Never Alone Version Two

I'm writing Never Alone, my first completed Movella, again as I want to make it even better. I might even send it to a publisher. Here goes...

After a young thrillseeker gets bored in the summer holidays, she comes up with a fun-sounding, if strictly illegal, boredom-buster. Break into, and take photos of, some celebrities homes. Will Smiths' place= Too easy. Casa de Jennifer Aniston= She could do it blindfolded. However, a dare from her best friend leaves her getting caught by the owner of Mansion Number 3. If that wasn't scary enough, the owner died when she was 12.

Now, 15-year-old Diana has a huge secret to hide, and an even bigger one to uncover. Both could leave her the same way as her ghostly companion.

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1. So Bored

 

I'm so bored right now. I know it's Summer, and the school holidays, but there is literally nothing to do that a 15 year-old girl would like.

Well, a 15 year-old girl that's a proud junior thrillseeker, that is.

I know what you're thinking. "You're so spoilt! You live in Malibu, for goodness sake! People across the world would kill to be where you are-blah, blah, blah." Yeah, I know I live in Malibu, but it's still boring.

I have tried spicing things up for past Summer holidays, such as the Year Of The Homemade Ziplines when I was 13. That ended with me breaking my right arm by crash-landing on our patio, right before the start of the school year. It absolutely rocked!

Next came the Time For Tombstoning, when I was 14, where I threw myself off the cliffs surrounding Malibu Beach into the sea below. It was the most awesome thing that I'd ever done, and I did it nearly every single day. I still do it, but it's starting to get old. Variety is key to keeping me from dying of boredom.

I slump off the end of my bed, so my head is upside-down, and my short brown hair is brushing the floor. Dusting it more like, as there are a lot of dustballs under my bed.

One by the bottom-right bedpost, another two by the left-hand side, one more really close to my head, and a few on an ancient copy of OK! magazine.

"Oh, for God's sake, you're reduced to counting dustballs? For the sake of sanity, DO SOMETHING!" The encouraging part of me hisses, sounding confused at the lack of action going on. Obeying it, I slide the dusty magazine over my laminite flooring, and flip it open to a random page.

"After the recent success of Willow Smith and her single, Whip My Hair, it's no wonder how the pint-size popstar achieved singing success. Willow actually recorded the song in her own home! When you're the daughter of Will Smith, who can afford to have his own recording studio in his own home, you're guaranteed to have a good head-start in the music industry."

"Big deal. Who cares about a freaking recording studi-is that a climbing wall in her house?" The encouraging part of me asks, noticing the photo at the same time as the rest of me did. I slide off my bed a bit more, clonking my head against the floor in my eagerness. Judging by the red hand-holds and the rock-like surface, it is a climbing wall. Lucky little thing.

I tried making my own climbing-wall in the backyard when I was 10, so needless to say I was jealous. After all, hers wasn't made of plastic cups, wood planks and nails. Mine was destined to fail, and it did. Painfully.

I fully slid off the bed, smacking down on the laminite flooring. It stung a bit, but it was a cool relief from the baking hot Malibu sunshine. I wasn't bored anymore; I was inspired.

Inspired to commit a crime, that is.

"Are you nuts? Breaking in and going on Will Smiths' climbing wall!" The demoralising part of me said.

Aha, I'd been wondering if that part of me would ever show up again. Last time it ever said anything to me, was when I was preparing to do the zipline that would end up breaking my arm, and that was two years ago. I honestly thought that it had given up trying and died.

"I'm not going on it, but I do want a photograph of it." I reply, sitting up onto my heels. The cold flooring raises goosebumps on my skin, showing off all the bruises I have at the moment.

I push my heels under me, then stand up. If I'm going to do this, then I need to do it A.S.A.P. I take my camera off the shelf, and slip it into the ragged shoulder bag that hangs on the doorknob. I put it over my shoulder, and go downstairs, taking my set of keys with me. I'll probably be back soon, but I might as well take them with me.

I shut the front door behind me, taking my copy of The Spotter, the local star map, with me.

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