The Story I Never Finished

I wrote this almost 5 years ago when I was in high school. I wanted to be a writer and this was going to be my first novel. I wanted this to be the description printed on the back of my book.

I could feel her frail fingers gingerly reaching for my hand. I pivoted to my left, searching for her face, but could see nothing but the black of the night. I gave her hand a little squeeze trying my best to convince her it would be alright, then focused my gaze forward again, awaiting the approaching enemy. The minutes passed deathly slow, and I could almost feel her last ounce of hope evaporating into the crisp November night. For some reason, I had the odd sensation we were being watched, although it seemed unlikely that anyone could see anything on a night like this. The moon, dark and invisible against the blackened sky, seemed to reflect the atmosphere of our situation. Suddenly I didn't feel so brave. I forced myself to retrace the events of the past year. After all, I loved her, I would do anything for her, and I would not let my one chance at saving her life slip through my fingers.