Chapter 1
"Please, please," The woman begged and screamed, scrambling back from the knife. I watched her, not once potraying emotion. Emotion was weak. Pathetic. The hooded man looming closer to her. It wouldn't be long before the police found us. I glanced up at my life. My saviour. Calloway. He had a hood on, fitted with the same robe we all had. He smiled down at me, the smile twinkle in his eye he always had.
"You alright?" He asked me. I nodded, looking back at the woman. She screamed even louder. No one would hear her. I let my eyes drift to behind me. All of us were there. The same robes, hoods, torches, lighting the sky like molten copper. I saw, in the distance the blue and red lights. Plenty of them. I felt Calloway's hand on my shoulder, turning my attention back to the woman. The hooded man started unzipping his pants and jacket.
"Carrie! Carrie! Baby, please," The woman sobbed, the sound almost inhumane. Who was she talking to? The man pinned her against the wall. Calloway bent down to my level.
"You can close your eyes if you want to," He spoke, gently. I pulled the hood further over my head, to protect myself from the rain. I shook my head. I hadn't spoken in days. There was no need.
"Carrie! Fuck! Please!" She screamed as the man pulled her clothes off, despite her struggles. I noticed she was talking to me. Calloway stood back up, when he spoke, I barely recognized him.
"Stop struggling. It'll all be over soon," The voice was deep, cold. Too detached of emotion to be Calloway. I paused, suddenely sensing the familiar feeling of...feeling. But it left. Quickly. "Close your eyes, Caroline," He whispered to me, the familiar voice I knew had returned. I didn't close them. I wasn't afraid. I knew what was coming. I watched it all. When it was over, I saw the knife go in and out. Her pale and uncovered body, now lifleless. I saw the hooded figures drag her out of site. Their hands were red. Stained with blood. I saw the helicopters, police sirens and panic threatend to register on my face. Then, I felt Calloway's reassuring hand on my shoulder. That's when I knew had done well. Not shown any emotion. Not cried or sobbed, like a normal thirteen year old girl would've done. Not even when they killed and raped my mother. I wouldn't. Not ever. Emotion was weak. Pathetic. I didn't ever want to be weak or pathetic. And I never would. Not now. Not ever. Not ever. Not ever. Not ever. Ever. Ever.
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