Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

August eleventh is a day that will live in infamy for the rest of my life. Sadly, it was the day I entered this world. Nothing more than exactly eight pounds and three ounces of pure innocence. My mother held me close in her soft, lean arms. Close enough so she could feel my steady heartbeat. She kissed my little forehead and pegged me her little bundle of joy. And my father, well, he grazed the back of my head with his rough, overworked hands ever so gently and smiled because he swore he had never seen anything so beautiful. Me, his precious baby girl.

Unfortunately, the damn nurses and doctors allowed these two foolish excuses for parents to bring me home. Well, their home. This hell hole was never a home to me.

            I guess my mother, and may I add of only seventeen years, had forgotten the bitter taste of alcohol. Less than a week after undergoing hours of excruciating pain to grant me this valuable gift of life, she resumed the poisonous hobby that once consumed her dark nights. It only took three glasses of her beloved red wine to feel tipsy. A couple shots of rum and a few shots of vodka later, she sat still on the floor and stared at the peeling, white wallpaper plastered on her bedroom wall. The room spun in delicate ellipses as the four walls caved in smaller and smaller in her unwell mind. Apparently she had been depressed for a while, and the doctors had no choice but to take her off the meds as soon as she found out she was pregnant. I guess it could’ve led to complications as if being the daughter of a depressed, alcoholic wasn’t complicated enough. Instead, she resorted to thrashing her wrists open with a switch blade to ease her troubled mind while I grew inside of her belly. At least she had enough decency to sober up for nine months. I guess I only have God to thank for that one. If he even exists. 

It was only a matter of time before my mother was escorted out of the house for child neglect and drug abuse by my knight in shining armor. And by that I mean a man in a blue vest flaunting his badge around as though it meant something. As the newest member of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, my mother received a bright orange jumpsuit and a practical pair of black sneakers. Caged in like an animal, and I don’t feel the least bit sympathetic for her. The last I heard, she had been admitted into the mental health institution of the prison by her thoughtful corrections officer. It was probably for the best.

            Similarly, my father spent most of his nights at the local bar drinking his so-called sorrows away. As he consumed countless drinks, night after night, he couldn’t help but boast about me, his precious little gift from above, to all of his life-long friends. And by friends, I mean the hammered alcoholics who were too foolish and drunk to even comprehend the useless words he was spitting out. As long as the next round was on him, they would gladly listen to his trivial achievements. But I guess I can’t really blame him for hitting up the bar scene each night. His aching mind and body craved the most innocent form of attention, something my mother never could provide.

            A year following my mother’s arrest, he had been spotted trying to rob a gas station about forty miles from our residence. Four squad cars with blinding, flashing lights, jerked to a stop, surrounding my father with no escape. On impulse, he pulled out his father’s, my grandfather’s, handgun, aimed the barrel straight down his throat, and fell to the ground as the bullet shot directly through his heart. The officer who shot him claimed he had never seen a man’s face become so pale so fast. My father never would have pulled that trigger, but the officers insisted that they couldn’t risk his unsteady hand turning the gun on them. Maybe now he can finally rest his troubled mind.

…

 

Tonight, the overwhelming roar of the ocean waves crashing against the shore is the only sound engulfing my eardrums. The miniscule grains of sand massage my fingertips as I trace my mother’s name in the sand, only to erase it seconds later. It is my eighteenth birthday. No, let me rephrase that. It is the eighteenth anniversary of losing her to the same addiction that now controls my own life. And despite promising myself I would never follow down her path, I guess it was my destiny. As I sip what’s left of the bottle of some cheap, red wine in the remembrance of my mother, I strangely smell cinnamon in the air. The memories of my grandmother’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls on a Sunday morning before church flood my brain. Swirled to perfection and smothered with her legendary homemade frosting. I remember how she used to call my name from the bottom of the stairs, she’d say, “Charlie, you’ll never guess what I made for you.” But I always knew. She liked to tease me, knowing they were my favorite. I’d run down the stairs as quick as I could and bolt into the kitchen like an Olympic runner. Fresh out of the oven and warm, I can still taste them on my tongue. I miss her tonight.

