I joined inkpop.com and writing.com, websites for young authors, and I wanna upload a short story as my first post, because neither site accepts fan fiction. :(
But anyway, I thought this was a cool idea.
Please tell me what you think.
This is chapter one.
Thoughts are funny things. Sometimes it feels like you can’t control your thoughts—that the pictures and words your brain creatures for you are not of your own creation and are simply a cruel remembrance of stupid things that you’ve done. Your thoughts are the only things you can keep secret, though. No one else can know your thoughts unless you tell them. Right?
Berry Shea was 12 years old when she met a boy by the name of Slaughter. That was his last name, but everybody called him that. Whether it was teasing or he liked his name, Berry never knew. Berry would have understood if he had hated his name—she hated hers. But Slaughter’s a different part of this story.
A little while before Berry met Slaughter, she had started hearing voices. Scary, scary voices. She was sitting next to Dean Sawyer at her sister’s birthday party when she heard in her head This party sucks. It’s so…pink. It was a male voice, she knew, and twenty seconds later when Dean said, “Happy birthday,” very unenthusiastically to Berry’s sister, Berry knew she had heard Dean’s voice. But she quickly shook off the thought.
Thoughts are sacred.
Thoughts are for your ears only.
Thoughts are secret.
But when you’re around Berry Shea, thoughts are the most important things to guard.
--
“Hey, Shea, why don’t you go up to Bobby and tell him you like him?”
I had never understood why people called other people by their last names, so people made it a point to always call me Shea. It was one of those things children chose to do to be mean.
“But I don’t,” I insisted.
I was 9 years old, in 5th grade, sitting at my desk, my nose buried in a book when Rachel McCloud had whispered the taunt to me. She was with her group of friends, each of them thought chewing gum was the coolest thing ever, owning a phone made you a star, and had recently changed their minds about whether or not boys had cooties. I was still on the fence.
Rachel popped her gum and her friends giggled. “Go do it, or Sarah will do it for you.” She gestured to her blonde friend, dressed in all pink, who was absentmindedly staring out the window.
“I don’t like Bobby,” I mumbled again.
“Okay—do you like Mason? Or James? Or Dylan?”
She better not like Dylan. He’s mine.
The voice made me shake my head. It was so clear—it sounded so much like Rachel.
“I don’t like any of them.”
The smile that touched her lips made me do a double take. Then I heard the voice again. Good. I have a chance.
I couldn’t understand it. Her voice was so loud in my head. I put my head between my knees and breathed. It didn’t make any sense. I was probably insane. Scratch that. I was definitely insane.
--
Berry was now 16 years old. She could easily be described as a pretty girl with brown curly locks that she wore down past her shoulders, piercing green eyes that seemed as if they could see inside your soul; her features were well defined with porcelain looking skin, long eyelashes that didn’t need makeup, and lips that were full and pink.
Slaughter didn’t have a first name anymore. His childhood had ripped away his name, leaving him with…this. He was tall, strong, and silent. He was dark and liked to keep to himself, but, despite popular belief, he didn’t have bodies in his backyard, and he didn’t enjoy the taste of human flesh. At least not for meals.
It was the first day of Berry’s junior year and she was not going to let anyone screw it up. She had her best friend, a girl who never wore anything that wasn’t black or red or purple and was always scowling and beating the crap out of guys that looked at her funny; she also had her brother and sister, whether or not they wanted to admit she existed. This school year, she promised herself, will be different. I’m different.
--
Slaughter scanned the room from his desk in the back. There was the usual scatter of blondes and brunettes and redheads; there were big guys and small guys; there was no definite majority this year in homeroom. Good. He looked up at the girls entering the room and cocked his head. A goth—nice—and a girl with silky brown hair that looked like she wished she could be anywhere else but there. He sympathized.
No one paid him a glance as the teacher locked the door and went to get her roll sheet. She called off names one by one but all Slaughter heard was the ticking of the clock, the breathing of the students next to him.
“Shea, Berry,” was called, and Slaughter looked up. Who? It couldn’t be.
“Here,” a pretty feminine voice said.
He glanced towards the voice. Berry Shea. Wow. How long had it been? 4 years? He arched an eyebrow and thought loudly in his head. Just as he expected, the brunette turned her head to glance at him and her jaw dropped. He winked.
Nice to see you again, Shea.
He knew she could hear him by the way her eyes squinted in a glare and her lips pressed together in a tight line of anger. If he had to guess, he would say that she was babbling on in her head about why he was there, why he had to show up and ruin her life…again. Honestly, he didn’t know why he was here. Something had spoken to him. Go to New York, the voice had said. So, he went. At least…that was his excuse. Maybe he had just wanted to see the pretty girl that kept appearing in his thoughts.
--
I was 12 when I met Jacob Slaughter. He was the bad boy of our small middle school. He dressed in black every day, spiked his hair, and was the mystery no one questioned if they were smart. The same year I met him, he disappeared, but not before learning my most well kept secret. He had been thinking quite loudly—thinking that I was a girl he would love to kiss—when I gasped and slapped him across the face as I had seen actors do so many times.
“What was that for?”
“I don’t want to kiss you, Jacob Slaughter!”
He eyes widened. “How—?”
But it was too late. No matter how I tried to reason with him—I had seen it in his eyes, I was just that perceptive—that I hadn’t read his mind, he was stuck in his fantasy. But it wasn’t a fantasy. I, Berry Shea, could read minds. Normally only if I concentrated really hard, I could read a person’s thoughts, but then, every once in a while, someone would think loudly and I would hear it, without trying.
--
He was waiting by her locker when she walked out of Calculus.
“What are you doing here, Slaughter?” she mumbled, digging around in her locker.
“Finished my soul searching early—thought maybe I’d come back. Give education a shot. I’m not gonna lie, I was reluctant, but then…I figured there was an upside to New York City.” He closed her locker for her when she stepped back. “You were here.” When her expression didn’t change from the cold mask, he shrugged. “And there’s some great pizza around here.”
“Go to hell, Slaughter.”
“Well that’s unprovoked.”
“I thought you were my friend and then—” She broke off, closing her eyes. “Forget it. See you tomorrow.”
He cocked his head and watched her as she walked away, his eyes focused. Just as the thought that he liked watching her walk away passed through his head, she turned and glared.
Goodnight, Shea. I’ll be thinking about you. But you know that.
--
I hope you like it.
I don't really have a title for it ("Thoughts" is just a quick title I came up with but I don't think it'll stick) so I'd love any and all suggestions!
love forever,
Alyssa
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