Unknown

 This is the first chapter of the story I started writing. I'm not quite sure what it will be called yet so.... :/

    Hatred. The festering fever of hating. Most people say that Hatred is the devil trying to get into your soul. This is untrue. It is a creature not dead nor alive. My best friend, my one true Key, was lost to Hatred. That is why I must write this down. Others must know her story. They have to know.
  
    I guess the only way to get the point acros is by telling the story in order. Starting with the begining.

    It started with my obsession. I would beg and beg my father to buyt me a wood block, and if he refused, I would go out and chop one of my own. From there, I proceeded ot carve a 4x2 inch rectangle, half an inch thick. For a while, I was stuck with these blocks. These empty blocks. Everytime I saw the stack of them in my empty swisher box, I would get angry. Frusturated, that I could not quite figure out what they were supposed to be.

    That is when I met HER. Sara Robinson. The minute I looked into those parkly baby-blue eyes, it was obvious. I went up to her and said "Hi, I'm Navid. Navid Julazadeh."

    "Hi, I'm Sarah. Sarah Robinson."

    I couldn't tell if she was mocking me or not.

    *That's ridiculous* I thought to myself. *Nobody is happy enough to crack a joke at 7 in the morning on the first day of school*

    Boy was I wrong.

    The conversation continued almost as awkward as it had begun. Every once in a while, Sarah would laugh. A beautiful laugh, which sounded like a mix between windchimes and silver bells.

    Right as she laughed for the 4th time (I had been counting), the bell rang. We went inside and started our first day of school.

    To this story, school is mostly irrelevent, therefore it shall be almost entirely left out. So don't think that me and my new friend Sarah were skipping or something.

    After school, Sarah walked home with me, and used her cool flippy keyboard phone to text her mom saying where she was going, and that she would be home by 5. As soon as we got through the door, we were bombarded with questions from my mom. After introducing the two (as cliche as it sounds), my mom made us chocolate chip cookies and milk and sent us up to my room.

    We sat on my bed and talked about school, friends, and family. Sara was an only child that lived with her single working mother. Her father was a drunk and had run off to Canada before she was even born.

    To me, this sounded much more fantastic than my own story-book life. I lived in a giant house, with my mom and dad. My dad taught at the local university, and my mom sold handmade goods at the Tuesday market in town.

    After a while of getting to know eachother, I took our empty plates and glasses downstairs. When I came back up, I found her sitting on my bed with my Swisher box full of blocks laying open on her lap. I intantly turned bright pink.

    "What are these?" she asked

    "I don't really know. I've been making them lately." I say in response

    "You know what they look like?"

    "What?" I ask, curiosity building in my chest

    "Doors."