Chapter 1

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand.

The explosion sounds, making the earth quake with fury and rage. From the sky fall dozens of Chinese soldiers. Gunfire echoes across the night air, firing into homes and hearts of many innocents. The screams of the Americans rang out. The attack had officially begun. People dropped dead within mere seconds. This was the beginning of a new era. This was World War III.

But this new beginning was nearly one hundred years ago.

No one has any memory of what happened during those fateful years of the war. All we know is what our ancestors have told us. And those stories were passed down from their ancestors before them. Everyone has a different story. But there is one thing we all know for certain—that the Chinese had indeed won the fight. It's no secret that we all wish we knew the entire story behind the war, but we take what we can get. Especially when it comes to this delicate subject.

My eyes shut as I try to imagine—try to wrap my mind around what happened all those years ago. I try to picture the chaos that unraveled. I picture the tragedy that came as many lost their loved ones. The pain that they felt was unbearable. There was fear in the eyes of the Americans as death knocked at their door. There are people who are dead that shouldn't have died—their life stolen from them all too soon. If World War III never occurred, we would still be living in unity. At one time, our country's motto was "In God We Trust," but that trust was no more. It was every man for himself.

Sixty-five one thousand, sixty-six one thousand, sixty-seven one thousand.

My closed eyes begin to twitch as the ticking of the clock creeps against the silence of my house.

China had taken over. It was now inevitable. They had won. Over the past hundred years, things grew worse and worse. For us, the War never really ended. Since then, the Chinese began disappearing, as well as the States. One by one, little by little, the United States became less and less. We were being extinguished. The light was being snuffed out. It was for the best, I knew it was. I just didn't want to believe it. Five states remain. Forty-five other states weren't as lucky. China was taking their precious time at demolishing the once united country.

While that is all ever so terrible, there are even worse matters. These matters being that there was nothing we could do to stop our own annihilation. We are all doomed to die. Our own President failed us and ran off. We have no one to help tame the panic of our country. Left alone. To die, to suffer.

One hundred twenty-one one thousand, one hundred twenty-two one thousand, one hundred twenty-three one thousand.

My hands grip the sides of my chair. Sweat beads my furrowed brow. The clock still ticks.

I count the numbers silently in my head. I'm imagining chaos but my eyes keep opening to look at the clock. The annoying tick causes me to flinch with each passing second.

Late. She's late. My mother is late, yet again. It is nothing new. Every day she comes home late and every day I have to tell myself nothing bad has happened to her. That she will still come home, unlike my father did. She's alive. He's not. Mom will be here soon.

Dad promised he'd come back. I was worried because the Jotunn Warriors had invaded New York. I made him promise to come home to me. That was two months ago. He never returned. Everyone presumed him to be dead even though there was no proof, and above all else, no body. How can a man disappear without a trace of him being left? It's almost as if he never existed at all. But I know better. The memories of him tell me otherwise. He existed. He still does. And somewhere out there he's still there, waiting on us to find him.

Two hundred one one thousand, two hundred two one thousand, two hundred three one thousand.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Mother claims he is dead. That he was indeed found and that he died by a gunshot wound to the head. If his body was found, then why didn't I get to see him one more time at the burial? Why did I not get to see that stupid piece of flesh-colored putty covering the gunshot wound in his head? My drunkard of a mother couldn't keep our father away from us. I knew she was lying through her teeth, as she normally does.

Beside the point, the only people permitted to have guns are the Jotunn Warriors. Other people are sentenced to death if they are found with a weapon in their possession. The Jotunn Warriors are the only people alive that can defend themselves. That is if they're even considered people. No one knows what the Jotunn Warriors actually are. All the people know, including myself, is that they are nine-foot-tall beings hidden away under a white suit and helmet with a tinted blue visor. They only kill if they have a reason to. Unless, of course, they are extracting states. Then they kill innocents for fun. Like killing innocents is some sick, twisted sport.

My thoughts are put on hold as the front door creaks open, my rather tired-and-distressed-looking mother entering the house.

"Nearly four minutes and eleven seconds late." I say before I can think otherwise.

She stares at me and I avert my gaze.

Mother heaves an exasperated sigh and with a breathy laugh says, "But who's counting?" She sighs once more and walks over to the table, setting her things down before she comes over to me and kisses my cheek. "Where are your brother and sister?" Her breath is tainted with the smell of alcohol.

"Upstairs, finishing their homework," I say, unable to look at her. She disgusts me, but even more so with the stench of her breath lingering in my nose.

"It's winter break?" She raises her brows in surprise.

"They told me they had homework due the day they come back, so I'm making sure they get it done."

Without another word she leaves my side and walks upstairs. I am left to ponder my thoughts once again.

What bothers me the most about my father's death is that Mother feels it only affects her. But that's not true. His death affected everyone close to him. His children, relatives, close friends, not just his spouse. Regardless, Mom believes only she's affected. Mother believes the entire world revolves around her selfish self. You'd think as a mother, her focus would be on her children, her own flesh and blood. But there's never been a day where we mattered to her.

