Chapter I: Naming a face.

            Five people ,a kid and me.  Chairs everywhere. Most of them are occupied. I’m sitting on the couch. A very tense moment.  Concentration can be seen and felt. No sound from them five people. They’re playing cards. Only a slight whisper leaves their lips when it’s their turn and have nothing to put down.

            I watch them for a slight moment, then aver t my eyes back to my screen. The kid is not important so I’m not interested in him, or his actions.  Writing is my main interest, my passion and my way of expressing my thoughts.  I kept doing it for the last half an hour, until my annoying dad decides that it’s time for me to stop staring at the computer and go outside. In the cold. I slowly take my eyes off the screen, and glance at him with a “are you kidding me?!” look. He sighs, knowing of my reluctance to pass the doors  limits.

             “Say, do you want to go outside and  take a fresh breath of air willingly, or do you need my help?”  Without answering his question, I slam my laptop shut and slowly get up from the couch, heading to the door. I can feel his eyes on me, watching carefully my every move.  I get out of that damned room, and close the door behind me. ‘What the heck am I supposed to do outside?!’ The New Year would come in two days from now and I’m sitting here, with a bunch of five middle aged people, and a stupid child! Other  reason for me to hate winter. I could have stayed home, and spend the pass between the years with my friends, having fun! But , nooo, my “loving” parents, insisted that I come with them, and their friends, despite my efforts of convincing them that I have nothing to do there and that I’m not interested. In moments like this, I hate my parents wholeheartedly. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Looking down, I see a small snowball, that I lazily kick. It goes rolling down the hill, lifting a bit from the ground from time to time. I can’t wait to go back inside and continue writing. I wasn’t working on a story, so there’s no plot to wich I can think about to pass time. I write what I see. Descriptive writings.  I hear footsteps behind me, so I turn around. I come face to face with the unbearable child from inside. I’ve been here for at least four days and his name is still unknow to me.

              “Hey” he says.

              “Hey” I respond. We stay in silence for a few moments, watching eachother closely. He frowns, probably expecting me to say something. I nonchalantly keep my poker face, watching him uninterested. The nameless kid finally decides to break the silence.

              “I’m John.  What’s your name?”  He extends his arm, and expects me to introduce myself and take his hand. I’m not sure if I want to befriend him, so I take my time in thinking about giving John my name. He sighs, slowly retreating his arm. As a last moment decision, I say:

            “Alice. That’s my name.” I take a step towards him, grab his hand and shook it.

            “ Nice to meet you, Alice! So, how old are you? “ John asks, a smile plastered on his face.

             “Um, 17.” Even if I gave him my name, that doesn’t mean I want to be friends or talk to him.

          “Cool, I’m a bit younger, I’m only 15” I measure him with my eyes, thinking that he’s lying about his age. He looks with at least three years  younger, with his innocent and playful brown eyes, and messy chestnut hair. Even his facial features betray him. He’s got the face of an twelve years old lad. Even so, I don’t mention it. I don’t really care either. To prove my thoughs, I turn back and start walking away from him. Curious about the time, I pull my phone out from my jeans pocket and press the middle key, so I can satisfy my curiosity. Apparently, I’ve been out for an half an hour. That’s  enough time to take a  “fresh breath of air”, therefore I shall go back inside, to continue my writing.  As I walk back, I find John, sitting in front of the house, with his head resting on his palms, like a man who just lost all his purpose to live. I stop in front of him, then simply ask:

           “What happened?”  He looks up at me, fixing me with his once playfull eyes, now full of sorrow.

            “My mom died.” Saying that, he puts his head back on his hands. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.