From the Author:
This story is very precious to me. I wrote the first version over two years ago, when I was in ninth grade (in the school year of 2002-2003). Since then, certain aspects of the story have begun to come true. Yes, this is theactual author speaking, not the narrorator of the book. I've begun to call the book "The Prophecy" in passing in reguard to the great predictions it has proven to make as to the fate of my soul, my love.

For months on end, I have slaved over this new version. Much more eloquent than the first, it contains a combination of the original story and the intricate workings of fate. I plan to write of "The Real Prophecy" in detail at the end of this story. For right now, enjoy the novel itself. And please review and tell me what you think. Thank you.

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Chapter One

He was floating. Floating in a pool of endless white light. It beamed outward from the core of his heart and flowed to the tip of his every nerve. It consumed his soul and blurred his vision. It defied all that he had ever learned about reality.

It was love.

Yes, love, a thing which was more than an emotion. A state which in and of itself surely constituted the meaning of life—nay, the very substance of life itself.

And it was his, this beautiful and precious thing. It was his to share with the object of his otherworldly affection, the woman who sat before him, the woman whose smile obliterated the pain and suffering of a thousand lives, whose deep blue eyes shone with a radiance truly akin to the Devine.

And she was his, and he was hers, hers for eternity just as surely as he had ever belonged to anyone or anything at all. He would have died for this woman. He knew that now. He was sure he would have given his life if it meant seeing that smile one more time, seeing those eyes sparkle with the illumination of life; absurd as that may sound.

But he soon found himself moving, turning over, and fighting not to open his eyes. The vision was fading quickly. He tried to keep hold of it—create a solid, inerasable copy on the surface of my mind. But as his eyes popped open, he felt it all wash away—every picture, every voice.

Indeed all that remained of this familiar pleasure was a faint glimmer of that ever-powerful love. And that was all he needed to find meaning in the day. For that was all there truly was. And whether or not even that little miracle was granted him by the time he became completely awake, he counted it as a blessing, and he reasoned that in all good time, the vision would come again.

And nothing else would matter.

It was only then that he heard the noise which had awoken him so cruelly—the loud, obnoxious grinding which tore through his eardrums and throbbed in the very center of his brain. And suddenly, it infuriated him, made him angry beyond words.

He reached out awkwardly with his right hand and hit the alarm clock with perhaps a little too much force. He knocked it from the table before it could be shut off. It had rolled under the bed

The grinding continued. He growled and jammed his hand behind the bed, hurting the flesh of his thick wrist on the edge of the headboard. He grabbed the thing and shut it off. The sound ceased. He pulled his hand back to the front and closed his eyes. The alarm had to have been wrong. He had just fallen asleep minutes ago—he was sure of it!

He moaned and dragged himself from the bed, moving quickly toward the bathroom to prepare for the day ahead of him. God only knew what stopped him from simply closing his eyes again and allowing himself another days’ worth of blissful slumber.

It was love.

He smiled. The thought had seemed to drop out of thin air, straight into his sleepy mind. And he remembered briefly a bit of the wonderful, engulfing emotion from his recent dream. His smile widened as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Anna.

This thought, he knew, had come from his own memories. Had he dreamt of her last night—Anna, his companion, his girlfriend, his beautiful little dove? He didn’t know. The answer would not present itself.

Before getting into the shower, he allowed himself to examine his form in the family’s large, rectangular full-length mirror. The thing was over six feet tall and was framed in gold-colored metal. What a vain thing, he thought briefly, to have a full-length mirror and use it as often as he tended to do.

He smiled at what he saw. His chestnut brown hair was cut perfectly. It was just short enough to where it needn’t ever be combed. His light-brown eyes worked wonders with his masculine face. His jaw was strong and rigid, his mouth and eyebrows perfectly forged.

He flexed the muscle on his right arm, examined the flat, well-developed stomach—both the result of the semi-obsessive strength training he tended to engulf himself in both to escape from the world and to better prepare himself to eventually return to it.

He smiled, satisfied with his own handsome, manly grin.