It was my mother’s mother who raised me. Introduced me to a real home, familiarized me with the idea of being part of a family, and most importantly, taught me what love is. My grandfather died long before I was born and my mother was incarcerated behind steel bars. Looking back, I think that’s why my grandmother always remained so protective over me. I am the lone survivor on the list of people she’s ever loved. Every night she would read me my favorite bedtime story, tuck me in tight under my silk covers, kiss me on the forehead like my mother had once done, and whisper melodically, “Now remember, Charlie, your past does not define your future. Close those sleepy eyes, and tomorrow again the sun will rise.”

            I never really understood what she meant when she said that. I was too young, too naïve. I used to think about those words long after she put me to sleep. Bouncing around in my little mind keeping me awake through the night. One late September night, I mustered up the courage to ask her why she sang those words to me each night. She glanced away at first, probably feeling slightly uncomfortable, but when I prompted again for an answer, she looked me directly in the eye. She nodded, and directed, “Go ahead and get your jacket. It’s chilly out tonight.”

            I didn’t know why she had taken me to the beach. This beach to be exact. I stood beside her, confused and anxious for an answer. I had spent years wondering about my past, and I couldn’t waste another minute not knowing the truth. Her frail hand gripped mine tighter than she’d ever held it as we strode through the sand. She stopped just before her feet would touch the ocean water, peering out into the darkness. We stood, side by side, for what seemed like forever without saying a word. Eventually, she broke the silence. “When your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you, she only had one wish.” I looked up at her face, but it was concealed in the darkness. She continued as I listened intently, refusing to miss a single syllable. “And that wish was to wake up to the sun rising above the ocean every morning.” She paused, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “On her fourteenth birthday, your grandfather and I, having finally saved enough money, moved half way across the country to give our baby the only thing she’s ever really wanted. We stumbled across this little spot and fell in love. We had intended to bring your mother out here most mornings, but things don’t always turn out like you plan.” She always had a way of explaining things to me.

            She proceeded to tell me how a week after arriving in a small town off the coast of South Carolina, my grandfather suffered a minor heart attack. It didn’t seem necessary, but paramedics strapped his body into a stretcher and lifted him into the back of an ambulance. Procedure, they had said. But what seemed like a minor heart attack had its complications, and his heart went into cardiac arrest upon reaching the hospital. Despite the staff making every attempt at keeping him alive, nothing could save that old man’s dying heart. I looked at my grandmother when those words escaped her lips. It was hard to see through the darkness, but I was almost positive a tear was falling down my grandmother’s wrinkled cheekbone. This was the only time I had ever seen her cry.

            Hours we spent, standing on this soft bed of sand. She told me first about my mother. How my grandfather’s death crushed her. Hit her like an oncoming train as she stood trapped on the forbidden tracks. And it spiraled her into an inescapable prison of depression. “She was never the same after that,” my grandmother had claimed. Turned to drugs to hopefully sooth her breaking soul. One night, my grandmother found her lying on the bathroom floor with a syringe jammed in her vein. She was disoriented and soaked in a pool of vomit. By chance, she survived. When my mother realized heroin wasn’t enough to relax her throbbing head, she combined the addiction with liquor. And ever since then, it sufficed in blurring out reality for a few hours to get her through another painful night. “Maybe it would’ve been easier for her if we didn’t find her that night,” my grandmother said. Her expression was blank, and I didn’t ask anything after that.

            Next, she told me about my father. “A good-hearted soul,” she had said. Apparently, he fell in love with the darkness that consumed my mother’s mind and the idea that he could save her from her own living hell. Every free moment of his life, he spent holding her in his arms late at night, trying to shake her from the devil who subsisted in her spirit. She’d fall asleep, but only for a moment as the demon himself would jolt her back to reality. No matter what he tried, nothing was enough. And I know that her tragic episodes, and the pain that pricked at her body, like ten thousand pointy needles stabbing her already numb skin, forced him into forever agony of knowing that he could never be her savior. And that’s when the booze became his companion.

 

…

 

“Charlotte,” I faintly heard, jolting me back to reality.

            My heart skipped a beat as I jerked my head around to find the familiar boy standing upright behind me. It was too dark to make out the emotion in his complexion, but by the tone of his voice, I could tell he was concerned. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked angrily, throwing my empty bottle on the ground. It broke. He knew this was my place. My sanctuary. And for him to have the nerve to disrupt my haven so carelessly was inexcusable.

