anything like them before.
The left half of the chest looked like it had a package wrapped in leather or some kind of waterproofed cloth. I pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was a tunic and pants. It looked exactly like the ones my parents were wearing in the pictures. The only thing missing was the crest on the tunic; the one I had pulled from the box was blank. The material was like nothing I had felt before, lightweight and soft but strong and thick. It was an interesting texture, and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was made of. It was slightly coarse like denim but also soft and flexible like cotton.
Underneath the tunic was a second smaller bundle. This package included gloves and socks of the same material. The gloves were slightly different than a normal pair. When I slid the gloves on, I noticed they extended further up my wrist, about three inches longer than a normal pair. The gloves were also unique in the fact they had been cut so your fingers were exposed.
Further inside the box was a pair of boots. The boots were made of light, flexible leather and looked well broken in. The smaller compartment on the right contained a couple of books and a mixture of odds and ends that must have been important to the owner. One of the books was tied together with a small leather strap. It reminded me of a journal I used to write in. I left the gloves and the necklace on and headed downstairs. The thought of food motivated me to leave the room, as much as I wanted to sit on my bed and read that journal until I finished it. I was looking forward to getting some answers.
Walking down the stairs, I paused for a second. Something was off. It tickled at the edge of my senses, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I felt a surge of adrenaline, and my hands grew sweaty. The reaction was so out of place that I stopped and started to take stock of my surroundings. I didn’t hear the noises you would normally hear while someone was making breakfast. In our house, there would be some kind of morning chatter or the TV would be on. I’m sure they had plenty to talk about, so I found it odd that there was no conversation coming from the kitchen. I couldn’t hear the slightest movement coming from the kitchen. No plates shuffling, no crackle of bacon from the pan, not a single thing. It wasn’t normal for the kitchen to be so silent. I loved that we had loud breakfasts; it was part of what made it more than a place where we lived. It made our house a home.
The sound of food cooking and my parents getting ready for work always filled me with a sense of belonging. Now the pure absence of any sound was what was really disturbing me. It was like being trapped in a bubble. I could hear my breathing and my heart beating, but nothing else. I decided it was because I was so nervous. My parents or the people I thought were my parents must be feeling the same way. That had to be why the TV was off and they weren’t talking. They had probably had time to talk last night while I was out and were just waiting for me to come into the kitchen. I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my face growing warm. Swallowing my fear, I headed into the kitchen.
As I crossed the door to the kitchen, the bubble of silence lifted and I could easily hear again. I couldn’t believe what was happening. How could I have not heard what was going on in here? My father was sitting in a chair, his face was bloody and starting to swell. My mother was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I couldn’t tell if she was still alive, but she wasn’t moving. My first instinct was to run in and check if she was ok. I caught my father’s eye, and he shook his head. I could tell that he wanted me to make a run for it. It didn’t matter what he wanted, I had to get them out of here.
I rushed into the room, hoping to tackle the man holding the gun. I was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands on my shoulders and forced down onto my knees.
The left half of the chest looked like it had a package wrapped in leather or some kind of waterproofed cloth. I pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was a tunic and pants. It looked exactly like the ones my parents were wearing in the pictures. The only thing missing was the crest on the tunic; the one I had pulled from the box was blank. The material was like nothing I had felt before, lightweight and soft but strong and thick. It was an interesting texture, and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was made of. It was slightly coarse like denim but also soft and flexible like cotton.
Underneath the tunic was a second smaller bundle. This package included gloves and socks of the same material. The gloves were slightly different than a normal pair. When I slid the gloves on, I noticed they extended further up my wrist, about three inches longer than a normal pair. The gloves were also unique in the fact they had been cut so your fingers were exposed.
Further inside the box was a pair of boots. The boots were made of light, flexible leather and looked well broken in. The smaller compartment on the right contained a couple of books and a mixture of odds and ends that must have been important to the owner. One of the books was tied together with a small leather strap. It reminded me of a journal I used to write in. I left the gloves and the necklace on and headed downstairs. The thought of food motivated me to leave the room, as much as I wanted to sit on my bed and read that journal until I finished it. I was looking forward to getting some answers.
Walking down the stairs, I paused for a second. Something was off. It tickled at the edge of my senses, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I felt a surge of adrenaline, and my hands grew sweaty. The reaction was so out of place that I stopped and started to take stock of my surroundings. I didn’t hear the noises you would normally hear while someone was making breakfast. In our house, there would be some kind of morning chatter or the TV would be on. I’m sure they had plenty to talk about, so I found it odd that there was no conversation coming from the kitchen. I couldn’t hear the slightest movement coming from the kitchen. No plates shuffling, no crackle of bacon from the pan, not a single thing. It wasn’t normal for the kitchen to be so silent. I loved that we had loud breakfasts; it was part of what made it more than a place where we lived. It made our house a home.
The sound of food cooking and my parents getting ready for work always filled me with a sense of belonging. Now the pure absence of any sound was what was really disturbing me. It was like being trapped in a bubble. I could hear my breathing and my heart beating, but nothing else. I decided it was because I was so nervous. My parents or the people I thought were my parents must be feeling the same way. That had to be why the TV was off and they weren’t talking. They had probably had time to talk last night while I was out and were just waiting for me to come into the kitchen. I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my face growing warm. Swallowing my fear, I headed into the kitchen.
As I crossed the door to the kitchen, the bubble of silence lifted and I could easily hear again. I couldn’t believe what was happening. How could I have not heard what was going on in here? My father was sitting in a chair, his face was bloody and starting to swell. My mother was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I couldn’t tell if she was still alive, but she wasn’t moving. My first instinct was to run in and check if she was ok. I caught my father’s eye, and he shook his head. I could tell that he wanted me to make a run for it. It didn’t matter what he wanted, I had to get them out of here.
I rushed into the room, hoping to tackle the man holding the gun. I was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands on my shoulders and forced down onto my knees.
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