AN
Can't promise quick updates, but I can promise this will be a kick-ass story- maybe. Probably. The story has been swinging in my mind lately, (for a long time).

June 07, 12:43 A.M.

Sugar-coated strawberries were left abandoned on the doorsteps of the creaking home. The flies that were picking at the plate in interest scatter at the interruption of heavy boots dissipating the calm of the porch. Three cups of lemonade and a drained BudLight sit in the shadows of the porch, beside plastic lawn chairs and a rickety swing-bench.

There are voices, quick whispers that seem to send shivers up the spine of the house, shaking the floorboards and pushing at the walls.

The footsteps stay above the terrance, and beneath the cracks of the porch, where old pine wood are ripped asunder with old nails and rotting years of wear-and-tear, Elijah watches with his sister's bloody palm pressed to his mouth, forcing him into silence as he tries to catch the disfigured faces of the women and men who murdered half of everything he ever knew.

Elijah still has sugar on his lips, the fine particles tucked away into the corners of his mouth. He can taste the strawberry- beneath the lemonade he had been draining half an hour ago and the bitter tang of Eve's fingers wrapping around his chin to his nose in attempt to keep the shaking boy from screaming.

The people who have torn his entire commodity of existence apart trace through the chipped, red paint his mother had spent ten summers ago slaving over. There are fingerprints in the dirty red, smudged seven year-old fingerprints Elijah had put there when he attempted to help his mother finish. Where it is chipping, yellow paint, and beneath that, the true root of the wood, graying strips of it, leaving threads of its existence through-out the small exterior of the home.

The two teenagers are ducked beneath the porch. Eve had folded her brother in half, had him pushed into the dirt and pressed against the concrete foundation of the home that lined up beneath the patio. One hand was still firmly wrapped around Elijah's mouth, bloody fingers trembling beneath his nose as the eldest Godspeed cloaked her brother as if she could covered even half of him.

Elijah breathed in- inhaled the tang of his sister's sweat, their two heaving breathes mixing with each other and diffusing into the kicked-up dirt, and- his nose may not be as sensitive as his sister's, but the pheromone of fear, the sour stench, was rampant in the morning air.

His eyes followed Eve's body, from her shaking lip, to her blood-stained bikini-top, all the way to her trembling right hand. A heavy Glock shook in her vise-tight grasp, rattling with its small magazine tucked in tightly. The safety was off.

Crimson eyes runny with eyeliner blinked at Elijah.

His sister was the High Alpha.