(Shortened version of the first chapter of my current novel in works)

In the summer of my fifth year on this planet, I watched my mother die of a terrible, terminal disease, all alone in a hospital bed, surrounded by people I didn't know. It was then that I calmly, in all serenity of innocence that was soon to leave my body, asked of the man who left my mother when I was born, why she died. Subtly, he picked me off of the ground and whispered to me the truth I would come to live by, for far too long. 

"Sometimes in life," he blew a hair out of my face, "There's black, and white," he paused after every statement to stare at her dying body, "And then God made gray. We run from the black because we know it's bad, right? But we flock to the white, since it's good."

Cocking my head to the side, I misunderstood. "What's gray mean, Mister?"

Seething at my use of a title instead of what the law defined him as to me, my father smiled through clenched teeth, and went on. "Gray is what we don't know, and most of all," he let out a deep sigh, "What we can't understand."

It had been thirteen years ago that my mother took her last breath, and I began a new life with a man named Rick, who was just as nice as her, and soon became a good father, after some work. He raised me the way he knew how - to be an upstanding spitfire of a woman who would refuse to accept 'no' for an answer, unless I was truly wrong. Rick turned out to be a good man, even though he changed his mind on my existence in this world and ditched Mom with me for half a decade. Still, he took charge when I needed him, and would forever hold a place in my heart, every day I went to school, like today. And as I walked on into the depths of Hades wearing a short skirt and uniform white tights, it took all of me not to leave back home on that first day of Senior year.

"Ilana!" a cry made me turn around presently to see my best friend of fifteen odd years, Harold, running towards me. 

Embracing me in his bulky frame, I felt my feet pick up off the ground and swing around in the air, "Hi, Harry," I giggled when he set me down, and hugged him quickly. 

"Ready for another year at this hellhole?" his smile held on like glue, but mine faltered only in the slightest. 

Whirling around for a good look at the huge brick building and grounds, I set down on a bench, and inhaled deeply. "I think so," after a few seconds this was the reply, "What about you?"

Shrugging, he muttered something and scratched his neck, "Not really, Illy. I am, however," Harry plopped down next to me as students flooded past us, "I'm in Chemistry this year."

"Yes," we hit a bro-fist, "I'm taking that and Journalism for the semester. It's all year, so I'm at least good for one choice, right?"

"I'm in Home Economics of all things," his eyes rolled, "But the bell's gonna ring soon, so let's go."

The spectacle that was Harold Albright left my side, stalking towards the doors with many a girl following behind him, almost drooling over the man my childhood friend grew up to be. Of course I won't lie in saying that he turned out to be a six-foot behemoth that the coach of our football team practically stalked to be in that sport, though he was almost a complete pacifist. Dead to rights, every girl was jealous of how close I was to Harry, and I used this to both my advantage and popularity among our circuit. With this friendship, I was nowhere near the most popular girls in school, but thankfully, I wasn't invisible to the rest of the school's close to two thousand students. Our school was the only one in the lower middle-class neighborhood, and a lot of us kids were poor, simply out seeking an education to get a scholarship into the community college. Destiny outside of this was mainly a retail job or rising to store manager of the local golden arches, of all things, assuming the positions were even open anymore. Most of our parents, like my father, worked in plastics factories on a commute of near an hour, or they managed the nearby shopping center's stores for a nil wage. However, the students of Saratoga High were dreamers, and we all strived for a better life for our families, and money, mainly. Raised on the reality that money may not buy happiness, but it was easier to cry in a mansion then a one-bedroom apartment, we all fought highly for chances of greatness, though none came. Sadly, our school had only ever turned out a fifty percent graduation rate, and nobody ever seen on the news or trending online for anything good. Aside, in my personal status, I aspired, along with nineteen other kids, to be some type of journalist. A club that was formed last year by me now counted as an elective, thanks in part to so many bloodthirsty gossip whores that wanted to do what they did best for a job one day, and get noticed for it. One of the local gossips, the only one of us twenty in the popular deck of cards, now asked me questions upon my entry to the building.

"Ilana, when's the meetings?" she tapped voraciously at my shoulder like the vampire she was.

"Every second period," I tapped a pen on her nose like the witch I was, "When you'd take an elective, Cara." 

The eleventh letter of the alphabet was my response, making me repeat Harry's eye roll, and I was left alone for a few moments. Checking my small roster, I quickly found locker number two-thirty-five, and opened it hastily, in fear of the locker mates I shared. To my left was a girl by the name of Emma, who was my mortal frenemy since we were sixteen, and was ever so passive aggressive about the whole thing. Beneath my locker was the soccer team's goal kicker, Otto. Almost a stalker to me, Otto had asked fifteen times last year alone if I would date him, when in fact I wanted to remain single; a right of which no one respected. Every rejection had labeled me among the students as either lesbian or in a secret relationship, neither of which I was, and to make it worse, some of the club members from Journalism would try to dig up proof on both claims. Thankfully, my right locker buddy was Harry, and if it weren't for that, perhaps we would have been assumed a couple, but the girls knew my stand on that. Hypocritically, I would choose a girl or two every now and then to try and match to my well-known lonely friend to no avail. His attitude and cool personality was not compatible with their flashy extravaganza, or it would be the opposite, and the girl would dump him as another conquest. In those cases, it became my task to viciously switch the tables on my club mates and blackmail the girl with whatever revenge I could get on her. And, yes, in case you haven'n noticed, I am not the greatest person in the world, nor do I wish to be called so, or even come close to that. 

