WARNING: THERE IS QUESTIONABLE CONTENT IN THIS STORY, SO IF YOU OFFEND EASILY OR ANY SUBJECTS ARE SENSITIVE TO YOU, THEN YOU REALLY SHOULDN'T READ, JUST CLICK BACK AND FIND ANOTHER STORY. THIS WARNING IS NOT A JOKE, SERIOUSLY, DON'T READ OR GO ANY FURTHER IF YOU'RE EMOTIONALLY SENSITIVE.
A/N: SO THIS STORY REALLY TOOK ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN, I HAD ONLY PLANNED FOR IT TO BE A MAX OF 5 CHAPTERS LONG, BUT MORE AND MORE JUST COME OUT. THIS IS PROBABLY THE LONGEST STORY I WILL PUBLISH, AS YOU PROBABLY HAVE FIGURED OUT BY NOW, I USUALLY HAVE LITTLE TIME AND PATIENCE TO WRITE SUCH LONG STORIES. REGARDLESS, I HAD FUN WITH IT AND I WASN'T REALLY PLANNING ON THE STORY TO BE SO DAMN LONG, AND IT STILL ISN'T AS LONG AS IT COULD BE. I HOPE YOU ENJOY READING IT AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT AND DON'T TAKE IT TOO SERIOUSLY, I'M JUST MESSING AROUND.
ATT WRITERS!: I HAVE FOUND A GREAT STORY IDEA, AND I'D REALLY LOVE TO SEE IT COME TO LIFE, BUT I FEAR MY LACK OF SERIOUSNESS AND TALENT WON'T DO IT JUSTICE. SO I ASK ANYONE WHO WILL DELIVER, TO CONSIDER A STORY INSPIRED BY THE SONG 'ANOTHER SIDE' WHICH IS SUNG BY SAWYER BROWN. I FEEL AS THOUGH IT WILL MAKE A FANTASTIC JASPER/PETER STORY (TWO BROTHERS FIGHTING AGAINST EACH OTHER) WHICH IS SET DURING THE CIVIL WAR. ANYWAY, I'D REALLY LOVE TO SEE IT COME TO LIFE. (DISREGARD IF THERE IS ONE AND I JUST HAVEN'T FOUND IT YET)
ELIZABETH THE OIL RIGGER
CHAPTER 1
"What time does your shift start Rose?" I holler to my sister over my fathers loud music.
"Seven-thirty," she hollers back. "What about you?"
"Seven-thirty."
We work at the same club, Rose getting her position shortly after I was employed there, our roles there however, are quite different. You see, I walk around in small clothes serving drinks to drunks, letting them grab some ass, and I walk home a little richer each night. Rose however, dances in a lot less clothing there, has a strict no-touchy rule and walks away with a lot more than me every night. We both don't necessarily hate our jobs, but we don't like them either. But who was it that said 'a job's a job? Was it Ghandi? Well, whoever said it clearly knew that any income is better than none.
"After work tomorrow, do you want to come for a walk with me, I have to make a payment at the hospital and it's overdue." I nod, but she doesn't see, she is fixing her makeup in the aged mirror in our bottom-of-the-line bathroom.
The payment she speaks of is a large bill, issued to us after a car accident involving our father some three years ago. He was driving home from work when some punk kids threw a rock from an overpass on to his windscreen. We had no insurance to pay for his medical bills, but the hospital was understanding enough to let us pay off our fathers debt, provided we make regular payments. We've been at it for three years now and we haven't been able to pay off half of it… but we won't stop trying.
"Ready?" my sister asks, breaking me from my stupor, I nod and walk out with her, leaving my father and all of his injuries to fend for themselves until three-thirty A.M.
"Forks has that festival thing on all this week, and a lot of people drive through here, so we should have a busy week, hopefully they are good tippers."
"Right," I reply. "You do realise it's a handicrafts expo, don't you? Greying old women aren't exactly our target clientele."
"No," she agrees, "but their husbands are."
I smile and shake my head at her logic, but I can't doubt her, she has a sixth sense about these things. "I just need to go in here," I point to the gas station we approach.
"For God's sake Bella," Rose huffs with a drawn in brow. "We will never get the hospital paid off if you can't stop buying impulsively on non-essential items."
"I didn't sleep well today, I just need a pick-me-up," I defend.
She presses her lips together, but otherwise remains silent. We enter, and I head straight for the caffeinated beverages, and pick up the biggest and brightest one there. I approach the attendant, the same grey old man that has served us for the last three years, his face, voice and demeanour as bland as the last three years we have known him.
