Let me start off by saying, I am not a hero. I am not a villain. I’m not someone you would hear of on the 9:00 morning news. I’m sure though, your reading this either because you’ve been forced to do so, or you have nothing else to do, home alone at 1:32 in the afternoon. I’m not sure why you would care who I am or that I exist.

My name is Marcella Vitali-Viviani. Short on love, loquacious when it comes to school and my friends, but big on almost anything else other than natural teenage junk like sex, drugs, and gang fights. Just a few examples. I have no desire to get involved in anything like that.

I am 15 years old. Just turned from 14 a week ago. The 5th of May, in 1996. Yea, I know. Cinco De Mayo. I’m not even any bit Mexican. But, I am troublesome. I was supposed to be born on April 1st, 1996. There was some issue with my body, that kept me in my mom for a while longer. All I did was mess with the doctor’s heads, and tick my mom off.

All though I’m young, my mental and emotional state is obfuscate to some. I’m just glad some people can abide with that. So, I guess, on some supernatural scale, my life could be considered dynamic.

I live a life filled with enigma’s.

I’m not implying that my life is better than yours or vise-versa. I’m sure your life is vivacious, rainbows, happiness, but still amalgamated with some sadness, betrayal and umbrage. I’m just saying my life isn’t the one preppy teenage girls would compare their’s to.

My life’s just not regular.

Understand this, I’m not crazy. I’ve never been to a mental hospital, never been on medication, or been in some major predicament where people called me crazy after. These are just forewarnings.

As my alarm clock goes off, my eyes lazily open. I glanced, with a dreary eye, at the time. 4:27. “Stupid alarm,” I mumbled. “Might as well get up and run around the block before school.” I slammed the off button to the alarm, and threw the sheets off. A blast of cold air, nipped at my body. I shivered, but I threw my legs over the edge, and got up anyway.

I stood, and walked in a way that made me feel like a zombie, and turned on the lights. When the lights flipped on, my eyes fuzzed up. I have this really rare problem with my eyes, where my eyes don't focus as quick as they should. I almost stumbled, but I balanced myself, and stood there until my eyes adjusted.

I looked at my room, now with full lighting. It’s DEFIANTLY not a Bachelorette pad, but it’s no where close to a closet. It’s an extra storage room to our attic. It’s not even an attic. My mom’s boyfriend turned it into a lounge.

Bright orange walls hide behind posters of bands, peace signs, and any other hip posters that still contain things I like. In the corner across from the lights, is my bed. It fits perfectly in the corner, with it’s square shape. Just a 2 foot high, no frame, bare mattress, with a thin sheet, and an extra blanket on top, on top of the burgundy carpet. My nightstand beside it, with my alarm clock on top. I also have an average sized window above the long side of my bed.

Next to the door, which opens up to the main room of the attic, is my closet, and my dresser across from the bed.

Its not much, but its capacious.

I walk to my dresser and pull out a sports bra, regular underwear, gym shorts, socks and a white cotton tank. I change out of my SpongeBob sleep tank, with matching bra and underwear, and slip into my newly selected clothes. I grabbed my socks, opened up my closet, found my sneakers, and sat on the bed to put them on. “Sock, shoe, tie. Sock, shoe, tie.” I thought to myself. Just another daily, rhythmic pattern.

Soon as I got them on, I checked the time. 4:30. “Time management.” I thought, and smirked. I walked out the door to my bedroom, through the dark, musky attic lounge, pushed down the ladder, and descended the steps. The oak wood, creaked under my NIKE sneakers. I tried my best to go down the steps, in the dark. I almost tripped and fell on the last step. I grabbed the cool metal, safety bars, before I could.

I stood there for a minute, listening to the sounds of the house.

Nothing moved, and nothing stirred in it’s quiet morning slumber. When I reassured myself that all was adrift in another world, I slowly stepped off the ladder, and cautiously placed it back in the ceiling. Even if light was streaming in, the attic door would go unnoticed.

I turned and looked down the hallway. If you walked by me on the street, you would never expect that I subsist like this. If you could be related to people, just because of their money, Bill Gates would be my dad, or brother or something.

I quietly crept down the lightly lit hallway. It seemed as if the hundreds of family photo’s looked down on me with a cold, stuck up, pixelated glare, because I don’t share the same thoughts about money as they do. I ignored the weird feeling and continued my creeping.

As I came to the end of the hallway, I looked out to the rest of the house. Two longer hallways seemed to vacillate beside me, in the morning darkness. As open as the house is, it seemed to contain darkness like a prisoner.

