Author notes: This was originally written as a sort-of background for my canon claim of Elesa. I was inspired by a friend to give her a bit of a darker background, and a more tangible personality. I have no clue how I did. xD The ending seems a tad rushed to me, to be honest, but I rarely go back and rewrite things if I like it well enough. 3
This is just the first chapter, so there's more to come if I can get off my lazy bum. xD
I would also just like to say that's it's been at least three-to-five years since I last wrote.. anything, really. In terms of fanfiction/roleplaying. So if things seem a little.. stilted, it's either because that's just how Elesa speaks, or because of my own shortcomings. xD
Memories are usually something that people tend to forget. Even the memory of a dear loved one will eventually fade. Sometimes, this is used as a coping mechanism. Other times, it's simply age wreaking havoc on our minds. I've been blessed, I suppose you could say, with a better memory than most. I cannot remember the first two or three years of my life, mind you, but I can likely tell you what clothing I was wearing on August 28th, fourteen years ago.
Most likely because it was dirt and rags. As it was for the ten years prior. When I finally learned to read when I was fifteen, I was rather amused at how often this sort of 'rags to riches' story has been told. I've kept a mental note of the titles of all the books I've read with this theme. It's gotten quite extensive.
Like many models, I came from obscurity. Nobody knows exactly where I used to live. There's even been speculation that 'Elesa' isn't even my birthname, and I cannot provide a birth certificate to prove anything. But birth certificates are given to people who existed when they were born.
I apologise, that's a bit confusing. I'm not a ghost or anything, I simply wasn't born in a hospital. That particular bit of gossip, however, is quite correct. Elesa is not my real name. Rather, it's closer to my mother's. Alyssa was a kind enough woman to others; she was large in all the right places, but sagged in all the wrong ones. I imagine she was pretty before I was born, but afterwards, she seemed to just stop caring. To be fair, I suppose beauty is the furthest from one's mind when you live in a hovel in an alley.
My father, however, was one of the most handsome men I've seen in my young life. It's a pity he wasn't around more; he was always out, working. Knowing what I do now, I'm surprised he didn't think to become a model. He could have been very famous, and may have paved the way for me to follow him more easily. The notion that I should locate him again has come to mind more than once, but when a man leaves his family, one assumes he'd like to never be found by them.
It would be an easy enough task finding him, mind you. But I've never done something against someone else's wishes. Except once.
It's a pity.
My mother didn't work. Or, at least, not in the traditional sense. Every night, she left our 'home', dressed in very little. I won't insult your intelligence by elaborating. The first day that she had 'off' after she started this routine, she cried herself hoarse. Since our home didn't have walls on the inside, I was subjected to this. I was four at the time, and didn't understand what was wrong, so I simply continued to play with my toys, made from materials found in dumpsters, and waited for father to return.
Looking back on it, I do regret not trying to comfort her, though she wouldn't have wanted it. She loathed me; I could see it in her eyes whenever she looked at me. I still cannot fathom why she kept me if she disliked me so much. I would ask her, but expecting the dead to talk is surely a sign of insanity. If I had to guess though, it was because she was obligated by her religious or moral beliefs. That's the usual answer, though I knew little about either back then, and even less now.
She didn't beat me, or anything quite as drastic. She didn't force me into child labor, either. In fact, she always insisted that I remain home, which resulted in me being a very pale child. Of course, I'm still a rather pale adult, so I suppose that stuck around with me, as well. The rare times that my father was home were some of the happiest. I loved him quite a lot, and he was the only reason I didn't run from home sooner. I say 'only', but that's not quite true. The other was that I believed my mother would like that too much. My continuing existance around her was often painful to Alyssa, and I developed a sick sense of pleasure in causing her pain without becoming physical.
The day I admitted this to myself was the moment that I realized that I hated my mother. She kept me, even though she lived in poverty. She made money, but not to provide us with a good life. She did it so that she wouldn't be looked down upon even more then she already was. The poorer you are, the more pride you had, it seemed. And most heinous of all, she had my father. When he was home, I did all I could so that he would spend more time with me, than with the woman he was married to. Alyssa didn't deserve a man like my father, though neither did I, since I had her genes. I think he realized this, too, since he left us on my thirteenth birthday, and never returned.
I wasn't surprised for the reasons a young girl should be. I was surprised that it took so long. The more I thought about it, the more I resented both of my parents. My mother for tethering him down so much that he felt the need to flee, and even my father, for leaving me with her. Though, now that I'm older, I see that I resented him for not leaving sooner. For getting my hopes up that there were good people in the world.
I imagine that there are, but I never met them before my opinions formed, and old habits are notoriously hard to break.
That same year saw me finally leave my home. Not to look for father, or for help; simply to leave. I couldn't find it in me to care about my mother any longer, for better or for worse, and every moment I spent in our dwelling bored and pained me too an extent that I simply could not ignore. I left, with nothing but the shoddy clothes on my back. I imagine I looked quite the site to anyone who was unfortunate enough to see me; torn cloth strips that barely constituted as clothing, skin unwashed with several years of grime caked on, and long, greasy brown hair. I've never been a brunette.
