Independence

Prologue

            The darkness seems to have unfolded suddenly to me, as I stroll on the carpet of brightly colored leaves.  In the distance, all I see is darkness, ominous and seemingly beckoning death.  I’m terrified of the dark.  It seems like an irrational fear, really.  Does it not? But to me, it is completely rational.  Many things have happened to me that would drive most to the brink of insanity.  First was my mother’s death.  In front of my own eyes.  My father had gotten mixed up with a gang or something like that, and stabbed one of the people in the gang he was with in the back.  Literally.  I don’t really know many details, but suddenly a gang was in my small house torturing me, my siblings, and my parents.  My mother was killed first.  Gaelin.  I was named after her.  And then my little sisters, quadruplets aged seven— Chloe, Margaret, Vanessa, and Thalia were killed, after all being tortured.  Finally, the twins Jason and Luke, the age of ten were tortured and killed.  I and my father both survived.  Just barely.  It is very odd how things work out, if you think about it. 
            I was only thirteen when that happened.  And I have a scar along my jawbone, one right above my eyebrow, a long one on my neck, and another on my leg.  I had gotten fifty-nine stitches total.  Then, one year later, exactly, three of the gang members, or whoever they were, came back and killed my father and once again nearly left me dead.  Both of those things had happened in the pitch black, therefore my fear of the dark.

Afterward, I went to live with my grandparents that tried to pass for teens.  Parents trying to pass for teens…okay, but grandparents?  Seriously, grandparents should not be trying to pull off those really short shorts, halter tops, baggy pants, and crashing parties. 

            Now I am fifteen, and my grandparents seem to be getting weirder.  I don’t know how that is possible, though.  My grandmother, age sixty-five, has long black-dyed hair and wears short shorts and halter tops and way too-tight dresses all the time.  The only thing not fake about her are her eyes, blue-grey that match my own.  And she will crash parties.  High-school parties, college parties, it doesn’t matter. 

My grandfather tries to act even younger.  Or maybe he doesn’t try.  Maybe that is just how he is.  Though he is seventy, he acts, and dresses, like a seven-year-old.  Now there is nothing at all wrong with how seventy year olds act and dress, so don’t take it that way, but a grandparent acting that way?  He dyes his thin grey hair to an ash blond every month, the same shade that my hair is.  And he wears baggy shorts and t-shirts with dinosaurs and Star-Wars and Barney on them, and even has hats to match.  Again, there is nothing wrong with this, but when a seventy-year-old wears an I LOVE BARNEY tee and a Barney hat, and even Barney socks and shoes, it gets a little weird.  Especially when he has a Barney backpack filled with Barney figures, notebooks, pencils, and tattoos that he wears all over his face.  And he plays with the figures in public.  It’s a little creepy.  And there is nothing really wrong with him.  Ask him any question about absolutely anything, he will know the answer.  And he is like a human dictionary.  And he will have “normal days”, when he acts like most seventy-year-olds.  So he knows it is weird.  But he still does it.

They ignore me, my grandparents do.  They see me maybe once or twice.  A year.  Yes, a year. Weird, right? 

I, though, have learned to live with it.

Chapter 1 

I panic as soon as the dark settles in around the park.  I hadn’t known it had gotten so late.  Closing my eyes, I tell myself to relax.  Just relax. 

Breathe in… let it out… breathe in… let it out… in… out… in… out

I open my eyes and feel the darkness slam into me.  I am on the border of a panic attack.  Don’t go there, I tell myself.

What am I doing in a desolate park, at ten o’clock at night?

Well, being stupid for one.  I had gone here to think, though.  My grandparents are home, and although one would think after not seeing your grandparents for one year, the grandparents who were your guardians, you’d be thrilled to see them.  I, though, have no desire too.  My grandmother is drunk, and my grandfather (I talk to my grandparents so few times, one, to be exact, I do not even know their names) was singing, belting, really, a list of songs.  Maybe you’ll recognize some:  I Love You, Miss Susie Had a Steamboat, The Wheels on the Bus, Old McDonald had a Farm, The Muffin Man, Row, Row, Row, Your Boat, The Alphabet, The- well, you get the picture.

I tuck a piece of long, curly ash blond hair behind my ear that has come loose from my sloppily-done ponytail.  My stomach growls and I look around nervously, as if I am suddenly a blinking neon light in the darkness.

