The day I died was my nineteenth birthday.
It was an unremarkable day. A cloudy Wednesday in June. It was a little chilly, so I’d opted to wear a tartan scarf and my leather jacket. My pile of overdue books was starting to build up, so I decided to stop the issue by going down to the library and returning them. Grabbing them from the hall, I slipped on a pair of boots, yelled to Abby that I was going out, and set off.
After a ten-minute walk, I arrived at the library and dropped off the books. I then chatted with one of the library staff, Kiran, for a couple of minutes before I left.
As I walked out, I noticed there was a commotion on the street. Cars were being thrown, people were shouting and buildings were being destroyed. I heard a scream and a cackling laugh, before a burst of red and black energy threw me across the road. I slammed into a wall, felt a snap somewhere in my neck, and fell down, down, down…
Let me introduce myself.
My name is James Malcolms, but I prefer to go by Jem, a nickname that I've had for most of my life. I'm not a very remarkable person, unless you count the fact that I'm the legal guardian of my younger sister.
My sister’s name is Abigail Malcolms, although she prefers Abby. At 13, she’s around 6 years younger than me.
We’ve both got the same brown hair, mine with bleached ends and hers streaked with blue, green eyes of different shades and dimples when we smile.
I get average grades, volunteer at the library in my spare time (usually when Abby’s out somewhere or at school) and look after my sister with the help of our cousins, Blue and Frida.
And, as of right now, I’m dead.