Since his death, my mother turned to alcohol. She drank before he died, but not to this extent. Perhaps it soothed her pain, but it didn't soothe mine. It made my pain worse to see her get addicted to liquor the way she did. Every day she comes home, composing herself so she won't trip over her own two feet, so she won't slur her words. I have to give her credit, however. She plays her "sober" card quite well.

For two months continuously, my mother appeared home later and later each evening. She claims it's because she "job-hops." Which is true, she works two jobs to help make ends meet. I know that's not all there is though. She goes to the local bar. Every day. I only know this because our sweet neighbor, Gloria, told us one day not to worry, but they found our mother downing beer after beer in the local joint. That's why she is late, that's why she reeks of liquor and alcohol.

There is nothing I hate more in this world than my mother's drunkenness. That her "coping" process includes getting drunk on weeknights into the weekdays. I hate it, and she knows I hate it. Deep down inside I know she does. Because of her I have stepped up as the Mother in our small, broken family. Her being irresponsible doesn't help my case.

My name is Bay Zachary. I am the eldest child of Kole and Grace Zachary, age eighteen. My family now consists of my mother, Grace, and my twin siblings, Evan and Ema. They make my life all the harder, double the trouble, but they are so worth it. I couldn't imagine facing this sick world on my own. If I had a say in my life, I would speak up and voice my opinion about how these babies need a mother, but that's prohibited. Besides, my opinion only seems to get me in trouble nowadays. The endless perks of being a New Yorker. Don't speak out of turn, unless spoken to. Even then, words are meant to heal, not to destroy others. To build character, not to break it. Words are meant to be exchanged in kindness, not in anger or hurt. Words could not be exchanged rudely to your elders. If they were, your elders had every right to deal with the problem however they see fit.

For five more painstakingly long minutes I sit in complete silence. I listen to the ticking of the clock. I get pulled back into my jumbled thoughts, as I often do. Quite frequently I get caught up, counting each passing second. Mother forces me to go to therapy and counseling because of this habit, convinced something is wrong with me. Convinced that this is one of the worst habits to have. In a way, I guess she's right. Either way, whether it's right or wrong, I don't care. Counting is what calms me down. This is my peace, this is my sanity.

And that's all that matters to me.

My peace.

My sanity.

The sound of Mother's heels clomping down the white, wooden staircase brings me back to the land of the living once again. It's then that I feel her breath on my neck, pressing a kiss just behind my ear like she used to do when I was little.

"So is that all you do after school every day?" she comments with furrowed brows. "Count the passing seconds?" She pulls out a chair and sits beside me. Her all-white suit top and white pencil skirt make her olive complexion pop, making her skin appear even darker than normal. "You do realize how big of a sickness that is, don't you?"

I do realize this. She makes sure to tell me, to remind me every passing second of every single day. That's another thing I hate—my flaws being pointed out to me. As if I don't already see them. As if I don't know they're a part of me. Instead of speaking rashly to her, I hold my tongue, as any good New Yorker would do.

She reaches over me and brushes my black hair out of my eyes. The black hair makes me feel out of place in my family. My father, mother, and twins all have bleach blonde hair and dark skin. Dark, olive skin and the richest mocha-brown eyes anyone has ever seen. I, however, am as pale as a sheet. My blue eyes stand out amongst their brown eyes. In my family, I am the odd one out. That's how it's been my entire life. Often times I tease my family of me being "adopted." After all, I don't look like them, not one bit. I don't even favor my own grandparents. For some reason this joke always raised my parents' defenses. It always ends in a stupid, pointless fight. It was the day when my father yelled at me to drop the subject that I finally quit making jokes about adoption. I never knew why he yelled at me over a harmless joke, and something tells me I'll never find out. Now that he's believed to be dead. Now that my mother barely has five words to say to me unless you catch her on a good day. A day when she is sober and feels like being a mother.

I swallow hard before speaking. "I count the seconds because it distracts me," I say after nearly a minute of silence, directing my attention back to the clock on the wall. The minute hand moves slightly, going on to the number nine. The hour hand rests firmly between the seven and the eight.

"Distracts you from what?" my mother inquires.

There is silence for ten more seconds. It feels like years upon years pass by as we sit in the quiet.

"My life," I reply at last.

Silence once again fills the room.

Neither of us speak for one hundred seventy-two seconds. My mother smooths her hair back, tucking loose strands into the tightly wound bun her hair is twirled up in. I hear her hitch a breath, noting her frustration with me in that moment. I have an eye for the little things, things that most people don't even take in to account. Her frustration is always evident to me. It's like a way of telling me she's disappointed in me without her even having to say a word.

"Baylee," she begins.

She hasn't called me by my real name since Dad died. The name sends shivers down my spine.

"You have to understand—"

"Understand what?" I snap, my calmness vanishing completely. "That you're never home? That I have assumed the position of the twins' Mother? That you remain drunk from weekdays into the weekend?" As far as I'm concerned, as far as I know, she isn't aware that I know she's an alcoholic. Which I don't know why she wouldn't know, her breath is a dead giveaway. "I understand all of that!" I bark at her, "but it isn't fair, Mother, that I have to deal with all the damage that you leave behind!"