I did have the sense of mind, however, to travel through back alleys whenever possible, so the only people who saw me were no better off than I. I slept as little as possible, in order to put as much distance as I could between her and I, though it never seemed enough. I was a foolish child, though; one who didn't quite grasp the idea of fatigue, and the necessity of sleep. I was bound to crash one day, but even now I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did. When it finally happened, I believe I was running a fever, for my eyesight was blotchy and distorted, and my body felt as if on fire. I don't recall much else before I passed out.
When I came to, it was evening, and I was laying prone on a bench in a park. After a few moments of gathering my bearings, I glanced around and felt.. dejected. I knew not where I was, nor the direction I came from. I was so caught up in my own thoughts, that I failed to notice a young man sitting on the bench next to me. I'll admit, I was startled when he greeted me, and eyed him wearily as he explained that he found me, and watched with me to make sure I was alright.
Warning bells sounded clearly in my head. Why hadn't the man taken me to someplace other than a park bench? Perhaps he simply didn't want to touch me. He continued to explain that I had a rather nasty fever when he found me, which did nothing to calm my mind. How long had I been there? How long had he been 'watching over' me? It simply didn't add up.
He introduced himself as Tyson Barone, and went on to say that he lived nearby. He then asked if I had somewhere to spend the night, which I clearly didn't, and I'm sure he knew. I shook my head, and sealed my fate.
To poor Tyson's credit, he showed me kindness that I had yet to recieve. A bath, a nice meal, and even a proper bed; all things I hadn't experienced myself for my entire life. I knew enough to be greatful. He even insisted that I stay as long as I needed to.
I remember wondering if every human being was like this. What a silly little girl I was. I gladly took him up, and after a few days of living there, I learned that he worked as a talent agent. A struggling one, at that. He often complained over dinner that there was simply nobody left with outstanding talents. I simply thought his standards were too high.
Tyson never really complained about having me stay with him, and always greeted me an an almost overly-pleasant manner when he returned. Though when he finally did bring up the subject that I had been there for a month already, he suggested I gain some practical skills in housework in exchange for my continued residence. As it was quite a fair deal, I readily agreed. Though, as I had no prior experience, I spent the first few weeks bumbling around with new things. I broke several different kinds of dish, bleached clothing that wasn't made to be bleached, and burned innumerable meals. He was patient, and even praised me, for only needing proper instructions once for everything but food, which he didn't understand. When I bluntly told him that I couldn't read the book he'd supplied me with, he seemed surprised. He explained that he didn't have the time to teach me to read, so he simply crossed that from my list of duties. To this day, I still don't enjoy cooking.
It was a comfortable enough routine, and I'd even started to enjoy myself. I'd even managed to convince myself that the black and white frilled outfit Tyson had shown up with one day for me to wear was a simple joke. Then one day, when I awoke, he hadn't left for work yet, and seemed incredibly tense. When I greeted him, he seemed to jump before hurriedly telling me that he was expecting a very important person; a young lady that, if things went well, would become his first contract. He explained that he needed me to stay out of the way when she came, and that I needed to complete my chores more quickly then I usually did. Without arguement, I did so, and simply retreated to my room.
Approximately two hours and fourty-seven minutes passed before this woman arrived. Tyson's home was small, though still large compared to what I was used to, so it wasn't hard to hear even the softest conversation of the two.
I didn't like the woman. She treated him with what seemed like barely contained disdain. And Tyson, though he often gave me the worst feelings in the back of my mind, was trying his hardest to please the diva. To my young mind, this woman represented what was wrong with the world. And after the seventh time she snubbed him, I'd decided that I had had enough.
I remember checking my appearance in the mirror on my wall, making sure that I wouldn't look like an embarrassment on first sight, when I heard a loud bang, and a thump. I paused, and listened to the silence for nine seconds before poking my head out of my door, just in time to see Tyson lower his arm, his hand clutching the handle of a heavy black pan, and notice the woman slumped over the table, motionless.
To be honest, I didn't have a plan of my own, anyway.
When he noticed me, he was understandably nervous. I asked him flatly if he needed help. And that was that. Police would show up to his home within a few days; Tyson was too cowardly to answer to his deeds, so he told me to tell them that he wasn't home while he hid, nevermind how suspicious it was to have a young girl in his home alone.
He expected excuses. He may have even expect me to turn him in.
What he got, was a perfectly woven tale, with no facet left uncovered. The two policemen were skeptical at most, until I began to cry.
The police force in Nacrene were lacking, back then. I've made sure Nimbasa does not suffer the same.
The men left, content with my explanation, and after fourty-two seconds, Tyson crawled from his hiding place, and simply breathed two words; You're perfect.
He worked the rest of the night on new legal documents; he would have anyway, even if he had hated my performance. I'd told the officers that I was his new contract, after all.