            He took a step back and watched me as I stood up and brushed the pellets of sand off my arms and legs. His clothes were disheveled and his blonde hair appeared messy. “I had to see you,” he responded shakily.

            “You know this is"”

            “Yes,” he retorted taking a step closer to me. This was the first time I’d seen his eyes in over a month. His gorgeous blue eyes that could convince any girl to fall in love with just a moment’s glance. I’d admired those eyes many times before, but tonight, they seemed foreign. I had forgotten just how blue they truly were. And all at once I felt vulnerable. Memories. They all came back in this heaping wave of emotion. One happened to stick out.

            About a month ago, we went on a fishing trip together out on the Mississippi River. His parents being well-off was sort of an understatement. In fact, they were rich as hell and owned this magnificent wooden cabin, three times the size of my grandmother’s old apartment. We took his parents boat down the river, drank a couple of cold beers each, and waited patiently for even a nibble. Okay, maybe I had more than a couple beers that day, but he had paid for it, and I wasn’t about to pass up free alcohol. It seemed as though hours were passing and the fish refused to bite, until he frantically stood up and began tugging on the rod to retrieve his catch. I dropped my pole carelessly and strolled over to him gracefully. In my mind that is. It was probably tipsier than anything. I crossed my arms and watched him struggle as he pulled the four and a half pound catfish out of the water. He looked at me, proud of his catch, and I couldn’t help but give him a slight shove that sent him tripping over the edge of the boat and tumbling into the river. His head reached the surface and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He smiled to please me, but I could tell that he was shivering. My cheeks flushed as I began to feel guilty for pushing him in. Leaning over the side of the boat, I offered him my hand, only to be grabbed and tugged into the freezing river water. “Now we’re even,” he declared playfully. Afterwards, he helped me back into the boat, and offered me another beer. The sun was beginning to set, and he decided we ought to head back to the cabin. In that moment, I was content. I don’t remember much more of that night, but I do remember waking up the next morning to the smell of French toast and bacon. I smiled.  

            “Charlie, I had to see you tonight. I need to tell you something.” His voice transported me back to reality. I hadn’t seen him in God knows how long. I shivered, and he noticed, stripping himself of his old, high school football jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I whispered gratefully. He nodded. His expression remained the same. Only, when I looked at him this time, he appeared taller and stronger. His body was only a few inches from mine. I picked up on the fragrance of his cologne. It was something I hadn’t smelled before. In two years I had never known him to wear cologne, yet its aroma was prevalent tonight. Perhaps it was rosewood. I’m not sure. Chills were forming on the back of my spine as a soft breeze gusted through the open air.

            “You really shouldn’t be here,” I retorted and turned back towards the never-ending horizon. He drifted closer to me until my shoulder was pressed up against his bicep. The back of our hands brushed against each other, and somehow our fingers became interlocked. I remembered that hand pulling me into the lake. And suddenly I missed him. The only sound that remained was silence since I had last spoken. I turned towards him and started to mumble something, but before the words could even escape my mouth, his lips were pressed against mine. I could taste the minty flavor of his favorite gum. His free hand embraced my neck firmly. My body felt numb as his hand shifted to the small of my back pulling my hips in closer. I couldn’t process the thoughts bouncing around in my head as his fingertips began tracing the concealed tattoo on my left shoulder. He released me from his grasp and breathed in deeply.

            “I just had to do that,” he asserted, staring into my eyes. Before I could even begin to think of something to say, he turned and walked away. I watched his silhouette disappear into the darkness as he made his way home. I wanted to call his name but somehow the cells in my brain weren’t communicating with my vocal cords and I was left utterly speechless. My eyes were focused entirely on his movements, and even though I was hoping for it, he never turned back around.

            I sat paralyzed for a moment. My mind in shambles. In a race against itself. I stood quickly, grabbing by purse. I started to follow in his direction, seeing a figure in the distance, but I stopped, feeling something between my toes. I picked it up, noticing what it was right away.

            A small metal cross, black around the edges, but silver towards the middle. It must’ve fell out of my purse. I traced the outline of it in my hand like I had done many times before. I could feel the rough indents on the back of the three initials carved into it. C, M, K.

 

…

 

Caleb Mason Kepner. That’s the name of a boy who will forever hold a soft spot in the deep corners of my heart. He still remains a mystery.