The hallway to my right, leads out to a small patio. The double glass doors are draped with a thin, silk curtain, right above each one. The patio looks out to the right of our giant back yard.

A little closer to me, but the wall of the hallway, is the door to our bathroom. More made of granite and marble, than shampoo and bath soap.

All the way at the end of the left hallway was an antique coffee table, with a matching chair that has matching coffee stains, as well as the Persian Rug, that slithers across the floors, down the stairs, and through the hallways. The table and chair, sits and looks out to the rest of the house, on a circle outlook. Both the hallways are open on the side opposite to me, with a beautiful chestnut colored railing.

Closer to me, but still on the wall of the left hallway, like the bathroom, is my sisters room. Her room is like a sweet, fairy-tale, peppermint and candy filled sanctuary. I bite-my-thumb upon the day when she painfully finds out that the real world is not like that. As my heart fills with grief, I slowly walk to her door. All over the white door, in many vivacious colors is her name. I slowly grabbed the gold door knob, turned it, and walked into the room of Aden Marie Viviani.
~~~~~

Yes, I know. A name for sweet, innocent, 9 year old girl would be an expected Jessica, Teresa or Delaney. But, my mom and dad, who are divorced from each other, thought it would be adorable.

I closed the door when I stepped in. After my body was completely submerged in her room, I could already feel a temperature difference. The room felt warmer, but my bones felt cold, and the hair on my neck stood up. After my acknowledgement of the weird temperature difference, I let my surroundings soak into me. The feelings in this room, wielded into the cracks of my skin, amalgamated with my blood, and joined in unison with my brain.

Her room is a mixture of love, pink, myth, trust, light pink, exuberance, cuteness, and any other color on the girly spectrum. On the wall left adjacent to the door, is basically a home in it of itself. Her closet. Well not that big. Two thick, giant, glass frosted doors, framed with gold metal and white oak, cover the giant walk-in closet that contains the abundance of clothes, that make up her style, shoes included. Flats, heels, sneakers, and sandals. Obviously all covered in glitter.

Across from the door, and where I was standing, the Angel Of Fire herself, laid in a peaceful slumber. The light glow from the moon, and her night lights, bounded off her walls and her hot pink sheets and bright yellow pillows, to her soft round face, and barley tinted her night black hair, as opposed to my jet black hair. She held onto her stuffed bunny like it was a real one.

I checked the small digital clock on her bedside table. 4:45.

Across from where her white wood framed bed was, was a floor to ceiling window, draped with silk sheets like the doors in the hallway. A bench that was passed down from generation to generation, sat strong in front of it. I decided to sit down.

I quietly crept on the tile, holding my breath until my body was compleltly upon the creaky wooden bench.

The moon’s bright glow, glistened through the silk curtains. I closed my eye’s, and went back to when my Grandma Sara was still alive.

We sat on this bench and played the piano at her farm in Idaho, during the summer. We would play after eating a wonderful pot roast, and a fresh, homemade apple pie, that we made that day. When my parents were together, my dad took the time out to fly the three of us, him, my mom and me, down here, him and my mom were always at the nearest bar. Why a man wouldn’t want to spend time with his own mom, is totally beyond me. I was three years old at the time, and it was the last time I ever saw her. I still remember the way life, beauty, and peach-mango perfume clung to her, but her straw hat never could. Until one day, someone came to the door and shot her, just for the money in the house. That day, a year later, when I was 6, Aden was born.

As I sat there reminiscing about a lost soul, the room got colder, and started to smell like peach-mango. Chills and small shocks of fear, crawled from the tip of my toes, to the top of my cranium, and through my veins. Aden stirred in a way on her bed, that made me have an aversion of still being here.

I opened my eyes.

Small, about palm sized, golden butterflies, flapped and glided silently through the silk curtains, and the moon’s glow. They glimmered. I just stared at their lithe, grandiose, perseverance to fly. There were five of them, flapping in the air.

I turned to look at Aden. But something stopped me. On the wall across from me, a black shadowy figure stood. No details. Just a black silhouette. My heart pounded deeply in my chest. I slowly turned my head back to the butterflies, but they weren’t butterflies anymore. Giant, light brown mosquitoes, were all facing toward me. I started to panic, but I tried not to show it on my face. Sweat began to drip on my forehead and my nose. They started to buzz. It got louder and louder by the second. I could see their eye’s, slowly turn to a crimson red.

A quick, forceful breath, was planted in my right ear. I jumped from my seat, and whirled around. The mosquitoes flew away, and into the world I was not staring at. I wasn’t in Aden’s room anymore. Ashes, bombs, F-2 bombers, and a noisome smell, filled the air and sky. Flames, blood, and un-wanted war soaked into the dirt.

