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Amelia

People don’t believe that you can love someone and then start to hate that same person all in a blink of an eye.

But it’s true.

The line between love and hate is thin. Thinner than one strand of hair. Thinner than paper. Thinner than petal of a flower.

The same thing happened to me. It was a long time ago, when I was just one little girl who believed in fairytales, prince charming, and happy endings. However, at the age of almost eight, my illusion of life was broken into millions of tiny pieces together with my heart. Was it for better or for worse? You can choose because even ten years later I still don’t have an answer to that question. I guess some questions are meant to stay unanswered forever.

Amelia

Stone Coldis playing on the radio as I drive my Volkswagen Golf to the school. The car may be old, but it’s reliable. Kind of. Maybe I heard some strange noises coming out of it a time or two. But it’s something normal, right? Strange noises coming out of old thing give them charm, give them character. People say it all the time.

Anyway, the car is mine, and that’s all that matters to me. The last three summers I was working my butt off helping my aunt in her hair salon and saving money so I could buy myself a car.

It’s the first day of school and the first day of my senior year. The beginning of the end. I’m one step closer to my freedom, one step closer to getting out of hell and starting a new life—life away from this city and its people.

The phone on the console in front of me starts ringing. Lowering the volume of music, I give a quick look at the screen before connecting the call and putting it on speaker.

“Where are you, Lia?” My best friend’s voice comes from the speaker.

“On my way to school, Brooks. Where would I be?”

“You are late.” I can hear the noises coming from around her meaning she is already there. I roll my eyes at her accusatory tone. “I was worried,” she adds, this time a little softer.

“No need to be. I simply overslept,” I reassure her feeling slightly guilty. Brook is my best friend, always being there for me and standing by my side, even when things aren’t pretty. How many people do that? She knows how difficult is for me to return to the school each fall, so of course she’s worried. “I should be in time for homeroom. Save me a seat, will ya?”

It’s not like somebody is going to take the front row seats anyway. Most of the time the two of us are invisible.Mostbeing the keyword.

Some strange noises start coming from my car and light on the console turns red. “Ohh shit!” I groan loudly. “Not now.”

“What’s going on?” She sounds worried. “Why are you yelling?”

“Something’s wrong with the car. I have to pull over. I’ll see you later in class okay?”

“Later.”

She hangs up, and I pull over at the side of the road. Not knowing what I should do, I simply stay in my seat. Looking in front of me, my hands grip the steering wheel tightly, turning my knuckles whiter than they already are.

“You can do it, Lia,” I murmur to myself as I take one deep breath and open the car door. “You can do it.”

Going to the front of the car, I lift the hood and look inside. All those wires and tubes and… whatever. Blackness and dirt, that’s the only thing I understand about it. How the hell should I know what’s wrong with this thing?

I bite into my lower lip to stop it from wobbling. I’m already tired and frustrated by my dream and from waking late. The last thing I need today is to be late for class or have a mental breakdown—and here I am on my way to both of those things.

Taking the phone out of my pocket, I try dialing my dad, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Just fucking perfect,” I swear under my breath. After the beep, I explain to him what happened and where my car is.

If I start walking now and hurry, I’ll be late for class just for a few minutes.

I’m about to close the hood when I hear the sound of a bike nearing. It’s some kind of fancy, sleek, black bike. It starts slowing down, only to stop next to my car.

The driver’s also dressed all in black—black helmet and leather jacket, black jeans and biker boots. He takes off the helmet and holds it against his side while he runs his right hand through messy strands of dark brown hair.

He’s handsome, so handsome he looks like someone who should be on the cover of the magazine.

“Need help?”

His voice is smooth, easy going. He gives me a crooked smile and his almond, grey eyes have a hint of teasing light in them.

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