely changed man. Attwell realized he was getting older. Soon he'd be of age, and whether he liked it or not he'd inherit the church. He had only a year left to either give in to his father and become the prophet or find some escape. He knew what it meant to become the prophet, and frankly wanted no part in it.

Attwell had never truly admitted it to himself before, but he now realized that he didn't want to be like his father, and moreover didn't want to make the same mistake as Edmond had. When it really came down to it, he realized he'd rather die than become like his father.