My HRT

My HRT Prologue

This is my first time writing, and this is only the first draft of this story, i will hope to put a final draft on here eventually, but for now, please give me feedback and pointers, constructive critisism is much appriciated :) thanks

-Alyssa <3

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PROLOUGE

The music throbbed through the house, like some monstrous heartbeat, coming from a rowdy room in the middle of the house, the room was painted bright blue with silver French insignias printed on the walls, the metallic symbols reflected the low light in the room.

There seemed to be a party going on inside, more a social party than say a party thrown by a whole bunch of teenagers; people seemed to be… Well, socializing.

Nobody noticed the figure slumping in through the slightly ajar door, nobody seemed to care that a girl was sneaking over to the corner where a table piled with food was; nobody seemed to care until…

A wave of bitter cold silence swept out from one corner of the room, its tendrils reaching into the crevases of the room. A teenager stood, bent over, frozen in shock with a surprised look on her face, with an ice cream cone clutched so tightly in her hands that they turned white.

The girl looked about mid teens with shoulder length golden brown hair and wide, brown eyes. She was wearing a blue tank top that matched the walls and a pair of simple dark jeans mini-skirt with lots of zippers on them, she was sturdily set, yet tall, her hazel eyes had only fear and shock in them, the shock of getting caught by her one great nemesis. The other person involved in the scene was a broad, muscular man with dyed-dark, shoulder length hair, that didn’t match his face which was distinctly oval. He had the appearance of a person who had gained some weight over a short period of time because it looked like his skin didn’t fit him. He had a tuxedo, a purple tie and matching leather dress shoes, and he was livid. His eyes where bulging out of his head; his skin was stretched tight over his face in a horrible leer, looking like he was going to explode at anytime. He looked at the girl like she had done something wrong simply by living and breathing. The missing ice cream and the maker of the disturbance was on the breast of the suit, dripping slowly down the fabric.

The tri-colored ice cream was making a small puddle around the ugly leather dress shoes, dripping from the tuxedo down to the floor.

The girl’s eyes darted between the door, the man’s face and his marred outfit, deciding what to do. The tension strung between the two people, like a chord about to snap. The girls face portrayed surprise and underlying fear, as if she would get punished for this, seemingly innocent, act.

No one moved, no one spoke, some of the people were just realizing what was happening, the whisper was spreading out wards, like a pebble dropped into a pond, the music played, vacant and forgotten.

Anyone who knew this man, knew that he had a terrible temper and a very impulsive temper at that; and also, that he really did hate the girl that was crouched before him.

The girl decided to run, and with the girl the tension broke, the man took a swipe for her and missed, slipping in the puddle of ice cream. He lost his footing and stumbled, by the time that he regained his balance the girl was pushing her way through the door and, with a last look at the place, disappeared through the crack and ran away.

The bravest of his so called friends was a man who was with what could possibly be his wife and well-dressed sons. “Come on,” said the man sternly, “She’s only a girl, Let it alone.” He had a rough tone of voice, soothing; he was wearing a business suit, a light grey, and a red patterned tie. His family was pretty much beautiful, his eldest son has dark brown-reddish hair and was standing well composed, his slender features looking nonchalant. The youngest son seemed distracted by the girl, concern clouded his face, and he may have been alike to his brother in appearance, but their attitudes where nothing less than completely different, that was obvious.

“She is the age of Luke is she not? They go to the same school…” The Wife of the man supplied. Luke seemed to come back alive at the mention of his name, “Mrs. Rhinehart, please don’t worry yourself about that girl,” He spit it out as if disgusted, “well if you insist…” added Mrs. Rhinehart looking troubled. “Please excuse me mother.” Said the younger boy, Luke, inclining his head respectfully, he pushed through the crowd and disappeared through the door.

The youngest son, Luke, was speed walking through the houses many winding hallways searching for the girl, as he went he undid his tie and hung it around his neck, his shirt was much too tight around his neck so he undid the first couple buttons of it. He heard incoherent screams coming from a hall ahead; he composed himself as he rounded the corner.