Where You Can Not Follow: The Journey

Chapter One: We're Not In Iowa.

It was a big deal to move from San Francisco to this small town in Iowa. Even if it had been eight years ago, Joan could still feel the backlash of when people would ask her where she'd live before Iowa. 'California?' They would squirm around like it was a bad thing and when they would ask where and she'd reply with San Francisco, they looked at her like she was the Devil Himself and quickly ended up changing the subject. It wasn't like California was bad, but you either heard the good, and that only consisted of celebrities and all night parties. Or you heard the bad, like gangs and shootings and drive-bys. Girls in the Midwest, and sometimes even boys, would talk about how bad they wanted to go to California.
Joan thought they were idiots. Of course she missed San Francisco, but she'd become accustomed to Iowa. She had met the best and worst people of her life. They only reason she had ended up here was because her parents were in the midst of getting a divorce like the rest of America. Her mother couldn't stand California anymore. She hated the smell, the traffic, but it was still part of her, and part of Joan also. Oddly enough, her roots started in Iowa and California so I suppose she was the best of both worlds.

It'd started snowing today. It was a Sunday, and it always seemed like on Sundays there was always the worst kind of weather. One day it would be sunny, and the Sunday raining, and the next Sunday it would be sleeting and then a crazy thunderstorm followed by it being sunny again. To sum it up, Iowa weather was insane and unpredictable.
She was half awake, pissed off and angry because her mom thought it would be an excellent idea for Joan to take their thirteen year old dog for a walk because in her mom's words: 'She's going to die anyways.'
So Joan slid off of her bed, stepping over piles of clothes and whatever else laid on her floor, (one day she could have sworn she saw a gigantic bug crawling through the mass), and hopped down the stairs and into the bathroom before her mom could say anything to her.

After a long shower, she dressed into a grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans, brushed her teeth and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. Coming out of the bathroom her mom was already holding the leash, and threw it at Joan who ducked out of the way, but still managed to get hit in the face with the metal latch part of the leash.
"What the hell, mom!" she shouted, rubbing her now tender and red cheek.
"Sorry!"
"Yeah right."
"Really, I am. Now go take the dog for a walk."
"You are the Devil."
"Fine. Then do it or I will steal your soul."
Joan rolled her eyes at her mother, making a cross sign with her fingers as she walked past her to grab their German Shepherd by the collar and tugged at it lightly so that it followed her into the kitchen. She kneeled down, picking up the leash and latched it onto her collar. "C'mon, Hobo," Joan said to the dog, yanking on her collar to get her moving at least outside. She hooked the end of the collar to the door handle and shut the door so she could slide on her boots and her jacket.
"Have fun!" he mom called to her from the other room.
"Yeah, yeah. We'll try." Joan called back to her mom and zipped up her coat, opening the door and unhooking the leash from the door.
She shut the door behind her, making a 'brr' sound once the cold air hit her face, "Way to go, Hobo." She muttered at the dog, "Way to go." She drew the last words out as the two of them started walking, making their way up the quiet street.

Every house in Iowa looks picturesque. Every single lawn is mowed; the houses are always decorated on time form any holiday, including ones like Valentines which are just plain stupid, but, that was the good part of town. Not everyone in Iowa lived on a farm or had this beautiful downtown area next to the Mississippi. There were gangs, wannabes who wished they were tough, gross trailer parks where people cooked meth and beat their wives and girlfriends and baby's momma's. It could almost be compared to California, except that people here were nice, they waved, they smiled. That was the one thing Joan hated, and didn't do. You don't smile at someone, or wave at someone you don't know. It was just weird and awkward, so people thought she was a bitch; but really, who wasn't?

Joan and Hobo, (the dog), had made it all the way down to the very end of their street. It was a dead end, with a huge bare field that would be used in the summer again where rows and rows of corn would go on for miles. On one side, there was somewhat of a wooded area. People usually dumped their trash and old tires in the woods, but Joan had never really been in them and her curiosity got the best of her.
She tugged on Hobo's leash slightly, and the dog pranced over to her side to walk with her. Joan climbed over a fallen over tree while Hobo jumped over it, sniffing the ground and the air.

She must have gotten caught up in walking and exploring because soon enough the sight of the houses faded away until they couldn't be seen anymore and the forest looked like it was getting longer and wider. The woods in Iowa were not this big, and you'd usually end up finding your way to a path, or a highway or to the back of someone's house, but these woods kept going on.
"You're a dog, find our way back." Joan ordered Hobo, and his ears only perked up at her voice and his tongue rolled out of his mouth. "Nevermind," she mumbled to the old dog. "Let's just turn aro..." but the woods had changed. When she turned it felt like in a flash her world had been flipped around. This place didn't smell like Iowa. Maybe she had ended up wandering into Illinois.
Joan began to panic and held on tightly to Hobo's leash. The dog yelp from her tightness on her collar and Joan let out slightly. "Hobo, Hobo," she repeated, "I don't know where the hell we are," her voice was panicked and rushed. The two of them started to walk again, this time in the direction they had come. Joan's pace started to pick up until they were both in a run.

Then she stopped. They were back at that fallen down tree, but there were no houses. There was no dead end, there was no corn.
"I'm so lost," Joan mumbled into the sky. She ran her hand down her face in frustration.

Then Hobo barked, and Hobo never barked. Joan lowered her head and narrowed her eyes in the direction that she was barking in. There were three very large and very frightening horses with men on each of them riding towards them. One reached back looking like he was grabbing something and Joan started to back up. Hobo's barking became more frequent. The man who had reached behind his back then held up something sharp looking and there was a whizzing sound.

An arrow struck Hobo right in the middle of the head.
She died with a yelp, falling in a heap onto the ground. Joan dropped her leash, not knowing whether to scream or start crying. So she ran instead but never got too far because the men on horseback had caught up to her by now and there was a whoosh. That's when Joan fell, hit on the back of the head with the end of something metal. She was sure, as she fell, that she was going to die.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything LotR.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I based Joan's moving from San Francisco to Iowa off of my life. I moved to Iowa from California when I was 6 and it was weird to me but I've managed so far. And if you ask why the dog is named Hobo, well, it's a long story.