Catastrophic

Chapter One

        The entire room lights up at the first lightning strike, illuminating all the crooked lumps throughout the room. Over and over, like a flashlight gone wrong, the room debates on its lighting, until I have to close my eyes to keep myself from going blind.

Instantly, dreams dance across my vision. I see my crush, Charles, and I ice skating on a nearby pond. He’s holding my hand as we glide across the slippery ground, and there’s laughter in the air as he falls on his...bottom, and all is well. Charles leads me over to the hot chocolate stand positioned conveniently nearby, and soon enough we’re twirling on the ice again, performing to anyone who’s watching. I’m closing my eyes and letting everything sink in - the moment, him, us, happiness - until I feel a burn on my thigh. I open my eyes in the dream and see a large hole opening in my fuzzy pants caused by a constant stream of dark liquid. My gaze snaps to Charles, who’s frowning, and I watch as a large BOOM echoes across the woods. Charles crumples within himself in an instant, and I look up. A silhouette stands up top a nearby hill. With a gun. Pointed at us.

All of this flashes in mere seconds, and I’m forced to open my eyes again to escape the

dread. Another BOOM fills up my prodigious bedroom, coming from the sky instead of a device meant for destruction.

    Everytime I attempt to drift off to sleep, my mind makes me come back to the storm that is bugging the heck out of me. If I could, I would totally walk up to this monstrous thing and haul a punch right in its face.

    Unfortunately for me, I am stuck in this stupid mansion unless authorized by father, otherwise the Secret Service agents won’t let me out. I happen to be over all the riches and fame that a daughter of the President of the United States gets. It would be great to have a break from the paparazzi and the social events and the masks everyone I meet wears. All I ever see is the images people portray of themselves, not their raw personalities. The only being that is himself is my little brother Patrick. The 8 year old is half my age, yet his yearn for adventures shows when he demands to go to the woods by himself, or walk around Washington D.C like he’s a grown man. Wait a couple years, will ya?

    An onslaught of the storm hits, and I duck under my covers to escape from the event. All I can do is listen to the constant beat of the storm. Soon, I’m drumming along with the rhythm and chanting under my breath a song my mother sung whenever me or Pat would crawl into her bed at the first ring of thunder.

   

Look at that

my little one,

    See the colors fold,

    See the storm brew,

    See the weak run,

    See the strong stand.

    Don’t be afraid

    my little one,

    Hear the masked beauty,

    Hear the constant drum,

    Hear the plea for help,

    Hear the warrior cry.

    Be the warrior

    my little one,

    Face the monster,

    Face the fear,

    Face your monster,

    Face your fear.