The Guardians (The Highest Order, Book One)

CHAPTER 1

Home.

One word. four letters. Six hundred miles away.

Mom was absurdly sure we needed a fresh start. 'It'll do us some good' She had said, carrying boxes of pots and pans to the banged-up station wagon we'd had for years. She was confined by the looks of pity and shame she received every time she went into town.

I didn't blame her. I still don't.

If my husband had ran off with his 20-something year old assistant, I'd want to run off in the other direction too.

But sitting, surrounded by the millions upon millions of boxes waiting to be unpacked, I was longing for the comfort of home. For the so- called happy family we were a year ago before the daunting truth of my father's infidelity was revealed.

Nobody saw it coming.

To the outside world we were the perfect family. Nobody bothered to look past the charade my father had us play; to look past the smiles, the laughter and success.

Nobody bothered to look past the layers of makeup around my mother's eyes, coating the fresh bruises he'd made the night before when he thought his little girl was sleeping. They didn't look past his smile and see those lips screaming demeaning profanity to my mother when I got back early from baseball practice that one time.

I did.

You're probably wondering what I could possibly miss about that, right?

I spent most nights sleepless, terrified of the screaming voices that once upon a time, soothed me to sleep... until eventually, they faded, and I was left in an uncomfortable silence with my own thoughts. My bed had become my haven. My time away from the expectations of success and happiness in front of a camera or audience.

In my room, even with the eerie silence, I had no responsibilities, no pressure, just me. My parents quickly became strangers to me. And as thankful as I was when my father ran off, leaving us with nothing, I couldn't help but mourn the lost of my home, my haven.

It wasn't until then both my mother and I had realised that we'd grown too comfortable with his aggressive and violent ways. We'd grown used to it. Hell, we expected it.

So, sitting around these boxes, signifying that life will never be the same again, I mourn the loss of the life I'd lost and the life I'd gained.

Mom was already out job hunting, leaving me to the dauntless job of unpacking alone for the next few hours. I tried to find comfort in our new home, but it didn't come easily. Mom was insistent that eventually we wouldn't remember any home before it, because this one will have so much more than the last. I was hopeful, less so than her.

Scavenging through the box of family memorabilia, a sort of sorrow rests in the pit of my stomach. I don't know why she kept these. We didn't have very many family photos, I figured mom had just thrown them out with all of his other stuff.

Shaking my head slightly, I dig past the few frames she'd kept, resisting the urge to toss them in the trashcan I'd when we got here two hours ago. It wasn't until my hand reached a heavy book at the bottom of the box, that I stopped searching. I knew what it was but that feeling in my stomach returned, ten times worse than it was before.

I take a deep breath before lifting it past the layer of safely wrapped photo frames. Brushing off the thin layer of dust that coated it. This box was packed long before we decided to move, stored in the depths of the basement as a reminder of what we could have been as a family, rather than what we were.

As I take in the cover of the book that sat innocently in my hands, I remember the words my mother had told me just a few hours ago, 'Someday, we'll forgive him' She'd squeezed my hand lovingly, looking at me with a look of sad hope, 'And the world will okay again'.