Wingless Book Series (book 1)

By Holly Hood

The Wingless Series

Polar

Scattered and Broken

Prison of Paradise

Letters to You

~

Heart of Gypsies

Road to Ruins

Contact Holly Hood:
[email protected]

The characters and events
portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is Coincidental and not intended by the
author.

WINGLESS

Printing History

2009

All rights reserved © Copyright
2009 by Holly J. Hood

This book, or parts thereof, may
not be reproduced in any form, without the prior written permission
of the author.

ISBN-13:
978-1456561581

ISBN-10:
145656158

To

All my friends and family
who
believe in me

And who encourage me with their
support And good words

- Always know I appreciate you
all!!

Acknowledgments

It is
with profound gratitude that I acknowledge the help of my
Husband, Robert and Mother’s Karen and Anne. They all have done
everything they
could to help me keep
pushing forward to
ward
my goal of completing this book series.

I would like to mention my
children
:
Zoey
Bella, Zaynah Brianne and Rlee. Also my nieces Jorden Taylor, and
Kylie Briana, and my nephew Dane Soloman. They are my driving
forces to keep my goals alive. I want to be a strong role model for
them, and show them anything is possible. I would also like to say
how much I love them and how proud of them I am.

Introduction

Death is around everyone’s corner,
people try to run and hide from it, but it always catches up with
them. Like a bad scene from a horror movie. Death stalks you like a
lion, waiting for just the right moment to attack. You can run but
sooner or later you’ll trip and death will devour you. Did anyone
know the secret to outrun death? No one that lived to tell about
it, that’s saying something right?

Wingless

By Holly J. Hood

Chapter 1

Usual

I was walking to the cemetery on a
wet Wednesday. I had in it my mind that I would visit with him. If
I was dead, I thought, I would have loved the company. Who was to
say we really did die?

I loved him so much I
couldn’t bare leaving him all alone in a cemetery, and on the days
when I was not so afraid to step foot inside one, I would walk
there. Usually
,
I
ended up in the cemetery after a drinking binge with my best
friend, Vanessa. She was my best friend, but he was truly the
best.

I kicked the cemetery gate hard
with my foot, hurrying to make it in. It was getting dark. I had
left Vanessa in the woods by my house- the usual spot we hung out.
The idea had hit me and I was determined to visit him.

It was always the same
feeling of sadness that washed over me when I drank. I never
understood why I hadn’t realized that
if I
stayed away from liquor, I might
not be so
depressed all the time about him. Maybe it was a sick form of
torture that I really enjoyed. If anything it got me a little
closer to him.

I was Eve, the reckless
small town girl from the same place I was attending school. My
family was by all means successful. My father ran his own business
and my mother
was
a lawyer.

I had an older brother, Gray, who
was the “All American guy”; he played football in school and went
on to bigger and better things in college. I also had a sister with
what they considered the “best husband” in the world; she had the
perfect little life with two perfect children.

I was the youngest, the one who
didn’t know what path to take, heck I didn’t even know where the
path was.

I think I was so used to so
much success that I’d had enough of it. I just wanted to be
me
.
I just wanted
to go with the flow and not stress so much about it all. That was a
constant in my family: stress about it all until you get where you
want to be and then stress some more when it’s perfect until you
pop an artery.

I was the free spirited one,
the one that wanted to laugh and go gaze at the stars. My
mother
called me her wingless hippy. I
never truly
understood what that meant,
but I figured, seeing hippies were so free spirited, that’s what
she associated me with. The wingless part, well, that just didn’t
make any sense.

School was ending and I
planned on living it up, doing as much as possible before I was
sucked
right back in. I was hanging on by
the skin of my teeth, not sure I was even going to graduate. If I
went home now, I was only going to hear my parent's moaning and
groaning about me not going. It also meant that I wouldn't have to
explain at family gatherings the "reason”....

Living it up to me meant getting
drunk in the woods by my house; it meant losing myself in anything
that could take the past away. I wanted to be numb; I wanted to
never feel again. After all that had happened in the last couple
years, I just wanted a way to forget it all.

That was why I was walking
the cemetery in the rain, the sun nearly setting. My clothes
clinging to my body as I stumbled around
looking for his name.

He was my brother, Marcus
Cardwell. And he was barely twenty when he died. He had barely
lived and he was dead.
It was sad, yes.
What more, it was pathetic. It made me hate the world. It made me
feel empty and worn on the inside. You never understood that death
meant until it claimed someone you were so close to. When it did,
then you truly shook death’s hand.

Death had a way of slapping you
back into reality. And even though I was miserable most of the time
I was coping, I knew there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to improve
my existence- you took what you were given.

I hurried to my brother’s
gravestone, dropping to my knees to get more comfortable. I let out
a sigh, really sprawling out. The rain soaking into my shorts and
tank top, misting my body, my wavy brown hair spilling everywhere
as I closed my eyes, taking in the moment.

The cemetery was quiet and
soothing, the one place you could be truly alone. And for just a
little while I could be with Marcus, I could feel him with me. That
was all I ever wanted.

I went back to the day that he
passed away. It was summer. The day was so hot and I was so bored.
Of course, Marcus had to work; it was all he did anymore. So,
instead of going with me on a hike, he blew me off to work. He made
sure to kiss my cheek and tug on my hair to make me feel better
about his adult-like behavior. It was partly our mother who had
pushed him away; our parents were doing well
financially.

Marcus hated being tied down and
told what to do so working was his escape. My mother despised his
carryout job, but she also said at least he was focusing on more
than just hikes and writing all the time.

I never understood her need to
make him into anything but what he was: the most amazing person
ever. He was free. He enjoyed life the right away. He liked nature
and poetry, he loved words and reading. The simple things made him
happy. She only saw him as a waste unless he was in school
“bettering himself” as she put it.

The day was dragging without
Marcus around to keep me entertained, so I got on my bike and made
my way through our small town in Jersey to the carryout. I remember
the moment like it was yesterday.

I tossed my bike on the ground
near a dumpster and headed inside Q-mart. Marcus was always glad to
see me, and even if he was busy, he never let on. He always leaned
over the counter beaming his goofy smile and talked to
me.

I remember the last thing he said
to me, he told me he would wake me up when he got home, unless he
decided on a walk, then he would tell me he was sorry later
on.

A little part of me was bothered
by his statement and I even prodded him about why he would not
fulfill his promise, for he was never that kind of person to me. He
shrugged me off, running a hand through his brown curls, his messy
hair never sitting quite right on his head. His bright eyes gave a
flicker as he smiled at me, shooing me away. He sensed our mother
would be calling any minute to bug him. He said he was sorry and
that if it were up to him he would let me come to work with him
every day, because, like him, I was a free being that was only
being stifled by “Kay,” as he called her. Marcus never called her
“Mom.” He said it was just a title that gave her control, and he
refused to let her have any more.