Yes, he thought, I like this very much.

He shook his head at his own disgusting ego as he entered the shower.

- - -

“Hey, Squirt,” he said, rubbing his hand roughly into his sister’s strait, brown hair.

She recoiled and made a sound of disgust. “Don’t do that!” she said authoritatively, crossing her thin arms.

He sat down at the small, square table across from her, chuckling a little. He scooped some eggs, bacon and toast onto his plate. “Right, coffee.” he said, reminding himself. He got back up. His head was still spinning just a bit from the other night. He had been sick with a fever that had kept him in bed all day. Obviously, his body was still a bit weak. He would need the caffeine.

“And I’m not a ‘squirt,’ Joey!” she continued, obviously insulted at his ignoring her previous comment.

He smiled, filling the cup in his hand with the hot, black liquid and beginning to add the condiments. Thirteen years old, he thought, and she already thought that she was an adult. “Whatever, Meg,” he replied, shaking his head and sitting down.

“Joey,” she said, “I’m serious!”

He began to eat.

“Apologize to your sister, Joey,” his father said, his brown eyes never leaving the newspaper he held closely in front of his face.

“Sorry, Meg,” Joe said dully, consuming the coffee in large, quick gulps.

His mother sat down across from his father, between her children. She smiled. “That’s better. Right, Meg?”

“Whatever,” Megan replied, staring down at the uneaten breakfast which she pushed around with her fork.

“Aren’t you hungry, dear?” His mother took a bite of her bacon.

“No,” Megan replied.

“But Megan, you’ve barely—”

“No!”

His mother sighed and stopped pressing the issue once again.

Lately, his mother had been worried about his sister. She was concerned that the desire to be thin and beautiful may have been driving her daughter to an eating disorder. Actually, she was terrified. Joe knew it, because she had confided in him when she had been afraid that speaking to his father would have only caused problems, what with his temper, his insensitivity towards things that he could not understand.

He wasn’t sure if he agreed with her theory, but he saw it as a constant possibility. His sister was without a doubt obsessed with her appearance, much more so than Joe had ever been. She had a boyfriend who she claimed was coveted by the other girls in her school. He was fourteen, a year older than her, and in eighth grade.

She wanted to keep him. She may have been afraid that she couldn’t if she was not beautiful enough, and she may have been right. It sounded to Joe like a shallow bit of puppy-lust and nothing more. He just hoped that his sister had not yet made the ultimate mistake.

Wow, he thought, I was only a year older than her when Samantha…

He shook his head.

It was a few seconds before his father cut in, his eyes still locked onto whatever story he was engulfed in today. “You’re getting too thin, girl.”

Megan’s eyes were on fire, perhaps even filling with tears. “Just leave me alone, please!”

His father set the paper down beside him and glared at her. “I don’t want any more of that back-talk! Do you understand me?”

His mother took a drink from her coffee mug and then turned to him in an obvious and desperate attempt to break the tension. “Are you feeling better, Joey?”

“Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better,” he said honestly, conscious that the mood in the room had lightened ever so slightly at these simple words.

His mother smiled, her curly blondish hair seeming the perfect frame for her youthful, forty-year-old face. “That’s good.”

After a long moment, his father picked up the paper again and began to read.

Megan sat in absolute anguish, tears beginning to pour down her flawless boney cheeks. It was obvious to Joe that she wanted to disappear right now. He remembered the feeling. It wasn’t fun. When he’d first begun chasing Samantha Wilson in seventh grade, she’d made him feel it once or twice.

He smiled in spite of himself at the memories. After all that she had put him through, he had still been the happiest man in the world when she’d begun to date him. After all the crap she’d given him, he’d still been “instantly in love” with the junior high harlot the second she’d asked him out. He’d been so naïve.

But that was a different story altogether. Right now, his sister might have been in trouble and he wanted to help her, annoying as she may have seemed at times.

“Meg,” he said gently, trying to be sympathetic as possible.

She got up and walked away without another word. She was soon out the door.

“Brat,” his father said, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.

His mother frowned and he sighed.

Poor Megan.