Prologue: The Manor

So this here is what should be my second novel, which I will begin working on with much haste after Rusted Faith (novel #1) is done. This is a story that began in my head when I was 18, and it’s been picked up and dropped multiple times since then. Hopefully this is the time when it can be told, in full. This is the current prologue, however that may change when I get around to publishing (traditional or otherwise).

Posted here, it’s not edited, and not perfect. Maybe I’m just crazy and don’t care about posting perfect work. Either way, read on, and hopefully you’ll enjoy.

Prologue:

Life is a series of moments, some of which we all share.

If you’re lucky (or unlucky) enough to be born into this world, then you’re also guaranteed to die at some point. We all share this, the first date followed by the last date.

There’s a quote I used to despise that said it was the dash between those two dates that mattered. That was the life you lived, your story. It didn’t matter if it was long or short, just that you did something in between those two dates.

That dash can consist of happiness, anger, love, disgust, hate … you name it, you’ll probably feel it. We don’t judge our lives by our feelings though. We don’t start off every story saying I felt happy or I felt sad.

In our heads, we categorize everything. Childhood, before parents divorce, after parents divorce. Illness. Breakups and broken hearts- before and after. Everything is before or after something, some big event in every person’s life. It’s how we define it, because those moments define us. We either grow or they make us shut down.

If you’re brave enough, you’ll move through those tests, you won’t shut down. You’ll take it as lesson, chalk up another memory in an after column, and move on.

Some of us don’t know we’re brave, and we shut down. I shut down.

My dashes, my categories go from birth to Mum’s death. Mums’ death to Dad’s disappearance. Dad’s disappearance to living with my Uncle, the world’s biggest asshole and worst person in the world to leave in charge of an eight year old. I shut down when I was eight years old. I figured life was just going to be a brutal disappointment, and I didn’t need to be awake for it.

The problem with hiding is that you become bitter and jaded. You forget that life can be good, and that it’s meant to be good. You become this radiating ball of anger, prepared to lash out at anyone and anything. I did. For thirteen years.

My story changed in a moment.

My story changed because of a letter, and a lawyer.

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