Satisfied that no one is here, I sit on a bench.  I can’t live like I am anymore.  Even I know this.  I barely have enough food, I have to steal money from people to buy clothes at Goodwill, and I spend a good chunk of my morning and afternoon walking six miles to school. 

Why did I come here? I internally moan.

I hold my head in my hands, breathing slowly, evenly, and close my eyes to pretend that the only reason that it is dark is because my eyes are shut, so therefore I’d have nothing to fear. 

Somehow, I drifted off, and am in that exact same position when I wake. 

Raising my head from my hands, I blink a few times and panic again for a short moment because I have no idea where I am.  Calm down, I order myself, breathing slowing in a steady rhythm.

I wonder for a moment if my grandparents are home.  Thinking they aren’t, I start walking home, feet like bricks, legs like lead, and eyes half open.

I live with my grandparents in a trailer park.  Probably the worst trailer park one could imagine.  The trailer I live in is so small that my grandparents sleep in a tent outside, when they are here, and my bedroom fits only a twin-sized bed with a foot between the bed and the door, which fortunately swings out rather than in. I have to keep the little amount of clothes that I have underneath my bed in two small boxes.

Inside the trailer, the lights are on, which is very odd.  When either of my grandparents leaves, they make sure to turn off the lights, because they are big on saving the planet and saving money.  It gets annoying, though, when they unplug the fridge and computer, and all the milk will be rotten and it takes forever to boot up the computer, one of the few luxuries I have, even though my grandfather had found it at a junk yard and fixed it, and it still reeked of dead animals.

Stepping inside, I close the door and turn to see if my grandmother or grandfather is passed out on the couch or something like that.  But, no.  No one is passed out on the couch.  My grandfather lies on the floor in a pool of blood, a bullet hole in one of Elmo’s eyes on the shirt he wore and another on his nose.  Elmo’s, not his.

My hand flies to my mouth and I reach for the phone to call the police.  Soon enough, red and blue lights are flashing and the police are interrogating me.

“Where were you when he was shot?” the tall man with a mustache and short black hair questions.

“I was at the park,” I reply.  Seeing the look on the officer’s face I ramble on quickly.  “Whenever they’re home I always leave, because it is so small, you know?”

“Yeah, sure,” the officer runs a finger over his bushy mustache. 

The body is taken away, and after the officers are satisfied there is no gun in the trailer that I could have used, they leave.

I take a shower and go to bed, though I don’t fall asleep, just lie there, staring at the ceiling.  I used to get so scared when I was younger, that someone would break in and kill me or rob us or kidnap me or something, and that feeling is back, and the thought sends shivers down my spine.

Chapter 2

There is no funeral for my grandfather.  In fact, when my grandmother found out, she didn’t seem fazed at all.  So we continued with our “normal” lives.  “Normal”.  Yeah, right. 

I am even more jumpy and jittery, though, looking around everywhere as I walk, sure that someone is following me, even though I never see anything to raise my suspicions.  I also have large bags under my eyes from not sleeping well for the weeks after my grandfather was murdered. 

School is the same, too, for awhile anyway.  No friends.   Boring classes.  Until someone invites me to a party.  This is very unusual.  No one invites me to parties, just tells me about them.  So when a girl named Jesi asks if I want to come, I automatically say yes.

 Dumb of me to do so, but I did.  So that Friday, I dress in my best clothes (the least faded of her clothes, a pair of jeans and a graphic tee) and walk the two miles to the party.  When I get there, the house is already completely trashed, and a few people are already drunk. 

“Want a drink?” someone asks me, handing me a can of beer before I can even open my mouth to respond.

It isn’t my first drink of beer, but after three and a half cans, I am drunk.  Really, really drunk.  And of course the police show up.  Because the music is too loud.  Where I live, this would have not been a problem.  But this party is at a rich kid’s house, and apparently their neighbors think it is a problem.

So here I am, at one in the morning, in a cell alone because I am the only one who wasn’t picked up by some scolding, or approving in a few cases, parents.

Why me?  Why me, why me, why me? I think as I make small circles in the dust on the floor. 

I wonder how long I will have to stay there, how long they can, will, keep me here.  And my head spins and then I vomit. 

Ugh, that’s really gross, I think as I lean over the toilet, puking violently.

Millions of things go through my head this night.

