I didn't even proof read this thing baby.

I also wrote it like 2 years ago, so yeah.

I don't really have high expectations for it, but I'm posting it anyway.

There will be more chapters soon.


My eyes snap open. I am breathing heavily, rasping. I roll over on my bed on trembling hands, normally soft blankets feeling as rough as my throat, which has closed up, my lungs are screaming. On all fours, fingers gripping my pillow, I cough and cough. Instinctively I reach for my inhaler, which I keep with me at all times. It's pitch black except for a sliver of light from the streetlamp right outside my window. But the darkness doesn't matter: I could locate my inhaler with my eyes shut. When I sleep, it is on my bedside table, when I go to school, it is poking out of my bag, when I go to the gym it is sticking out of my back pocket, always there. It's my lifeline, because my asthma is so bad, but it has its highs and lows. It perks when I am nervous, tense, scared, or just exercising. So basically overworking myself at PE lessons could kill me. Tell that to my teacher. She probably still wouldn't let me sit out cross country, no matter how hard I try. Damn, I hate cross country. Everyone does. Well, except those long legged tall girls who can literally run for an hour and not even break a sweat, pant, or have the decency to look tired. I take a few puffs of my inhaler, aka drugs, and I can breathe properly. Taking in sweet, pure lungfuls of air, I ease myself into a sitting position. My little asthma spat was caused by a nightmare. They are becoming very frequent. They don't make much sense, just flashes and noises, but they always wake me in a cold sweat.

Suddenly, the photo frames on my desk begin to rattle. One falls over. I slowly get off my bed and walk to the desk to look at it. Soon everything is shaking. Oh no. I know what this means. An earthquake. It's the dead of night, and silent, apart from a deep rumbling. I normally love the silence, but I know something is wrong. Then it hits me like a wave. By now, the sirens, triggered after an earthquake is detected, rigged after a few earthquakes with varying levels of destruction, should be screaming and lights on every street should be blinking with orange and red. But the sirens are quiet, dormant and the only light I see is white. Why? The sirens are still off, even though the ground is shaking so much I can barely stand. Maybe something's wrong with them!

In an earthquake, the rules say that everyone should evacuate their houses and make their way as fast as possible to the earthquake proof town hall, where there are supplies, because we don't yet have enough funding to make our houses earthquake proof. We can wait out the earthquake. We're even equipped for when they come at night (not that that's happened before) with the sirens, which are, for some reason, not working. No one is awake. I need to do something. Leaping across my room in a single bound (it's pretty small), I grab my cymbals from the stand of my drum kit. Another low, deep rumble comes from the earth down below. There's no time to be afraid. Like the reckless girl I am, I throw open the front door and sprint along the street, crashing my cymbals and screaming "EARTHQUAKE! EARTHQUAKE" I yell myself hoarse. Seeing lights flick on all around, a spark of hope ignites in my chest. But the sleepy people are not fast enough. Now, tremors are really starting to kick in. Loud bangs like gunshots pierce my ears as cracks form on tarmac and the road turns into a deadly obstacle course. I have to jump back quickly and change my course as a fence post crashes to the ground, sending splinters flying. People start streaming onto the streets, at first bleary eyed, then alert. Most wisely carry nothing, but some have tried to pack some belongings. Fools. It's a waste of time. What do they value more, their possessions or their life? Sounds like an easy question to me. Maybe not for them though. My yells turn into ragged whispers and my cymbal crashes get weaker. I bend over, hands clasped to my knees, panting and rasping for breath. Then a kindly looking man jogs up to me and pats me on the shoulder. "Go now," he says softly.

"But I-" There are still so many people!

"You've done enough. Go now," he repeats more firmly. I nod my head and begin to stumble away. We need to get to the hall. It can withstand the earthquake. But I realise there's no time as buildings start to crumble. This is the worst earthquake yet. Glass shatters and rains down on the screaming, disoriented people. As I realise that in my haste to warn people I forgot my tray to hold above my head and protect me from just this, a jagged edge of flying glass embeds itself deep into my arm. I gasp and bright red blood begins to leak from the flesh around it. I yank it out and agony streaks up my whole arm, black spots dance in front of my eyes. I can't go much further; I can't risk an asthma attack and I'm already wheezing, my throat is threatening to close up. Come on, I tell my body. Hold it together. I only just make it to a niche in the earthquake- proof wall before I collapse, head in hands, eyes shut tight, waiting for it all to be over.