Atlantean
by
E.N. Watkins
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ATLANTEAN. Copyright © 2012 by E.N Watkins. All rights reserved.
For information address Ryujin Publishing
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Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Graphics-Manufacture.com
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0720-3
First Ebook Edition: February 2012
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
To Alena
Whose constant support and enthusiasm made this
book a reality
We carry within us the wonders we seek without us.
Sir Thomas Browne
PROLOGUE
Do you ever wonder why we are born into certain families? Why, more often than not, it seems the most undeserving are born into a loving family while those of us who are worthy of such love are born into a cruel family?
Why is that?
If you’re a human looking for answers to this question, I can’t help you.
However if you’re like me, more than human, you have a decision to make. You can either A: read on, and find the answers you’ve been searching for all your life; B: close this book right now and walk away; or C: find a way to remove yourself from this world.
If you want my advice go with C—especially if your eyes are lavender and your palm lines form an intricate knot on your hand. Because chances are you are not with your soul mate, and are in the hands of beings that have every intention of making your life a living hell.
However, if suicide isn’t your particular cup of tea, go with A, because at least you will be somewhat prepared for what’s ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
My name is Amadeus. Well, actually it’s Amadeus Angel. But I don’t like to use my surname unless absolutely necessary.
Anyway, I’m fifteen years old, and several months ago I was like you: completely in the dark.
But all that changed when a mysterious man arrived at my house claiming to be a courier from Eden Prep, a prestigious high school in Pebble Beach California.
This man—whoever he was—presented my parents with a letter that instructed them to send me to this school straightaway.
You’d think my parents would be happy, right? Give me some sort of praise?
Wrong.
After the man had delivered his letter, my parents saw fit to punish me. As if it was my fault or something.
Okay, yeah, it was a little weird that I should get an invitation to a school to which I never even applied. But was that cause enough to beat me?
It was for my evil parents.
Truth-be-told, I was hardly surprised. I was always getting beaten for something or other. And sometimes, for no reason at all.
Between you and me, I think my parents enjoyed it.
So I was hardly surprised when my father knocked me to the floor upon seeing the letter. Nor was I much surprised when both my parents vented their frustration by kicking me while I was hunched over in pain.
From their disgruntled mutterings I was able to deduce that one couldn’t simply refuse an invitation to Eden Prep without suffering serious repercussions.
Now, I was in quite a bit of pain so I might have imagined it, but I was almost certain that there was fear in my parents’ voices: something about Eden Prep frightened my parents.
I could learn to like anything that caused my parents fear.
I had never prayed before. Suffering so much pain in the last fifteen years had made me question God’s existence. But I was praying now. I prayed that my parents would accept the invitation. And as luck or divine intervention would have it, my parents accepted!
But apparently there was more to the invitation than I realized, because the very next day my parents informed me that we were moving to Pebble Beach.
CHAPTER ONE
Moving wasn’t hard for me. I wasn’t really fond of New York City; it was much too cramped for my liking. Being homeschooled all my life made my social life nonexistent, so I didn’t have any friends and there were no sad goodbyes.
Though easy, my homeschooling was nothing more than a farce for me; it was just a way for my parents to show the world that we were a normal family—while in actuality we were anything but.
In only a few days, I was sitting in a limousine with my parents being driven to the airport. Packing takes little time when your family has several servants succumbent to your every desire.
While on the way, my mother thought it amusing to jab a knife completely through my hand. It wasn’t a large, just a simple pocket knife.
Of course that didn’t make it any less painful.
It was excruciating. So much so that I cried all the way to the airport. And as weird as it sounds, my crying was exactly what my parents were after.
You see, when I cry my eyes don’t shed normal tears. They shed crystals. And for reasons I cannot fathom my parents enjoy ingesting these crystals. It’s almost as if it gives them some weird sort of high.
But maybe that’s just my imagination.
When we arrived at the airport, my mother removed the knife. Causing me more pain and bringing about more tears. While my parents ate these tears, I watched my hand heal itself.
This was another phenomenon that I could not explain: whenever my parents would brutalize me, my body would rapidly heal itself. This is why I couldn’t
