Victoria Kinnaird - Struck

Contents

Struck

The Lightning Project

Book One

Victoria Kinnaird

Copyright 2021 by Victoria Kinnaird

Cover design copyright 2021 by Story Perfect Dreamscape

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published May 2021 by Deep Hearts YA, an imprint of Deep Desires Press and Story Perfect Inc.

Deep Hearts YA

PO Box 51053 Tyndall Park

Winnipeg, Manitoba R2X 3B0

Canada

Visit http://www.deepheartsya.com for more great reads.

Anyone from anywhere can do anything. Tyler Joseph

StruckThe Novel Playlist

Find this playlist, curated by Victoria Kinnaird, on Spotify!

https://sptfy.com/struck

The Conductor AFI

Victorious Panic! At The Disco

Kick In The Teeth Papa Roach

Levitate Twenty One Pilots

The Phoenix Fall Out Boy

The Criminals Anti-Flag

Cry The Used

Brandenburg Gate Anti-Flag feat. Tim Armstrong

Down Below - Creeper

Younger letlive.

Na Na Na My Chemical Romance

Do or Die Thirty Seconds to Mars

Burn It Down Linkin Park

new white extremity Glassjaw

Crossing a Line Mike Shinoda

The Northern Alexisonfire

Desolation Row My Chemical Romance

Prologue

Ive spent my entire life looking for a way out.

Can I say my entire life at seventeen years old? It sounds really dramatic, I like it. I guess I can get away with it, after everything Ive been through. Thats my therapist Lauras favorite euphemism for what happenedit wasnt something that was done to me against my will, not something that destroyed whatever slim chance Id had at a normal life. It was something Id been through, like Id emerged on the other side as some sort of beautiful butterfly. Yeah, right, Laura. Some part of me died in that shitty old orchard, the day I was Struck. Im still not entirely sure which part, though.

Thats the problem. When you find yourself in what can only be described as a clusterfuck of horrordead bodies and fire and violence (real violence, not the pixilated computer game kind, or blood-free comic-book-movie violence), bones and hearts and hope breaking around youdo you stand and fight to protect the world that screwed you over, and in turn, protect the therapists that refuse to acknowledge that youve been screwed over? Or do you turn tail and get the fuck out of there with whats left of your life?

Are you a hero, or an idiot?

Newsflash: Im not brave.

I spent the majority of my teenage years hidden behind a laptop screen, prying and snooping. I electronically forced my way into the secret lives of Orchard Sides best and brightest, only to discover that the people held up as some sort of standard in the community were pretty awful human beings.

An adolescence in the closet, hiding in the shadows of the internet, hacking and hating everyone. Too lonely to live in such a small town, too bitter to reach out; a perfect teenage contradiction. I hated it.

I kinda miss it, now.

Ive been told countless times that the powers dont make you a superhero. You make the hero. (Thanks, Laura). The human in superhuman, the heart among the science, the soul among the sensational.

If thats the case, the world is fucking screwed.

Im not a good person.

Am I superhero?

Guess well just have to wait and see.

Chapter 1

Life changing days should come with a warning.

If Id known that stupid Monday was the day my life was going to change, I wouldve at least attempted to dress better. Who wants to meet their destiny in a ratty pair of ripped jeans? I wouldve kissed my mom goodbye. I (probably) wouldnt have rolled my eyes at my dad, although I cant guarantee it. It wouldve been cool, to give em something nice to remember me by.

But hindsight is always 20/20, or whatever. So, as it turns out, the last morning I spent with my parents was pretty run of the mill. That means I was cranky as hell and not afraid to show it, as per my perfectly constructed, anti-establishment, unhappy teen persona.

I slept through my alarm, having spent the night before glued to my laptop learning a very important life lesson courtesy of my penchant for sticking my nose and fast typing fingers where they dont belong. The gist: if you think the married Mayor of your picturesque but hideously old-fashioned town is above sleeping with his cute, barely legal intern (who also happens to be a dude) and taking some pretty risqu photos of them in the act, then youd be wrong. My mom used to ask why I was so angry all the time and little discoveries like that were pretty much the main cause. The way I see it, if the Mayor didnt want someone discovering his dirty little secret, he shouldve come up with a better password than password. Boomers.

So I was pissed off, as usual. Mayor Samuel Ellis had spent the past year spewing traditional family values bullshit from his lectern/pulpit, seducing some poor kid while his witless wife waited patiently at home. Nothing upsets me like hypocrisy. Yeah, I was (am?) an asshole too, but at least I was (am) upfront about it.

So good ol Sams secret wasnt much of a secret anymore and I spent the five minutes of hot water I got for my morning shower brooding over how best to take him down. It had to be done. It was noble. And if I happened to take great joy out of exposing the Mayors dirty little secret, well, that was just a bonus.

I towel dried my hair, pausing in front of my dust-caked mirror to contemplate getting some horrendously bright streaks through the jet-black tangle that I passed off as my hairstyle. My dad would hate it so it was definitely worth considering.

Black jeans, black shirt, and black boots, like I was pre-empting a pair of black eyes. It wasnt unheard of, in my small-town days. Having a mouth faster than my reflexes got me in all sorts of trouble. The school principal (gambling habit) and his secretary (loves gay porn) were so used to seeing me in the office that they already had a bunch of send-home letters pre-typed with my name on them. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Thorn, Im sorry to report that your son, Ethan

My mom was standing at the kitchen sink, the too-bright morning light caught in her white blonde hair. She seemed so small, framed by the big window with her shoulders hunched and lips pursed. She was worrying, she was always worrying. It was probably about money. We didnt have much of it, which is a bit of a problem when youve got a teenage son who might have the frame of a stunted weed but eats junk food like its going out of fashion. She hadnt said it out loud but we both knew I wasnt going to college when/if I graduated at the end of the school year.

My dad would argue that fact until he was blue in the face. Trust me, pride doesnt look good on him. My mom always told me that I looked like my dad had when he was a teenager, something Im sure she meant as a complimentshe did marry him, after allbut I didnt take it that way. Black hair streaked gray, blue eyes dark with disappointment, and a permanent scowl, thats how I remember him. My dad had been screwed over since the day he left high school, his dreams of playing college football shattering like the bones in his left foot when hed accidentally crashed his pick-up on the way to his graduation ceremony. He still walked with a limp when it got cold, or when it rained. He was bitter as hell and wasnt afraid to tell anyone whod listenit was one of the few things I respected about him. My dad wasnt blind to the injustices of life, but he was pretty blind to everything else.