Behind The Glass Window

October 31, 2018

**Author's Note**       

The picture(s) above are just how I imagined the characters in this story you can think of them entirely different if you want. And not to mention these characters are based on people who are and were in my life at the time.  I also just want to mention that I am NOT trying to mock or offend anyone by making this story so if you have concerns please let me know I (most likely) would be okay with changing whatever it is. 

Oh and one last thing, if there are any typos please don't call them out I am really trying my hardest but I mostly work on this late at night so, once again, they are just typos you should know what I mean so please don't call me out. Thank you! 

Now on with the story!

7:03 a.m.

My name is Alisandra Camellia Sophía Isabella Lucia Maria Fernanda Ana Martinez. I know my name is long but that is because I come from a 100% Spanish descent. Cuenca, Spain to be exact. Both sides of my family, aging back to the 1300s were born, raised, lived, and repeated that process in Cuenca. Until my mom and dad fell in love, broke that chain, and moved to America. I was born and raised by them. Until a mysterious fire burned down my house and my parents with it (or at least that is what the police say... They never found the bodies). I am now 16 years old and living with my "aunt" and my "uncle" in a small town 30 minutes away from Augusta, in a town of only 1,535 people; Palermo, Maine. Where I am one of the only 0.25% in Palermo that is of Spanish descent. They adopted me after the incident.

My aunt is currently in the kitchen making breakfast. My uncle is on the couch in the living room watching the news. There has been another teenager kidnapped. That is the sixth victim just this week alone. The 23rd victim this year, all from Palermo. The question everyone is asking, who is next?

I walk into the kitchen and grab a glass plate.

"Isn't it awful, all those kids. Just up and vanished?"

"Yeah. Awful..." I tell my uncle not quite knowing what to say.

7:05 a.m.

I quickly shove scrambled eggs into my mouth before running to the foyer and putting on my shoes.

They were brown low-cut boots and I put on my dark grey zip-up sweatshirt with a hole in the right arm's wrist seam.

"Bye, Aunt Shelly! Bye, Uncle Chris! Big brother hurry up! You're gonna miss the bus!"

"Coming! Tell the bus driver to wait for me!"

"Kay! Kay!" I yell to my brother as I run out to the road where the bus was waiting.

"Hello, Mr. Brown. How has your day been today?" I ask my bus driver. Mr. Brown is a 52-year-old man with no hair and a long beard.

"Oh. The same. Breakfast, then driving you guys to school," he responds to my everyday question, "So... is your brother coming today?"

"Oh! Yeah, he is. But he is running a little late. He'll be out in a few."

"Alright, Alisandra. Go ahead and take your seat." I sat in my usual seat, the eighth seat back from Mr. Brown on the left-hand side. My seat was different from the rest, instead of it being grey like the rest of them, it was black. Because in 2002 a junior student was messing with a pocket knife and cut the back on the seat out. So the whole seat had to be replaced. He was expelled and none of his friends saw him since then.

I look out the tinted glass window and see my brother sprinting out the door of our light brown two-story house and across the driveway. When he gets on we begin our 25-minute drive to Erskine Academy.