I’ve visited this world, and many others like this before. Remember how I was saying that I’m not crazy? I’m not. I don’t have schizophrenia or anything like that. I try to look and act normal when faced with this stuff. Like I’m always a part of it.

It’s like a dream world, and reality. Some parts of the dream world can appear in reality, like the butterflies and mosquitoes, or I can go completely in the dream world, but if I do, apparently from what I’ve noticed, the reality completely freezes.

I stood close to the rim of a cliff, over looking a war.

My clothes changed, and I had weapons. I changed from my gym clothes to tight black leather pants, black knee high lace-up combat boots, a tank top style black leather shirt, that has a thin, but durable, bullet prof vest on, attached underneath.

Because I’ve been here many times before, I know my weapons, where they are, and how to use them. One brown leather whip attached to each of my hips, five, small, poison, throwing daggers in the top inside of my right boot, five regular throwing daggers in my other boot, two butterfly knives used as chopsticks in my hair, ten ninja stars on each side of the stomach of my shirt, a semi-auto M21 EBR through over my shoulder, two M19 11 COLT’s in a pocket on both my shoulder blades. Both guns have unlimited chemical bullets. The bullet has a thin glass casing surrounding the chemical. The glass breaks once shot out, releasing the chemicals. The chemical combines with dirt and other particles in the air, becomes a solid, and increases speed by 75%. I know this sounds like a lot of weight. I just grown adapted to it.

As many times as I’ve been here, I’ve never killed anyone. Only severely injured, and caused many contusions to myself. The first time I remember coming here, was when I was five. The day I caught wind that Grandma Sara was dead. Ever since then, I’ve watched this world unfold.

People, mostly male, screamed, killed, shot at others on the field. Every time I come here there is always something new about it. This ongoing war is always always between two sides. Creatures, black figures, and things you only see in horror movies and your worst nightmares, on one side. On the other side, men dressed in WWII attire, did their best against these creatures.

I help sometimes. From what I hear, I’m called, “The Assistance.” Some, the people I am close to here, call me the first three letters of assistance. I guess because I am the dumbest, smart person with the wars here. Of course, they say that as fun... I think.

A hot breeze flew into the crossfire. I looked up. Off in the distance, an F-2 was gaining speed, coming toward me. As it got closer, the cargo hold began to open. AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!?! A bomb was being lowered, and being prepared to drop. “AW, COME ON!” I yelled. I secured my gun to my back with two straps, turned around and started sprinting. I kept my eyes forward, but I could hear the giant piece of metal split the air.

A giant boulder sat in the way between me and the thick forest. I jumped behind it, seeing that it would do me best right now. As soon as I did, the bomb hit the ground, right where I was standing, not just thirty seconds ago.

My right arm began to sting with what felt like a pernicious amount of pain. I screamed, but I couldn’t hear it over the roar of the flames, besieged around the rock. I clutched my arm as I shrank into the dirt, to make myself smaller to the flames.

I could still hear the F-2 hovering in the air.

I waited there for what felt like forever, holding my arm, and waiting for the heat to stop piercing my body. I slowly raised my head, trying to see if there was anywhere else to go, because I knew my stone protector was slowly deteriorating. Flames slowly dissipated, and the heat cooled down. I heard the F-2, now above me, flip on it’s automatic engine, and I watched it disappear into the treetops.

Smoke still clung in the air.

I felt something liquid, and hot, drip down my neck and my arm. Extra blood that was still on the rock, from where I cut it, dripped lightly onto my neck. I checked my arm. A gash that ran from the end of collar bone, to the end my humerus. Good for me, it wasn’t that deep, and wasn’t bleeding that bad. I held onto it just in case it starts.

I was reluctant to look over, but something in me told me to do so anyway. I hoisted myself up by pushing my back up against the rock. I used my elbows to inch myself up the rock. I slowly peered over the boulder. As afraid as I was to look over, I should’ve been terrified. As I looked over the moon shone lightly in my eyes, through the gleam of silk curtains. I was back where I was sitting on the bench, in my gym clothes.

I looked to my right. There was no shocking black figure, and no golden butterflies, or killer mosquitoes. I turned to Aden. Still adrift, and still dreaming. I looked at the digital clock. 4:47. “That was probably the time I left,” I thought. “I might as well go back to bed.” So I stood, and walked to the door. I turned and surveyed the room before I left. “Everything as it should be.” I thought.

I left the room, and went beck to mine, knowing that my Grandma Sara was sitting on the bench, watching over Aden for me.

I know it may be daft. But, I knew that there was something ominous coming.