The Rebels

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Prologue  

The night my mother died is all a frightening blur.

I was merely 5 years old when it happened, and my young mind couldn’t process it.

All I remember is screaming.

And blood.

And the only time I ever saw my father cry.

*-----*

It began with my father barging through my bedroom door late into the night. He frantically shook me awake before scooping me into his arms. We flew down the hallway with incredible speed until we reached the cellar door.

“What’s going on Daddy?” I asked sleepily.

“Nothing love; just stay as quiet as you can,” he whispered, his brown eyes staring at me intently.

“Okay Daddy,” I whispered, matching his tone.

My father carried me down the cellar stairs quietly before lighting a few torches to brighten up the room. The stone room was cold and unfamiliar, so I clutched my father tightly and buried my face into his soft jumper.

“Honey,” he began. “I need to go check on your mother; can you stay here and stay hidden?”

I looked around the dusty room uneasily before reluctantly shaking my head.

“Good girl,” he said while setting me down. “I’m so proud of you.”

My father pressed a brief kiss to my head before disappearing out of the room.

My five year old mind was reeling.

Would my Dad ever come back?

Where was Mommy?

Why can’t I go back to bed?

An ear-splitting scream broke through my thoughts and a shiver ran down my spine.

That was my mother.

“Mommy?” I called out worriedly.

No answer.

The tears streamed down my cheeks and I buried my face in my knees while curling up into a ball. Daddy will come and save me. Everything will be okay.

It was nearly morning by the time my father came to get me.

His eyes were red and puffy, the once spotless jumper now covered in a dark red substance.

“Daddy!” I cried happily before running into his arms.

He looked relieved at my unharmed presence before crushing me in a desperate hug.

“I’m so glad you’re okay princess,” he breathed.

Wait; someone was missing from this picture.

“Where’s Mommy?” I asked innocently.

I felt my father tense and his breath catch in his throat.

“Annabelle,” he choked, tears dripping down his cheeks. “We need to talk.”

*-----*

My mother.

She was dead.

Murdered.

And it was all their fault.

The Rebels. 

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