            I was a regular in my high school’s detention center. Probably because I didn’t care about solving pointless algebra problems, or reading tedious Shakespearian sonnets, or doing any of the unnecessary tasks that the curriculums demand. They don’t teach a goddamn thing about the real world. But either way, I spent almost every Thursday night stuck behind a squeaky, wooden desk gawking at the minute hand rotating continuously in endless circles until six o’clock.

            About six months before last night, I had the privilege of meeting him. Third row, second seat from the back was commonly known as my seat. Everyone knew it and no one ever tried testing those boundaries. When I stumbled into detention one snowy February afternoon, there he sat in my chair with his head facing down on the desk. Irritated, I walked directly up to the desk, picked up the novel lying next to his head and asked “Who the f**k are you?”  I flipped through a few pages of the copy finding the words unappealing and rather dull. He picked up his head off the desk, and I immediately recognized him.

He was the pastor’s kid. Born and raised in a devout Christian home. He worshipped more in one day than I had prayed in my entire life. I’d only spoken to him once when I was eleven and my grandmother unwillingly made me to go to church with her. I hated every second of it. In all honesty, I never again had any desire to waste an hour of my life being forced to listen to an old man in a robe glorifying something that he doesn’t even know exists.

 “What did you possibly do?” I asked with a slight sneer forming across my lips.

            He glared into my eyes for a long time, gave a sarcastic chuckle, and resumed his position. This caught me off guard. Intimidation was my strength. I hated being played at my own game. Angered, I dropped his book to the floor with an enormous thud. He didn’t even flinch.

            “What’s this?” I said sarcastically, picking up the cross on his desk. The same cross I held in my hands now. It looked like it used to be part of a necklace but broke off. I traced the outline of it in my hand, and placed it back on the desk.

            “Keep it,” he said. I looked at him, confused, but he didn’t move. Just breathed in the luscious aroma of a wooden desk. I picked it up again and stuff it into my pocket.

Ever since that day, I would notice this boy around school. Always walking down the halls alone with his earbuds jammed in his ears. I wondered what he was listening to. And he always carried that damn book around. I couldn’t help but wonder why. For some unknown reason, he was stuck in my head. I just needed to know the story behind this kid. One Friday, I observed him walking his usual route towards his next class. History, I think it was. Just as he was walking by with his eyes staring straight ahead as though he were seeing straight through everyone, I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him to a stop. He looked at me, carefully removed his earbuds, and waited for an explanation as to why I interrupted his daily venture.

            “What are you listening to?” I asked curiously. Probably some dreadful Christian music or a sermon on morals. He stared into my eyes, perplexed.

            “Why do you care?” he asked. I looked into his chestnut shaded eyes and realized I didn’t.

            “Never mind,” I responded, beginning to walk away.

            “Charlie, wait,” he said grabbing my arm. Forcefully, yet gently all at once. I didn’t even know he knew my name. “You really want to hear?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded as he handed me his right earbud, which I graciously received and placed into my own ear. But for some reason I didn’t hear any sound coming out.

            “I don’t hear anything,” I stated, rather confused. He smiled, a broad grin from cheek to cheek.

            “That’s the point,” he responded taking back his earbuds, placing them back into his ears, and heading in his usual direction towards class. He was different, and I couldn’t help but smile.

            It soon became routine for him to stop by my locker each day. We’d talk for a moment or two and then he’d disappear. I always wanted to know more about this strange kid. So, I took initiative and invited him over to study one day. And for some ungodly reason, he accepted. However, a book wasn’t even cracked that night. Hours we spent talking. Laughing. It was all so effortless. Complete opposites, yet our personalities clicked. Soon after, he invited me into his home and introduced me to his parents. They seemed sweet. We hadn’t officially said that we were dating, but it was pretty clear that we were together. He brought out the best in me. More than I had ever thought possible. I felt for the first time in my life that I was worthy of something. I was lucky.

Our relationship continued into the summer months. June was lively. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun with someone. Caleb always found a way to make me laugh. I felt like a kid again. Carefree. I called him one day, but he didn’t pick up. I thought it strange, but I figured he was busy with his summer classes or something. After a dreadfully long week with no texts or calls, I became concerned. He had never ignored me like this before, and I needed to know what was going on with him. So, despite my negative feelings about church, I decided to head to his father’s service the next Sunday. And there he was.

