Lydia Martin: A Fictional Narrative

He stopped; footsteps stunned into silence. His face was drawn; his cheeks sunken. The red stain of his shadow faded as the horizon devoured the sun, engulfing him in darkness. The moon rose higher and the stars came out one by one, their celestial dance glittering in the dissipating clouds. His eyes began to adjust to the darkened surroundings as he took one last glance behind him. In that moment he knew he was leaving his past for good.

No screaming, no whispering; only the scraping of metal against glass. I looked around the room. No one seemed bothered by the disturbance that occurred only seconds before.

Martin jumped. He opened his mouth to talk, to yell, to shout or even to squeak out a sound, however, nothing turned out. He was so scared, so petrified that he couldn't talk, and he was grasping his crutches so firmly that his knuckles turned white. He was trembling and his knees would have been knocking if he had his fractured leg on the floor in the little room. He flicked his eyes up to the roof once again. "That entryway is my only way out of this! I need to attempt to reach it, yet she's standing directly under it. If only I hadn't fractured my leg "Martin thought. At the thought of his leg, , it began to hurt with a fiery and throbbing

Ebon obeyed. Then he heard it. A hideous sound. Metal slowly scraping on metal. The sound sent shivers down his spine.

After waking from a full fifteen hours of dreamless slumber, Diana Martin sat straight up and then opened her light blue eyes. Raising her arms high above her head, she generously stretched her pale, slender, well-rested body. Stirring atop the smooth granite platform, she watched the sun glow burnt orange as it slid beneath the horizon. While tracing her fingertips over the cool stone structure that supported her, she thought about how much she missed the red silk sheets of her Victorian-style bed back home, for they virtually hid the blood expressed by her victims, in particular, the ones she feasted on just before bedtime. The flow of warm, thick hemoglobin into her body always helped her sleep so soundly.

She stood there looking at her brother, sweating in the bed. She could see that the years have been gentle to him and he didnt have any clear burns or further sympthoms of the sun. Casey was not big but rather small and seeing him lying and turning as if climbing and conquering a mountain made her feel uncomfortable. She turned to the right and she could see her tighs, her curves in the mirror and it made her feel sick inside. No matter how much she didnt eat, she was

‘Fine, I’ll meet you at the ticket seller.’ Grover said. Then off he went, nearly tripping over the lady in front.

Ding! Ding! Notifications on Lydia’s phone were going off every second. Lydia didn’t bother to answer; however, she did wonder if it was Barry trying to apologize. She decided to ignore the sound of her phone and pay attention to the stars. She sat on the creaky steps that belonged to the old abandon shack. “Since you weren’t answering, I assumed the worst.” Lydia looked up to see a familiar face. “Natasha? How did you…” Natasha interrupted Lydia. “I’m a trained Russian assassin,” Natasha justified. “I have my ways.”

October is the only month that you’ll ever see her, to her children, she is known as Melanie, or simply mom. But to everyone else, she’s the lady that works at the Halloween store, or that mom who frantically runs down the aisles with 3 egg cartons, a bag of milk, and 5 boxes of cereal, all without a cart. No one really knows where she goes for the other 11 months, but she's so insignificant that now has even questioned it. Melanie has a foggy mist in her eyes, you can always tell when she is enthused when she stands at the cash and stares blankly into the distance with an eerie smirk. Careless, yet careful Melanie’s colloquial elegance leaves people she crosses stunned and flabbergasted. Her teenage tee’s, arms stained in ink, and skinny jeans

I should’ve hit him in the head but I was so scared. It reeks of gasoline and he gets back up and yanks the pool out of my hand and drags me into the room and starts pouring gasoline on the bed and pushing me down. As he pushes me I roll my ankle. He pushes me down runs out of the room. I hear him lock the door behind him. He’s going to burn this house down with me in it. I hear him going through the drawers in the house and I hear him trying to light matches. Then I hear the whoosh of flame and now I got to figure out how I’m going to get out of here. The window it too small for me to climb out and the room is filling with flame and smoke. I sit down and cry not knowing what to do and then I hear sirens. I get a glimmer of hope and I start screaming help. The house it already up in flames and ever second it’s getting bigger. I look at the door and I know it’s my only way out of this room so I run as fast as I can at the door and it doesn’t budge. I do it again and the door falls down. I’m coughing cause the smoke if filing u in my lungs and I still feel uneasy from whatever he had that made me pass out. I crawl to what I can barely see of a door that outside and I bang on

I pouted at him the best I could then let out a huff of displeasure. "Oh shut up ya smart ass." I said the best I could. Luka giggled then licked my face as a sign of affection showing that he meant no harm or offense with his statements.

Back in his room again, he was starting to feel like a little boy who was not allowed of out the house for fear he might hurt himself. The thought that he was kind of being held here returned and it made him even more suspicious. Also he was now starting to notice that everyone kept pushing the idea of him being safe inside. A little disconcerting if not odd.

Footsteps echoed through the pitch black room, cold sweat trickled down my nose, my hands itched from the rope which tied my hands to a metal chair, and my body shook with such an uncontrollable speed. I wanted more. I didn’t understand what I wanted, but everything around me was useless, I didn’t want more. No, I needed more. When suddenly, I had felt something press into my arm. That was it. I felt incredible, the begging stopped, and I enjoyed the euphoria which I so desperately wanted minutes ago.

Something metal hits the back of my skull and I crumble to my knees, dots fluttering across my eyes. Someone clasps my wrist and yanks up my sleeve, revealing nothing? Though there’s a lump on my head now, I let out a secret sign of relief as I try to stand.

Lucy Honeychurch lives in a world in which actions are more often than not dictated by politeness and social cues, rather than real emotion. She’s a bright young lady, but she still can’t quite figure out how to negotiate the boundaries of society. The longer she stays in Italy, where things are evidently more straightforward and less uptight than they are in England, the more she realizes that she has questions that her former way of life don’t answer. This initial stage ends when George kisses her amongst the violets, an event that sends her into a whirlwind of action as she attempts to regain control of her unruly life.