✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

｡:･ﾟ☆
[ CHAPTER ONE ! ]

GNAWING MY chapped vermillion lips—from excessively skimming my tongue amongst the edges—dented in seethed cracks as the toxic air of dusk eloquently peppered my winter skin, dotted in the tiniest of freckles.

A pain-stricken ache clenched the exoskeleton of my hollow body, pulsing with electrical currents as I pumped my willowy legs down the streets of Chicago, swimming in a pair of dirt-encrusted boots.

My torso was completely drenched—the once bouncy auburn ringlets sprouting from my scalp now spiraled to my shoulders in clumped wavy strands as beads of rain rippled amongst the atmosphere.

I could feel coats of black eyeshadow spill from my eyelids as the rain trailed down my porcelain skin—accenting the shadows imprinted at the seams of my cheekbones.

I stalked through an alley as I studied the ebony sky imprinted by the scattered beads of midnight stars harshly glaring upon me, wishing to the moon that I'd be able to fuel my energy somewhere.

Wafts of inexpensive perfume and beer flared through my senses as I came across a group of people loitering around a dimly lit trash-can; beady eyes and dirt-encrusted fingertips gazing at the delicate flame enclosed in arrays of saffron, evanescently curling into the sky above.

I kept my gaze to the ground, preoccupying my mind with vivid memories that I'd use to distract myself when I pleaded for sleep.

Through the darkened atmosphere, I reached a field with grass implanted across large acres, stalking in the direction of a huge perished building surrounded by rustic vehicles. The building was abandoned: judging by the posters peeling from the seams of the shattered glass windows, and lithe bushes of land unhealthily wilting into pigments of russet.

My sloshed boots dented the grass, determined to see if the area was occupied or if it was safe for me to call camp for the night.

Skeptically, I made my way to the large wooden barn door, curling my calloused palms around the rustic lock. With a loud creak, the door opened, the stench of tobacco immediately flooding my senses.

I slowly stepped inside, glancing at the large room in astonishment as my ajar irises bulged from its sockets. It was nothing I was used to: a high set of metallic stairs meeting at the centre of the room with glass windows coating every corner, sets of bruised furniture that appeared to have rummaged in dumpsters not while ago occupying the empty spaces, and piercing neon lights perched in another room at the top of the stairs.

With the heaving of my exhales, I moved slowly up the staircase—my once royal blue book-bag sagging around my shoulders as it slapped my waist with each trudging step.

The door to the room was open, giving me the view of the stained mattress and seethed desk set to the side. The neon lights created pigments of fucsia to dance off the grated pearl walls.

Swiftly, my petite torso slammed into the mattress, despite the repelling smell and stains of god-knows-what. Exhaustion crawled into the seams of senses as I let my thoughts trail to the six hour train ride, draining me of any ounce of strength that lingered within.

I instinctively came across thoughts of my step-mother as my body dove into the depths of unconscious, wondering if she had even noticed my disappearance.

My father was once a wealthy man who had been born in England—though I never understood how he became wealthy in the first place. He married my mother, Jana, a beautiful Czech woman he came across during a trip to Prague. Unfortunately, my mother passed once I peaked the age of six to leukemia, leaving my father alone to raise me.

My father was a brilliant man, intelligent traits that I assumed got him into business from a young age.

He became lonely when I began to grow into adolescence, craving female attention as he realized he was getting older. One of his clients, Hilda Häuser, a German woman who was peculiarly jumpy and lacked makeup skills, agreed to wed my father the year I became thirteen.

My jaw clenched, the nostalgia from my father's passing cascaded a tsunami of tears to build up in the spectrums of my mocha irises.

My father died the first year after his marriage to Hilda. I was never informed on the cause of death due to my step-mother explaining that she didn't want me to grieve too harshly at such a young age.

After a month, my step-mother changed drastically. She shapeshifted into the epitome of evil as she became engrossed in violence when addressing me.

It took me a while to learn that she had been using my father for his money, often growing my suppressing suspicions of his cause of death when she'd mutter stories to me in intoxicated states.

We lost my fathers house, business, and everything that once brought grace to his name; all so Hilda could do her drugs and sleep with sleazy men.

I recalled the time she had smacked me in the face when I questioned one of her partners rummaging through our furniture.

After that, it was routine of her to instruct me and I'd follow suit or I'd expect the wrath of her intoxicated rage.

Before I left, we had been staying with one of her boyfriends, Chris. He was rather touchy and pierced my flesh with goosebumps every time he'd stare at me.

I escaped his cabin with money that I found neglected upon the table, deciding to give up the life Hilda planned to keep me hostage in.

Impulsively, I hadn't counted the cash, not realizing I couldn't afford food after the purchase of the train ticket. I came to the conclusion that with nothing, I'd make amends for myself, somewhere far from Hilda and her hostile tendencies.

Now I laid, body seethed into a springless mattress counting the scratches that grazed the walls as the weight of my eyelids slowly increased.

Just as I entered the seams of sleep, a loud creak alerted me of another presence, causing my torso to jolt upwards.

A raspy voice echoed through the room, the male's breathing wafting at a fast pace. "We got em' boys."

It was a group; a group of pubescent males chattering near the doors.

I didn't know what exactly to expect, especially if they had already claimed this place as their territory and I had just strode in carelessly.

"I'm gonna crash, guys." The same vibrant rasp spewing from the bottom of the stairs piped up as the sound of his legs trudging up the stairs echoed in my eardrum.

I wondered if he would pity me, a lonely girl needing shelter in an unknown city, or if he would throw me out.

Ebony curls and chiseled features came into view once I was met with a scrawny boy, dressed in distressed denim jeans and a dark shirt splattered in grits of dirt.

His face perked up from his feet as he gazed at me, analyzing my expression. "What the fuck?"

"Sorry," I muttered nervously. "I hadn't realized this place had people living here."

His eyes roamed me steadily, studying me with curiosity. "Who're you?"

"I'm Millie," I stammered. "I–I didn't really have many available options for sleeping arrangements and I—"

"S'fine, Millie," his honey-coated voice seethed through the cracks of my skull. "You're not from here, are you?"

"No."

"You a runaway or somethin'?"

"Essentially."

"Hmm," he murmured, teeth grazing his bottom lip as he sorted through his thoughts. "I'm Finn."

"Hi, Finn."

"You can crash here if you understand that it isn't exactly the safest place to be," he explained. "And, that also means you're in debt to me."

"Listen, I don't have any money—"

"Money won't do, I'll come up with what I'd like from you in the morning," he yawned. "Till then, make yourself comfortable, Millie."

Awkwardly, I fumbled the ruffled sleeves of my denim jacket, balancing my torso on the balls of my feet.

I watched Finn slap himself into the mattress I had previously laid upon, not bothering on providing me with sleeping arrangements.

I debated on leaving until I found a pile of his clothing stacked in a corner, laying upon the stench of cigarettes and the dew of grass after rain.

Before I let my eyelids fall—again—I observed the sleeping raven-haired boy; constellations of freckles woven along his winter cheeks, perked magenta lips, and eyelashes orchestrating alignments of fluorescence to dance along his structured cheekbones.

His appearance was quite rough, a face that would be noticed amongst a crowd easily. He looked like one of the kinds of people you would try to picture having a complicated backstory, dirt-encrusted along the tips of his fingers and scars scattered along the exposed seams of his pale flesh.

As my eyelids enclosed me into sleep, I dreamt of my father, instructing me to never wake-up to reality.

A/N;
[ un-edited ]
Comment your thoughts down below !