Why me?

How long am I going to be here?

Will I ever be able to leave?

Will I have to sleep here?

Tonight, I do have to sleep here.

Luckily, the officer lets me go the next day around noon.

Chapter 3

I wake to a loud thudding sound on my door.  Sleepily, I open it, a blast of cold, November air hitting me.

“How may I help you?” I ask, blinking.

“Is your guardian here?” the woman asks too politely and cheerfully.

“Why?” I question suspiciously, not liking where this is going.

 “Just have a question for your guardian,” the woman smiles, a smile that doesn’t reach her dull grey eyes that matches her hair color.

“My grandmother is running errands.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No.”

“Will she back tomorrow?”

“She’s only here to sleep and cook and take me to school, so I don’t know.”

“Surely she’ll be here to make you dinner then?”

“Today I’m on my own.”

The woman still doesn’t seem annoyed as she asks, “Were you on your own yesterday?”

“No.”  Because for half the day I was in jail.

“That’s funny, because I didn’t see anyone leave or go in.”

“She left early this morning but was home all yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I confirm, wide awake now.

“How about you give me her number?”

“She forgot her cell.”

“Can you show me her cell?”

“She forgot it in her car.  I already tried calling.”

“Where do you sleep?” the woman asks, stepping inside.

That is kind of a weird thing to ask, don’t you think?” I say.

“Fine.  I know you’re not being properly taken care of so you’re being taken out of your home,” the woman says, smile gone.  “I should have just started that way,” she then mutters to herself.

I squint at her, not fully comprehending.

“Do you want me to drag you out of here, or will you come?”

“That would be really awkward, wouldn’t it?” I ask.

The woman frowns.

“Can I at least, like, get dressed?” I gesture to my pajamas.

“Fine,” the woman nods.  “I’ll wait.”

I go into my room, shut the door, pull on some clothes, run a brush through my hair, stuff my backpack with my clothes, money, and brush, open the window and then I lower myself to the ground.

And run.

Chapter 4 

I have no idea where I am running to, all that I know is that I am running away.  I’ll be fine on my own.   I know that because I’ve done it for years past.
           When I’m tired and hungry, I stop running and buy a hot dog from a street vendor.  I’ll need to find some place to sleep, though.  Even if it is just a park bench or something.   Humming to myself, I walk for awhile longer and then sit on a bench to count my money.  $42.51.  That won’t last very long.  Or at least as long as I need it to.
I continue to walk, pondering my choices, which are pretty limited.  Very limited, actually.
            Soon, I exit the city and when I am a mile out of city limits, I stick my thumb out like I’ve seen people do in movies if they need a ride.

Cars zoom by, ignoring me, until finally one stops on the shoulder of the road.

The door of the Porsche opens a girl steps out, probably about three years older than me.

“You can put your thumb down,” she says in an Australian accent. I drop my thumb and study the girl as she studies me.
She has short curly hair so blond it is white and eyes so brown they are black.
“I’m Kyden.  So you need a ride, or what?”
I nod.
“Hop in,” Kyden orders, walking towards the car.
“You’re not like an ax murderer or anything, right?” I ask, unmoving.
            “Do I look like an ax murderer?” Kyden turns to me. I shrug in reply.
Kyden laughs, saying, “Well, I’m not, so get in.”
I do so, and as Kyden speeds off she inquires, “So is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”
            “Not really,” I shake my head and shrug. As far away as possible, is what I don’t say.
“Well I was headed to California.  Long drive from Maine, but whatever.  I thought it would be fun.  Hey, what’s your name?”
“If I tell you, you’re not going to report me to the police or anything?”
“Why should I?”
“I dunno.  It’s Gaelin.”
“Nice name,” Kyden nods.
I say thanks, not believing my luck in this particular situation.
            “Okay, so I was thinkin’ that we’d try to get to Vermont by tonight, alright?” Kyden glances over at me, and with my nod continues on.  “But I need to meet a few friends here soon, at this restaurant, so you can meet her and we’ll eat and whatever.  That alright, too?”I once again nod.  As long as Kyden isn’t planning on killing me or turning me into the police, I couldn’t care less. 

After a bit more driving, Kyden pulls off the interstate and we arrive in a small town. 

“Here we are,” Kyden announces, pulling up to the only restaurant in whatever town we’re in. 

