This isn't the actual title of the novel. It doesn't have one yet, actually, so I just used the Chapter One title instead.
x. 001
The Sand
That Falls
The walls were the same pale lavender color as the candles that my first foster family had littered throughout their home. Multiple posters of happy families laughing, hugging, and playing games hung near the windows. I’m guessing that whoever decorated this office tried to make it seem like a pleasant environment. If you ask me, they didn’t do a very good job. Apart from the garbage-worthy posters, the room was boring. Sitting on the desk in front of me was a mini blue calendar that read the date in giant, bold letters, August 28. From where I was sitting, in the ugly chair with black cushions and wooden arm rests, I could see a few cabinets, the wooden desk with its fancy laptop, and the bird-like, brown haired lady with librarian-inspired granny glasses that was seated behind it.
This was the sixth foster care centre I’ve been to in the past eight years and it seems that as the numbers get higher, so does my hatred of the places. All of these people have the same fake, polite smiles and they all ask the same questions so many times that I feel like a broken record trying to answer them. I’m not sure why they bother, especially with me. After all, they hate me. Oh no, they’d never say it to my face but I can tell. It’s not like I care though, I hate them too. They are at the top of my list of least favorite people in the world. They don’t truly care about you and your well being, although they assure everybody that they do. All they are really worried about is your money. Or well, your foster parents’ money. And the more times you come back the more money they get.
“So, Samantha, you’re sixteen…” The lady spoke up, speculating my appearance over her bird beak of a nose.
The only response I could make myself give her was a mere nod of the head. “Yes, okay,” she continued, “and you’ve just been kicked out of your sixth foster home, is that correct?”
The bird-looking woman paused there, glancing up at me for just a second with her brown, too-big-for-her-head eyes. She expected me to say something, to explain myself, but I didn’t. Instead I just sat there chomping on my citrus flavored gum. My feet remained planted on the floor as I stared back, forcing her to look away, to the computer that holds all of my information. They always look away first, as though I’m going to hurt them if they look at me too long. It makes me laugh inside; Laugh at how absolutely pathetic they are.
“It says here that when you were eight years old your family was killed and…” she glanced to the screen just to double check her facts, “…only you and your brother are now alive.”
Some of these people say that like a question; a question that I’ve never answered. But this woman doesn’t. She speaks as if she was delivering a weather report and when she does my face hardens, cold and threatening. I hate talking about this. I don’t like personal conversations at all, especially this one. Again I don’t answer; I just chew my gum and try to forget. Of course everything she was saying was true, I would just rather not talk about it. As far as I’m concerned, the only two individuals with any right to even mention it are my brother and I. I am constantly putting off the cold hard truth. That reality isn’t always as great as people make it seem. That everyday happiness and joy is extremely and stupidly over-rated.
I lived a normal and happy life until I was eight years old., back in North Carolina with my mom, dad, and two brothers, Jake and Evan. It was March 23, a Saturday. The best Saturday afternoon I can ever remember. The five of us had gone together to the water park, picnic baskets filled with fruit, sandwiches, and sweets. We spent the entire day swimming, taking pictures and taking time to be a family. There is one picture from that day that I always keep by my bed, always have and always will. It shows the five of us in our bathing suits jumping in the air with big smiles on our faces and our hands waving above our heads. Behind us is the whole scenery of the water slides. That night we ordered take out, watching movies until our eyes were sore and eating food until we were sick to our stomachs. We went to bed, me and Jake in one room as usual, Evan in another, but it wasn’t long after we’d fallen asleep that we were woken up to the sound of my mother screaming, my father begging for their lives and then gun shots being fired throughout our house. Even now, eight years later, I can remember every little detail as though it had happened just yesterday.
The shots were so loud that my ears were ringing with pain even after the sound was gone. It had pierced through the house like a knife, paralyzing us with fear. Jake and I were huddled against the corner wall, tears streaking our faces and hands pressed tightly against our mouths to keep the screams blocked until Evan came in and told us to hurry up and follow him. At the time Evan was only ten years old, but he had already begun his transition into the man that he is today. He had always taken after my father, trying to be the man of the house, and that was the day he got the burden of taking on a responsibility that no child should ever have to take. The three of us ran past our parents’ room with astounding speed coming from our child sized bodies, but no amount of speed could hide what was in the bedroom. Two men, two strangers, two people who felt the need to ruin our lives for eternity. Black winter touques were hiding their faces, only their lips and eyes to be seen, and guns were being lowered to their sides. These intruders were standing in front of the bed and on it were my parents’ dead bodies, their white sheets stained with blood and their hands clasped together.
