Shadow and The Outlaws (On Hold)

Prologue

"Easy for you to say."
The Foo Fighters, These Days

ONE MONTH BEFORE THE REPORT "IDENTIFICATION" WAS WRITTEN

DATE: DECEMBER 21ST

He's laughing again. I hate it when he laughs. It's like an earthquake, a seismic event that is soon to be your doom. A pit of death. There's absolutely nothing you can do about it.
I curl up beneath my tattered blanket, shaking. His laughter shakes the house, every chuckle emitted from his mouth gives the resonance of someone who is not afraid to hide his bad side. He doesn't even have a good side to balance that.

"Emilia!" His voice calls out to me, in between his hysterical fit. I feel my heart thunder, the world slips, as I hastily get out of bed.

If I am late… The last time I did not arrive within thirty seconds, he locked me in the cellar. Not a speck of light, only the occasional creak of the wind against the door was the noise that kept me up all night. In between the groans of the rusting metal, the room was filled with my screams. Begging, pleading, yelling for him to let me out. So many people had died in that cell.

I walk into the large room, and flinch at the sight of fresh blood leaking down the walls, overlapping the old stains. My eyes divert to the middle of the floor, where there is a blond man, lying on the ground, strapped to a crimson, breaking chair. He is covered in scarlet, to doubt his own, and his eyes hold pain. Though I am sure he is blind by now.

Over him, stands a man with a mass of brown curly hair, with clothes that could be considered normal, is it weren't for the overwhelming amount of red upon them. What gives away his lunacy, is the twisted smile across his face. It is unnatural, forced, crooked and mean. He feels satisfaction in the way in which the male below him twists in unspeakable pain, as he drowns in a pool of blood and tears.

"Hello Emilia," my father whispers, his eye twitching as he catches sight of me in the doorway. He is holding a poker stick. Not hot, but still strong enough to inflict serious damage, which he has already done. He gestures at me to come over, which I do. He then holds out the weapon. It is still wet.
"You try," he says. I cannot speak, nor find the strength to move.

"No," the guy struggles on the floor, “not the kid, Brookston, don't make her do it!” He coughs up blood, and it dribbles onto the floor, near to my feet.

"I'll give you a present," Dad mumbles. "Ten hits, and you get a prize, Emilia."

I stare at the poker stick, upset and conflicted. I like presents. Perhaps it shall be a book. I raise the stick above my head, though it shakes.

"No!" The man screams. "No, please!"

I bring it down, not too strongly, but due to his wounds the man still grunts. "One!" My father claps delightedly.

Bang.
"Two!"

Bang.
"Three!"

Bang.
"Four!"

Bang. Cry.
"Five! Very well done, Emilia!"

Bang. Scream. I hesitate, watching the man writhe on the floor. I know he has done nothing wrong, and is simply another victim of my father's insanity.

"Six… You'll get a present…" Dad wheedles in a sing-song voice. I like presents.

Bang. Scream.
"Seven!"

Bang. "Make it stop! Please! I have a family!"
"Eight!"

Bang. "God no! Please! I could be your father!"

"She only has one father," Dad smiles. "And that is me." He leans down to my height. "Only one more."

Bang. The guy lets out a bloodcurdling scream, one that could shock any sane person to it's core. But my father is not sane, and now I am not either. With the mans ragged breathing in the background, Dad kneels down, and pulls out a book.

It is entitled The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak.
"Go read it in your room, Emilia," he says, standing up, "and well done."

I stumble out of the room, The Book Thief clutched to my chest, as if it will fly away at any moment. As I leave, I hear a piece of conversation.

"She's just a child," I hear the man say. "Why would you make her do that?"

"She is a Brookston," my father replies. "We are tough. And she is my daughter."

I leave the room. Then the screaming starts again, and I hold the book tighter. I wonder if I could fly away with the book. Get lost in imagination, leave behind my father, my life. I go back to my room, and sit on my bed. Before I open the cover, the man's screams finally cease, and I know he is dead. Then Dad starts to laugh again. Shaking the walls. Shaking the furniture. Shaking me. He took my humanity, until only an ounce remains, that is burried deep within my broken self. I must be strong, but I must not trust anyone, no matter how much they do for me.

It is simply a moral code which Brookstons live by. Actually; it runs deeper than that. It is a trait, a tradition, to not tell anyone anything. If you are a Brookston, you are alone, forever. There is no escaping that curse of distrust.

I peel the front page, to reveal the first few letters. I wonder if I could be a book thief. I would stop by a new library every night, steal a new novel to immerse myself in, lose myself into the crinkled paper.

However my father is Adolf Hitler, commanding his loyal recruits to destroy my beloved books, and all I can do is watch, as they burn in piles. Pages flutter through the smoke, and I try to catch them. My father grabs the papers, and shreds them. Words fall off the sheets, and my father cannot touch these. I cry out in joy, as I watch thousands of blotched synonyms burst through the flames, escape the hand of fate and destruction. They flow into the sky, to show others the message of peace and harmony.

I am one of those words, and my word is freedom.