That’s the day I fell in love with him. He was sitting front row, eyes glued to the giant cross at the front of the building. I sat in the back, watching him. Observing Caleb was like seeing a fireworks show. The way he listened to his father’s words so intently. He absorbed every single syllable and yearned for more. When he sang the hymns, the shy and reluctant voice that I had known became devoured by the emotional connection he felt deep in his bones. I had never seen so much passion in him before. But then he turned around, and I noticed the scar on his cheek. A wide gash spanning from his nose to the side of his face. When he saw me, the delighted smile faded, and I knew he didn’t want anything to do with me.

 

…

 

Somehow, the lavender scented candle sitting on my rustic, wooden nightstand still flickered. As I inhaled the morning air, lavender and rosewood were the only scents engulfing my nostrils. I sat up slowly, realizing how much my head ached. I was hoping it was from the overwhelming thoughts in my brain, but from the smell of my breath, I vividly remembered it was from all the damn alcohol I drank. Reaching over the candle, I grabbed the bottle of Advil, popped a couple pills down my throat, considered popping the whole bottle, and eventually placed it back on my nightstand. Sounds psychotic and all, but it’s not a rarity for me to contemplate suicide. More like a daily expression of how fucked up I really am. 

            Three weeks before last night, my grandmother passed away. Fell asleep to the melody of the wind brushing the tree branches against the window pane. Somewhere in between her dreams of my grandfather and the morning sunrise, her aging soul drifted into the gates of heaven. It was peculiar that she wasn’t awake baking hazelnut banana bread or outside painting the image of the cardinals that swooped through the cloudless sky. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that morning that she would never wake up again.

            I found her. Lying under the quilt she had sewed for my mother. She appeared angelic as the gold tinted rays from the sunset tiptoed into her window and molded a glimmering effect around her. Purity was the only word that developed in my mind. And for some reason, she was too breathtaking for a tear to even escape my eyes. It all felt surreal.

            I was only seventeen at the time. Despite only being a couple of weeks short of legality, the courts insisted I be placed into foster care. I thought of my mother at my age. As irresponsible as she was, she was allowed to raise a child, and I couldn’t even take care of myself for a month? It was so unfair. However, and for some reason I’ll never understand, Caleb’s parents pulled some strings and allowed me to stay the summer with them until I went off to college. At least, that’s what Caleb had told them. My GPA couldn’t even get me into a community college and he knew it. I wondered if this was the first time he had ever lied to his parents. I wondered why he lied for me. What changed his mind about me?

            My alarm clock buzzed sending my endless thoughts back to reality. I guess I didn’t realize how much I drank last night, but it must have been more than I had anticipated because I didn’t even remember stumbling home last night. Well, Caleb’s home.

            A tingling sensation crept down my side. Reaching down to scratch it, I realized what I was still wearing. Noah’s high school football jacket.

Author's Note

Any advice or feedback is welcome! Honesty is appreciated!

Reviews

[R. Linskey]

I thought the father going to the bar and bragging about his daughter to a bunch of drunks, and how you wrote it showcased a great observation from Charlie's mind (that type of writing style makes me respect the character's intelligence). I read some of the reviews on here, and I actually don't mind the lack of dialogue (but I do crave some dialogue, as I wanted to see if Charlie's inside mind-voice matches what she says out loud.)

Although, reading about someone's whole family dying was hard for me to feel empathy, due to the fact that I don't know much about the dead. But I'm curious to know what this book is about, since there's no synopsis, I'll just have to read the book to find out!

[Sarah]

Thanks for the review. Yes, there is a lot of exposition in the first chapter, but I promise the next few chapters have much more dialogue. Thank you for your kind words and happy reading!

[R. Linskey]

A lot of exposition from teenage characters is natural anyway (take John Green for example), and I still enjoyed it enough to finish the chapter with curiosity.

[Sarah]

John Green is a big inspiration. I adore his books, and the way he develops his characters all with their own unique personalities that makes me want to know more. But thank you! I'm glad it was easy for you to read!

[Splatman73]

This was fun and I hope I'll have time to read more. I'm going to give you some advice I've received myself.

Bite sized. Keep your posts bite sized. I love writing long myself, but I've been told by some of the best reviewers on this site that the best way to have people read all the way through is to keep it short.

Other than that I liked what you are doing with this.

