My Immortal Phantom

Sorry About That

*Author's Note

This is my first story on wattpad, I hope you enjoy it! ((:

MIP IS NOW #750 ON THE PARANORMAL LIST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT MAY SOUND WAY TOO LAME TO GET EXCITED OVER, BUT WHAT THE HELL, ITS FRICKIN LISTED IM EXCITED YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!! Anyway, thanks for the few of u that read, voted, or commented, even tho the author is a lame lil 13 yr old that screams--yes, I literally screamed and prolly scared the living crap out of my friend--ovr being #750. Who cares?? I haven't very much sleep in the past three nights, actually not at all last night, so I'm high off of tiredness and coke (a-cola, I'm not literally high I promise!) So, I love all of u ppl, even if ur just now starting this story I'm happy that ur actually takin the time to read it(: 

Chapter One: Sorry About That

This world holds secrets created by angels and demons, who live among us. You may speak to them all the time, or your true love may be dead. Earth is just a rock where prisoners of the war between Heaven and hell are kept, waiting for the day that one side captures them completely. The angels and demons walk among us in order to bring us to their own side. God holds patience for those willing to give in to the angels, or those willing to stand past the demons. They look human, they feel human, and their love is human for awhile...but time passes, and they are ready to take you away from the big prison and take you to the Light...or drag you down to a place that will have you screaming, begging to go back to prison...but it will be too late. Either way, it's death, a feeling that I've become very familiar with. Sometimes it takes the feeling of death to bring me to life.

I smelled the new, unfamiliar air of distant cow manure and I could swear that I smelled the dust on the porch of my new house. All I could think was I hate it here! I missed New York, where I would smell the next-door neighbor of my apartment's perfume and cigarettes. Here, it was just the dead end of my whole life. We're starting over, my mom had told me at least a hundred times literally. I didn't want to start over. I wanted the same old way... or death.

I spotted a box of tacks that Mom had set by the door. Watching for the hawk eyes of my mother, I saw nothing and pulled a black one out. I lifted it to my arm and--

"June! Don't you dare!"

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't planning on doing anything."

It had been a month since the last time I drew blood to myself, but my family was still on their guard. I was being so good until we had to move. Maybe just one cut, I thought. Maybe just one cut would satisfy me. Really, I knew it wouldn't; I would want more. It was an addiction, like a hippie on drugs or an alcoholic with beer. Except cutting was worse; way worse.

I wouldn't define myself as "emo" ever. I was more of a girl trying to live in the 1800s, or wishing that I did. A girl trying to be like everyone else, but failing, so resulting in pratical force of becoming who she really is. When I lived in New York, I had a friend named Liz who made me realized less of what it mattered to be other people, and more of what it mattered to be me. Cliché, I know, but it was how I felt. Liz was my anti-depressant. Without her, I needed physical pain again.

Peter, my brother who was four years older than me and in his third year of college, came and wrapped his arm around me. "You know what Liz would say if she was here?" he asked.

"That she would say that she was going to smack my face off if I did that again."

He smirked and gave me a squeeze. "She's trained you well."

"Then maybe I should go back to freaking New York to live with her."

"C'mon, June. You'll like it here. There's so many old stories to be told."

"I don't care."

"There's a murder mystery that revolves around our house."

"I don't care."

"There's a girl alot like Liz that lives down the street."

I shoved him against the wall of the porch will all my might. "Don't ever say that again!" I snapped. "Nobody could replace Liz. No one is going to be like her."

"I was just saying--"

"And by the way, I don't care!"

I stormed off into the new house, grabbing the box with the tacks in it on my way in. I rounded the corner that lead to my room, and I dropped the box. Everything fell to the floor; the tacks stabbing my foot. I didn't mind, because of what had made me drop it.

"Sorry about that," a soft Bristish accent whispered.

With that, everything disappeared and I felt death creeping upon me.