At eight and ten years old, my brothers and I saw the most horrific scene that we would likely ever experience. It took every ounce of strength in my body to keep from stopping, from screaming and rushing to their sides, but by some miracle my legs just kept on moving. Evan had taken lead in the front, I was in the middle, and Jake was following closely in the back. Our hands gripped tightly to one another, fingers clawing into skin, running towards the basement and gripping each other with all of the force we could muster. We’d had a fairly large house with plenty of little nooks and crannies, and our favorite during games of hide and seek were the vents in the basement. It seemed the perfect spot for our age as it didn’t seem a human body could fit inside and, due to the wall of boxes keeping them from view, they were hard to decipher to those who didn’t already know they existed. Evan didn’t look back, so I couldn’t see his face, but his hands were shaking and sweaty from fear. My hands matched his and my vision was blurred by the blinding tears that fell down like rain over my face. Behind me, I could hear Jakes’ choked sobs and strengthened the pressure that my hand had on his.
Just as we were about to run down the stairs, I heard a string of loud profanities and clumsy movement behind us before another gun shot went off. My heart shot to my throat in an instant and in that second Jakes’ hand went limp in mine. The blood curdling scream that forced its way out of my lungs was deafening. My feet planted themselves firmly into the ground, my hand never losing grip on Jakes and that was when Evan had to pull on me as I tried to get back to my twin. I could make out the movement of his lips, the frantic notion in his eyes, but I couldn’t hear a word he had said. My eyes turned back to my brother on the floor, and with one last yank from Evan I was ripped away. We went faster, slamming doors and pushing things into the hallway to give us more time. The footsteps behind me crashed loudly on the hardwood, the thuds of the men’s boots grinding into the floor as they chased us. The next thing I remember is Evan shoving a single box to the side, pushing me in through the vent, and crawling in after me before sliding the box back to its’ original position, rendering us hidden.
Crawling through the vents, we turned a few corners until we both stopped, hearing the men come into the room. Both of us had our arms wrapped around each other, comforting and secure. Evans’ childish jaw was jutted out in an attempt to keep composure, but I knew he was just as terrified as I was. Our faces were washed in tears, and the tops of our shirts were soaked to the bone. I couldn’t stop the intensity of my shaking body and the tight grip that I kept on Evan. We stayed dead silent, only breathing when we had run out of oxygen to hold our breath any longer.
The first hour passed slowly and even so we sat there for another before we finally got the courage to crawl out. Evan went first, and once he confirmed that all was clear he allowed me to crawl out after him. I remember him holding me close the entire time as we walked through our house to the phone. He called the police and we walked back to his bedroom. The scene before me was one that will never leave my mind. The body of my twin, my dearest companion and my closest friend, was lying lifeless on the cold floor.
He had been shot twice; Once in the head, once in the heart. I remember falling to the floor and hugging him, clutching him to me and screaming out loud until Evan pulled me away. His body was still warm, though the color had faded completely from his skin. If only I had been in the back, I could have saved him.
Evan made an attempt to stop me but I couldn’t help but run to my parents next, begging them to wake up, to come back. I shook them and poked them and screamed at them not to leave us here, not to leave us all alone. All the while I took countless seconds to whip my head around, in fear of the monsters return. Evan finally coaxed me away from our parents and I could see the horror that he was trying to hide from his face. He was silent, crying just like me, but he was being brave, just like he always promised our dad he would be. We moved to the bedroom, my eyes locked on the rest of my family, inert/lifeless before me.
Everything was smeared with blood; My hands, face, hair, clothes, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t even notice. The thought of those men returning to finish off what they had started sent a terror I had never experienced through my entire body. Time seemed to be put on hold as we sat there. Police arrived at our home, accompanied with a female counsellor and medical experts. The flashing lights shone through my window, followed by the noisy buzz of sirens and I glimpsed the beginning of a small crowd of people. These people, these unfamiliar faces, prodded us with serious questions, yet their faces showed compassion and their voices were delicate.
We were told to gather our belongings, that we would have to stay with someone else for the night, but they had difficulty taking me away. I screamed and fought with surprising strength for a tiny body. I was beyond hysterical, so much so that an oxygen mask was forcibly placed over my nose and mouth to help me breathe. The next day Evan and I were taken to an orphanage. I was eight years old.