I fall silent, my heart hammering against my chest and rattling against my rib cage. I am eighteen years old. It's time she realizes what I have to go through. It's time she knows the toll it takes on me to play the role of Mother.

Tears become apparent in her big, brown eyes. They glisten on her cheeks as the light catches against them. I stand abruptly from the table, the white, wooden chair screeching across the white, wooden tile. I press my sweaty palms against the white wood of the table top and remain standing there for twenty-two seconds as I try to recollect my scattered thoughts. Without warning I barge out of the house, face stinging with heat. I pass the staircase and catch sight of Evan and Ema sitting on the last step with wide eyes. They watched as the chaos unraveled from my mother and I being alone in a room together. This is what happens when I am alone with Mother for too long. All the laws of New York fade away. Suddenly I become someone I don't know, someone I fear. Someone that I can't control. Rather, it's like someone is controlling me.

Cold air greets me as I push out the door, droplets of frozen rain stinging against my heated flesh. I use the heel of my hand to wipe away the stray tears that continue to fall down my cheeks. I have no choice but to be strong when I am with Evan and Ema. I try to be strong around my mother, to pretend that I am someone I'm not. To be brave, to keep my chin up, and to always smile. It's what a true New Yorker would do. But every great once in a while, I crack under pressure. I burst at the seams and yell at my mom. She has to be put in line, sometimes, as does everyone else. She's human, just like the rest of us. But the moment I am away from my broken family, however, my strength vanishes. I am no longer smiling, no longer strong, I am no longer courageous. I become the little girl I coop up inside and tuck away from everyone else.

This—this broken, fractured, mess of a girl—is me.

I shove out of our gated yard and into the street, walking blindly as tears blur my vision. I struggle to catch my breath, struggling even more so to gather my thoughts. The world seems to be spinning. My left hand comes up and cradles my head in its palm as I half walk, half jog. I don't know where I am going, and I do not care. I take my hand down from my head and wipe the sweat from my palms off on my pants. I hear the roaring of blood in my ears and feel my heart hammering against my ribcage. I can feel every heartbeat that pounds against my skull, making me flinch in pain. My feet carry me as I blindly walk the streets. I need to cool off and get home before curfew.

                                                                                               +++

Ten minutes later, I round the corner to head back onto my street after I regain my level-headedness. As I come around a sharp turn, my body rams into another. I grunt and cringe as I fall on my butt, waiting to be reprimanded. Adults here are very strict on how things go. They make it more than clear that they have no time for reckless teenagers throwing their scheduled day off. Just another glorious perk of living in the Pure State.

"I am so sorry," I croak as I stumble back onto my feet. I shut my eyes tight, waiting for a slap across the face.

"Bay?" a deep, male voice speaks.

I know that voice anywhere. How unfortunate.

"Hello, Elijah," I murmur. My eyes avoid making contact with his own.

Elijah Henson. The last time I spoke with him ended in a huge fight. It was at my father's funeral service. I remember him walking up to me. All I could do was yell at him. He was a close friend to me for a long time. Except, he always had different views and opinions than I did. He never liked my mom. Granted, as of now, I am not too fond of her, either. Long story short, he believed my mother was one of the main causes for his death. I half believed him. He said all this to me with good, pure intentions. After all, we are the Pure State. We are entitled to pure, true statements. We are taught to speak our minds, but to speak with carefulness and to be gentle about how we deliver the words we say.

I shake the thought from my head and force myself to look at him. Finally, after fifteen long, antagonizing seconds of complete silence, he furrows his brow. He must be thinking about the last time we spoke, as well.

"We've been over this. I prefer Eli, Baylee," he says at last.

The title given feels like fire against my chilled skin. I grow hot all over, swallowing my anger. I force myself to give him a nod.

"Point proven. Nicknames it is, then," I retort as I meet his eyes.

I do all I can to avoid being called Baylee. Only my father could call me Baylee. My father was the one who gave me the nickname Bay, as well, and I like to think of it as a small memento of my father. It's the one thing I have left of him. I prefer to keep it that way. I prefer to simply be Bay, and nothing else.

"I highly doubt your mother permitted you being out this close to curfew." He smirks down at me, his tall frame towering over my five-foot-five build.

"Of course she didn't," I sneer.

He clicks his tongue. "Oh, Bay Zachary. So feisty, aren't you?"

"Takes one to know one."

"A bit testy of you," he scoffs.

"It is my life, after all. I can do as I want," I reply. I heave in a heavy breath and cross my arms over my chest. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Eli."

A laugh passes his lips, "Understood, ma'am."

"Now, if you'd excuse me. I'm needed elsewhere," I comment. 

"Bay wait." Eli huffs. 

"What?"

"Listen to me, Bay Zachary," his voice drops to a whisper. "You want to leave this place, do you not?"

I purse my lips and prepare to deny it. I'm always ready to lie, which is definitely not a New York trait.

"I can already