Hoofdstuk 1: when I met Oliver

Packing my bag to go into the woods usually takes a long time, but today, I'm not going to hunt. I'm not even going to swim. But still, I place a hunting knife in my pocket, because you never know if the game will stumble in front of your feet. I don't need to bring food, because I know a patch of wild strawberries that I could go to if I get hungry. I do pack a water skin, because whatever happens, you can't go without water, and we have to take precautions after the bombing six years ago. We were lucky to have survived at all. I was eight then, but I still remember every moment of it. The vibration of the ground that seemed to go right through your bones, and the thunderous bangs of bombs hitting the ground. I've still got a trauma for loud noises.
Daisy was only two back then, and Eton was thirteen, which is a year younger than I am now. I love them both ever so much. Daisy has blonde curls and big grey eyes, and her cheeks are strewn with freckles. Eton is very tall, and also has curly hair, though his locks are dark and fall in front of his eyes, hiding them. Eton is what I call a face reader. I have never understood how he does it, but he knows it when you're lying and he can sometimes see how you're feeling. Nobody has secrets for Eton.
My father is a rather small man with short hair and a greying goatee. He looks like somebody you could mess with, but he should never be underestimated. He probably has enough power to slay a horse. We usually try to stay out of his way.
Sometimes, that's the reason I go out into the woods. But usually, I go to hunt, because it's the only way for us to get meason on the table. Meat has become something so expensive that for most people it's as unthinkable as flying. But after the bombing, I just went into the woods and started my hunting. It's my way of taking care of the family. Eton is a carpenter in our village, he has been since he was twelve, even before the bombs fell. Daisy has a goat, with which she does great work and creates dairy products. And my dad earns the money, though in a horrible way.
As I walk into the woods, along a little path I probably created myself - I seriously have no way of looking back so far - I can feel the tension in the air. It's as if the birds simply cease to sing when I pass - except the crows, which streak in front of me and screach loudly. The wind in the trees has something eery, though I've never noticed it before. I don't know what it is, but I just keep on walking. No game crosses my path. I head for my usual spot, the treeline on the edge of a cliff. It sounds dangerous, and I used to think it was, but I haven't had any incidents in six years, so I'm not that careful anymore. It's truly a beautiful place. Right now, at the start of spring, the daffodils are starting to spring up from the grass, and a clear, undeep ditch makes its way across the field. I arrive at the edge of the treeline and am about to run in delight across the field, when I see a boy standing at the edge of the cliff with his back to me. I wonder what he's doing, or how he found my cliff, when he poises to jump.
I let out a scream and leap forward at him. He turns around in bewilderment, and I take his sleeve and pull him away from the cliff. He pulls himself free and for a moment we stand before eachother, face to face. His short blonde hair is matted to his forehead in sweat. He's about as tall as I am. He's dressed in tattered jeans and a blouse, which has a hole in the sleeve and isn't buttoned up, revealing a slight sixpack. He wears no shoes nor socks, and his feet are rather dirty.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I yell at him, panting with shock.
He observes me for a moment, muscles rigid. Then he asks matter-of-factly: ‘What’s your name?’
I pause for a moment, flabbergasted. Then I tell him, ‘Jacqueline.’
He continues in the same tone, ‘All my instincts are telling me to kill you.’
I stare at him, and take a step back. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but I could get away, I think. But he doesn’t move in my direction, only stares back. ‘But I’m not going to, because I’d be a murderer and murderers are bad. I don’t want to be a bad person.’
I raise an eyebrow casually. ‘Well, that’s comforting. Who are you?’
He shrugs, and then his shoulders slump down. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not sure? Everybody knows who they are.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ He steps backwards, in the direction of the cliff again. I grab his jacket again, and pull him back.
‘Don’t jump,’ I tell him. ‘Please don’t jump, okay?’
He pulls his jacket free, but doesn’t move towards the cliff. Instead, he walks back a few metres to the tree line, and slumps down against the nearest tree. I come over to him, kneel down beside him and take his hand.
'Well, at least, I have to call you something. Which means that I'm going to call you Oliver, 'cause if I ever have a kid and it's a boy, I'm gonna call him Oliver too.'
He shrugs to indicate that he doesn't really care. But I care, because now this boy in the woods has a name for me.
Of course, I don't know yet that this boy will change my life forever.