Sophia Evans is 30 years old. On the run from the law, for being incorrectly accused of the murder of her husband and daughter. Four months ago, a strange pale man with red, dilated eyes, wearing a dark cloak, broke into her house and tortured them before killing them. She got the chance to escape and ran. The police didn’t believe her but before they got the chance to arrest her, she ran. She ran until she could no longer see her home town of Crawley.
She is of Italian descent. Her father, Antonio DiCarlo was born in Pistoia, Italy. He grew up and became a government ambassador. At 30 years old, he was posted in Britain, where he met Claire Davis. Claire was a 22 year old petite silvery-blonde with bright hazel eyes, just out of university with a psychiatry degree and she really was a free spirit. Her father, Antonia, was 30, dark haired with olive skin and chocolate brown eyes, with that slightly haughty yet charming Italian look. Claire and Antonio married in the summer of 1979, two months after meeting. They gave birth to a baby; Sophia DiCarlo, a little less than a year later. Claire was young, too independent to be tied down with a family and she honestly wasn’t up to the challenge of motherhood. She left Antonio and Sophia, alone, just after Sophia’s first birthday. Growing up with her father as the sole parent, Sophia was extremely close to her dad. After her mother left, Sophie’s father grew slightly bitter and quit his job as an ambassador to look after her and took up his first love: literature. He took a job as a librarian in the small town of Crawley, West Sussex, after moving them from Central London. Over the years, his love for the written word rubbed off on Sophia. The mummy/daddy issues she experienced growing up made her detached, unwilling to show emotion. She poured her heart out, only onto paper. Her talent and love for writing transferred into her career when she grew up, and she turned all her hurt and happiness into best-selling books. She’s small like her mother, determined like her father was, and loving in her Sophia-like way. Her appearance made her stand out: small with fine feminine features, the wide hazel eyes of her mother, dark brown hair of her father, slightly tanned skin from her Italian parentage, upturned nose, slightly pointy ears, a thin pink mouth with a slightly crooked grin.
She was a dreamy child, a little like her mother, who was slightly mistunderstood because she kept herself to herself. Her only friend; the only person who ever got beneath the hard shell that was Sophie DeCarlo, apart from her father, was Luke Evans, a brooding blonde with navy blue eyes and a permanent crease line from worry (mostly from worrying about Sophie, herself). He sat next to her on the first day of primary school, and they were friends from the moment he passed her the green crayon. They were best friends, they done everything together. From staying up late on Christmas Eve on “Santa Watch” (which they still did, even when they knew Santa wasn’t real, because it was their thing, something that made them close) to getting drunk when they were 16, and getting matching Chinese tattoos on their shoulders or making smoothies of chocolate, vanilla ice cream, cranberry juice and milk, simply because they could. Over the years, Luke grew overly protective of Sophie, guarding her from school yard bullies when they were younger or when the boy she had a crush on rejected her when they were in high school. Aged seventeen, her boyfriend had just dumped her and she was distraught, crying in her bedroom. Luke held her, rocking her, comforting her. She asked him what was wrong with her, he looked at her sincerely for a moment, squinted his eyes as if searching for something, smiled softly and kissed her. “Nothing. You’re perfect.”
Luke was her rock, her constant. He was her safe place to land so when he proposed when they were 21, despite being terribly worried that she’d screw up and be like her mother, she said yes. The wedding was postponed for 6 months after she had a breakdown, claiming she “couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t be like her mum. He deserved more than that.” He reassured her that she was “nothing like her mother, with the purest heart he had ever known”, and the wedding occured on January 19th 2002. They had a daughter together, Leyton, two years later on February 1st 2004. They grew and matured together in Crawley, Sophia spending her days being inspired and writing books, of which she had eight published novels, and Luke as a emergency doctor in the local hospital; his job never suprised Sophia. He always was the most caring person she knew. As Leyton grew, she seemed to scream Luke. Blonde with deep blue eyes, and an almost permanent brooding look (Sophia always joked that one day, she was going to think so hard that her head would explode). The only visible recognition of Sophia was her nose, her ears and her height. Her child was a beautiful pixie.
In 2004, her father died from an heart attack. The death affected Sophia badly but her daughter kept her going. She carries a silver locket he gave her as a child with her at all times. It carries a picture of herself, her father, Leyton and Luke, from the day her daughter was born. Everyday on the run, she looks at it constantly as a reminder to keep going.
She wanders from town to town, staying low, while silently searching for someone to help, for someone to believe her. She ends up in Motherwell.
She hates fire because she hates things that burn out, that die, that leave. She loves its warmth, but when it dies out, it makes her want to cry so badly, because it reminds her that everyone is dispensable and everyone leaves at some point.
She crys at night because she didn’t bring her daughter’s purple teddy bear with her, knowing that it’s somewhere being probed by forensic scientists and that doesn’t sit right with her.
She’s pregnant and that’s the only reason she ran. She ran for her unborn child, to keep it safe. The thing that hurts the most is that she never even got the chance to tell Luke; that kills her.
She finds paper whenever she can and writes. It’s the only way she stays sane.
She needs a hero and a friend, but she’d never admit that.