[Sarah]

I appreciate that, but it's a novel. Can't really keep it short, hun! :)

[wordman]

reads like a walton movie,down to earth,sad and touching words
real life stories are always the best ones..my mothers birthday ia aug 11
so happy early birthday

[Sarah]

I hate to disappoint you, but this is a fictional piece! Other than that, thank you for your kind words and I hope you enjoy the following chapters!

[wordman]

i will read more,no,not disappointed

[Lorry]

Well, before the review proper begins, can I just say.....
Happy almost birthday to you
Happy almost birthday to you
happy almost birthday dear Sarahhhhhhhhhhh...
Happy almost birthday to you. :)

Now, let's begin proper, shall we? Okay...Sitting comfortably? good....
Firstly, I love the gentleness of the first paragraph. Not understated, not overdone, just right. And a very impactful second paragraph too, which spins the gentleness of the first on it's axis and makes you sit up and pay attention. So superb start....Then you go into more detail about that early start in life and I shall try not to presume anything by it, but find myself having to remind myself that this is fiction, as I am getting more and more engrossed in the proceedings that I have to remember it's a story, so apologies if I fall into the fiction/non fiction trap.
So still on the first page and I already feel drawn into the scenario like I am watching a reconstruction of the crime on tv. Very fast moving, but not forced at all.
I like the jump to the eighteenth birthday too, which I am sure we will revisit the inbetween later, but the smell of cinnamon and thoughts of gran is a beautiful touch. Now I am having to pause and think how much I miss my grans home made soup....sigh. :)
The back history of the fmily you, the writer never knew as a child, being told by your Gran is beautifully done. Sometimes we are too quick to judge people and we convict and execute our definitions of who people are too quickly. A lesson to be learned there I think, but very well done, as I imagine the little girl looking up at that trusting person in her life, knowing she hears the truth.
And yes, my kinda gal, once in church is once too many :)
Caleb sounds like an interesting dude. I think there will be more of him in this tale, but again, I'm jumping ahead. Overall, my first impressions of this chapter is again the unforced, natural element of your writing, which has probably been poured over tirelessly by yourself, but remains fresh and crisp, like the natural flow of writing can be.
Great write so far, with so much going on, but rightfully so for a young head like Charlotte/Charlie to catch us up with the rawness of her upbringing, through no fault of her own.
Really enjoyed this opening chapter and looking forward to the next :)

[Lorry]

ps....apologies, that should read "Happy almost birthday dear Charlotte".....Told you I'd forget the reality/fiction divide :)

[Sarah]

Thank you so much for your kind review! I really appreciate how you examined each paragraph on its own and tried to understand why each one exists in the story. There's a reason for each paragraph, each sentence, every word in my work and I'm glad you have taken the time to examine them all carefully!

[Lorry]

You are very welcome. It is only my convoluted way of denying memory loss :)

[Mifa]

Great 1st person narrative. I like the active voice that you've used and it helps give the reader a sense of who the main protagonist of this story is. But then, that's basically all you do with this. You tell, tell, tell. What you ought to do, is show. Try painting a picture and letting us as readers interpret to the best of our own understanding.

To be honest, I really think this story holds a lot of promise. Hopefully, the next chapters would be much better. But this is an advice given to me, cause I also am wont to sometimes do so much telling, rather than showing.

The strongest areas of this chapter comes in the places where there are dialogues. It also comes in places where you evoke the readers sense of smell, like when she describe the taste of her lovers mouth when they shared that kiss.

"I could taste the minty flavor of his favorite gum"...this line was simple but sublime, it allowed me as a reader get a sense of the passionate way the protagonist experienced the kiss.

If this chapter is the protagonist scribbling down in her diary, then its all good. But if it isn't then I suggest avoiding too much of the exposition. Let the dialogue and action push the tale forward. I understand you maybe trying to provide some kinda backstory to the character, but some of these could come in later.

I really think this is a good chapter, but I also believe it could be much better, if you found a way to show more than you tell.

I'd be going on to read the next now. Cheers.

[Sarah]

Thank you so much for the review. I meant for this chapter to be a sort of background/introduction to the story. I wanted to convey a little bit of each part in the first chapter to give the reader an idea about the direction the story was headed. I agree that much of it is telling rather than showing, but to me, that was necessary in order to create a basis for the story. I really appreciate your suggestions, and I'll try to incorporate them when I go back and read through the chapter.