Interrupted from my thoughts, I set my books away, and talked to the man waiting for my attention. "Hey, Luke," I shut my eyes in a smile at the presence of another friend of mine from sophomore year. 

As a lot of my groupies were male, this came as no shock to the 'in' crowd perched across the busy aisle way. "Good to see you," he snapped two fingers at me and joined back into the flow, leaving me in silence. 

Honestly, he was never one to talk much anyways, especially to me. Our friendship came from me tutoring him in Biology, and it just stuck on from then. We hung out when I helped him with homework, and it kind of stayed there, and I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that. Stopping my gaze towards where he had been, I quickly headed to class, and after the boring classes (Maths, to be polite) I skipped my way into Journalism's club room.

Taking a seat among the students in a beanbag, I fluffed out my hair while Mrs. Benton read out the plan. "So, for our first assignments of the year, I was thinking of a group project." A groan echoed into the crowd, and was silenced in moments by her gesturing. "Now, there will be three of you per group, and your project is to create a presentation for the class on this topic," she clicked the projector button and flicked off the lights, to show us an image, "I want you to explain scientifically how these two work. Tell me how their bodies function like this, how the projectiles work, and what weaknesses they have. You will be in groups of three, like I said, and you have two weeks."

Moaning stopped, and the room was filled with applause at such a creative assignment - to research our town's sweethearts - Snipe and Romeo. Dedicated to fighting the crime on the streets and saving us from any type of mayday, our superhero duo was to be no doubt the best project ever known in this school. The entire class was gaping at the possibilities of reporting on what we already knew so much about, that the thought of it being a group project ran out of our minds. 

Little did I know then that this assignment alone would be deeper than just a piece of paper. 

Thank you for reading, I appreciate even one person looking at this. :)

1. Whatever I can salvage from the house

2. Weapons off the dead soldiers

3. A car or a horse or something

4. An idea as to what even happened

5. Find out if anyone is alive

6. Well, there are people alive, but anyone I know is alive

7. Find a group I can trust

8. Gather more food

9. Find shelter

10. Hide

11. Run

12. If you're reading this then do all of the above because it's happening now. 

Setting at the edge of the seedy bar, I was handed a glass of something or other readily, making me stare at the bartender in hatred, knowing he'd played a joke on me. 

"Robots don't drink, I get it, yeesh!" he hissed at me, sliding the glass down the table to another shady-looking man. 

Piping up, my partnered agent lifted his properly elegant, riveted-shut finger to the man, with "Our designations are by model, Sir, everyone knows that. I'm a Cerin, she's a Sascha."

"What do you want, already?" he returned the comment with a snide glare, "I don't got time for this."

Lord, his grammar was atrocious; almost as much as Cerin's pronunciation of my name. "Sir," I rolled my eyes, switching the voice box inside of my head to a softer, seductive tone, "Comply with us or we will have to use our licence to kill."

Staring out at the rainy sky makes me think of a memory of a boy that haunts me, and promised to never leave. Songs from his childhood, playing in the background of my mind now, are ever worse to me as the days go by that I miss him, wondering why he had to leave, and where he even went, and why. Because of this, I get up, walk away, and stop by my hallway, to stare into the mirror. All I can see in the reflection is him, his beautiful face, and lovely smile, like he approved of me. And then, I remembered how it all changed, and ask myself in the mirror, 

"Why did you leave me? I needed you!"

All I get in return is his happy grin, and a small noise in the background of my mind, as he left the reflection, shifting back to my tired face. 

"He had to leave. Childhood never lasts."

I miss you, younger self. How did I lose you?

I suck at singing, but hey, why not?

Hot was the summer and cold was our fall,

When we hit the ground so hard,

I remember how we were bruised and battered,

But love was worth the power,

But nothing lasts forever, 

And I know you will remember,

I am the blackness, the shades of your mind,

I follow you every time you close your eyes,

And I will always be alive,

Even if I lost my body you will always hold me in your life,

We will never be alone,

When you and I fall in love again,

Tonight,

A blooming rose, each petal constructed by grand design, felt as soft as velvet, if not better, seen by all, admired by all. Every summer, a new blossom, regarded as the prettiest in the world, cut too early for the pleasure of others. So early, it never has the chance to become a rose hip, the seed of a nation, the multiplier of millions; which it will never be. Constantly, the life goal is cut short, cut down, destroyed, every time the plant takes a step, for those who conjured it up believe it too pretty to let have it's own way. Yes, in fact, it is so beautiful, jealousy causes others to turn into weeds, trying to choke it to death, or make sure that all it wants, for that one rose hip to be made, the dream to be achieved, is never reached. But, they are not bad for what they do; after all, everyone needs to be noticed, to have attention, in order to thrive. Alas, who can know how to break the endless cycle, of the millions of roses that hide the pain behind the petals? Who can see within the person, to help, to heal? 

Who can know the rose?