I desperately wish that I had other clothes besides the ones I’m wearing right now.  They have many holes and are too faded to tell the color.  
“This is Gaelin.  And this is Ingrid, Ginger, and Ale,” Kyden gestures to each of them. 
I smile slightly.  Ginger and Ale.  Ginger Ale.  They’re twins, though you’d have to have an IQ of negative 200 to not know that.  They both have long, bright red hair styled the same way and emerald-green eyes.  To make it even harder to tell who is who, they’re both wearing the exact same kind of jeans and same red shirts.
Ingrid is the first to say something.  “Hi.” 
            “Hi,” I say back.  Ingrid has black hair stopping a bit past her shoulders and dark brown eyes, and is also wearing jeans and a red shirt.
Geez.   What’s up with all the red?  Kyden’s wearing a red shirt, too, and I think the shirt I’m wearing was once a red, though I can’t really be sure…
            “Let’s order,” Ginger or Ale says. Everyone nods their agreement and saliva pools in my mouth at just the thought of food, despite the fact I only ate a few hours ago. 

I end up ordering a cheeseburger, fries, and a tall drink, (which Ingrid so kindly paid for) and within a few short minutes, everything is completely gone. 

Ginger or Ale stares at me, in awe, I suppose.  “Wow you eat fast.”

I decide against commenting on Ginger’s/Ale’s comment, though I do blush slightly.

“It was nice to meet you, Gaelin,” Ingrid smiles at me.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I offer a small smile back.

And then we are back on the road, driving, driving, driving.

Neither Kyden or I talk much, but I really don’t mind, and I don’t think she does either.  The silence is comfortable and peaceful, not awkward at all.

When we see the sing saying Welcome to Vermont, Kyden lets out an odd-sounding holler, which should seem odd, but after living with my grandparents…

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Kyden says as we pull into a Super 8.

Kyden pays for the room, of course, but she apologizes immediately after she does so.  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t afford two rooms for the night, not if we want to get all the way to California.”

I shrug it off.  “It’s completely fine,” I assure her.

Kyden nods.

“Thank you so much for everything,” I tell her as we go up the stairs. 

“You’re—”

A gunshot rings in my ears and Kyden drops the floor.   

I freeze, my eyes wide as they take in the sight of Kyden lying dead on the floor.

I look around, but no one else is in sight. 

What.  The.  Heck.

When I hear heavy footsteps behind me, I jump up about a foot in the air, but when I turn around find the person is only the hotel manager.

“What happened?” he demands.

I numbly shake my head.  “I-I don’t know.”

“Wait in the lobby, please, miss,” he orders.

I do as I am told, heading downstairs and sitting heavily on a chair.

My mind is in a fog until the police arrive.

I watch, dazed, as Kyden’s limp form is taken away.

“Miss?” a police officer questions.

“Yes?” I blink up at him.

“You were there when the girl was shot?” he asks.

I nod.

“What’s your name, miss?”

“Gaelin,” I answer immediately, not realizing until after it’s out of my mouth that I might have possibly been reported missing by that one lady who wanted to see my house.

The police officer stares at me for a long time before turning to say something into his walkie-talkie. 

Oh this really, really isn’t good.

“We’re going to take you into custody for awhile,” the police officer tells me after turning back to me.

“Why?” I question slowly.

“Just for questioning.”

“No.  You can question me here,” I insist.

“Fine.”

Really?  Really?  C’mon, he has to be joking!

“Did you see the person who shot Kyden?”

I shake my head. 

“When did she get shot?”

“Just as we were walking up the stairs.”

“And how old are you?”

Oh this isn’t good.  I’m pretty sure that I can’t pass for an eighteen-year-old.  “16,” I answer, bumping my age up only by a year.

He nods.  “Okay… And why were you with Kyden?”

“I was spending the weekend with her.  Shopping trip,” I say casually.

“Uh-huh.  And do your parents know about this?”

“They’re dead,” I say simply.  “But my aunt, who’s my guardian, knows.”

“And what’s her phone number?”

“I’m not sure.”

The police officer raises an eyebrow.

“I just moved in with her a week ago.”

“Don’t you think she would want you to have it?”

“She didn’t, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“Kyden had it.”

“What’s Kyden’s last name?”

Oh, great. 

“I don’t know,” I say in a defeated tone.

He knows I'm the missing girl.