"That's two-ninety-nine." I hand him three and he returns one cent. "And can I interest you in some discount scratch-n-wins? The company is liquidating and they said they will only accept winning claims for the next three days before they close down forever."
I've always been a sucker for a bargain. "No," Rosalie interjects, her 'mum' voice in full swing.
"I'll give you one cent for one," I push the coin back towards him, he shrugs his shoulder and exchanges the items.
"They are a waste of money Bella, do you even know one person who has won off them?"
"I think you mean, sister, won yet."
I stuff it in my boot, because right next door to the gas station, and six buildings down from ours, is the fine establishment we call employment. Or to the rest of the population of Port Angeles, The Slippery Nipple. I enter through the back employees door, and we place our items in our assigned lockers. I make quick work of my up-and-go drink and remove my trench coat, my exposed skin missing its warmth already. I rub my forehead, then plaster a fake, but flirtatious smile on my face.
By midnight, my ass is red-raw, as per usual, my feet are sweaty in my boots and the stench of the club has clung to me like a cheap hooker. By three, my feet are in excruciating pain, I'm drunk off fumes and I had a record-breaking thirteen offers to sleep with disgusting old geezers.
As per usual, Rosalie and I hobble home at an agonisingly slow rate, our bodies too exhausted to hasten home. "How much did you make tonight?" I ask her, if only to fill the void.
"I had a good night, I made six-seventy."
"Wow, that is a good night, I made four-twenty, my best yet."
"That's good news, we'll be able to pay extra to the hospital this week, I have three-and-a-half at home, so that will bring us just over four, that will make a dent.
"Why is there so much?" I ask.
"I didn't get in there last week remember? I got called in."
"Oh, right, right."
We reach our building, and thankfully, we only live on the bottom floor, so we don't have a mountain of stairs to climb, I'm not even sure if I would make it if we lived on a higher level. I fish my keys from my bag, but before I even retrieve them, I notice the door, wide open and hinged on a strange angle. Rose and I exchange a brief, panicked glance before rushing in. The sight that greets us, sickens me. Our father has been beaten mercilessly to a pulp and lay broken on the floor in a small pool of his own blood while the rest of the apartment has been torn apart. I pull out my phone and order and ambulance immediately, then retrieve the first aid kit from a pile of fruit that has been emptied from our fridge. "Check the money," I order Rose while I bind his wounds on his arms and one of his legs, I don't dare touch the gaping wound on his head out of fear of fucking it up somehow.
"It's gone!" Rose seethes, her fists shaking by her side. For lack of anything better to do, she punches a hole in the closest wall, not stopping until both sides of the plaster are missing.
A siren out the front signals the arrival of one of the emergency services, hopefully the ambulance, the police can do very little at this time.
"In here," I holler, not wanting to waste time retrieving them. Two ambulance officers thankfully make their way into the trashed apartment, and rush over to dad when they spot him. They check him over methodically, hook him up to some stuff, wrap his head and torso further, then transfer him to a gurney carefully, paranoid of spinal damage.
"There is only room for one to come," the female announces to us.
"Go Rose, I'll be over soon, the police will show up soon, and I'll make a statement."
Her shocked-white face merely nods, then walks numbly to the emergency vehicle. The police show up as they leave, and after a brief examination, and some help with my front door, they leave with no clues.
I look around at the small life we had built for ourselves, and worked damn hard to get, and it is all gone. Anything that could have been broken, has been, what I hope to be red drink has been spilt over everything and all of our clothes have been strewn across the house, including our under-garments. With no hope of wearing decent clothes to the hospital, I leave, not bothering to lock the door behind me.
I rush to the hospital, anxious for my father. He has had a rough life, he truly doesn't deserve this. The animals that could hurt a physically crippled man in such a way sicken me, but I have little doubt for revenge. The punks won't be caught, the selfish seem to get away with everything.
I don't even get a word in to the nurse at the station before she tells me he is in room two-oh-five. "Thanks," I mumble and rush to his room.
I enter his room and find Rosalie sobbing into our fathers shoulder, my father unconsciously comforting his daughter. "What did they say?"
"Most of his wounds are superficial and will heal with time, but the blow to his head is a bit more serious. It hasn't caused bleeding on his brain or anything, but they are concerned the blow could have caused some side affects… ones we can't see in a scan."
"Oh…" I reply dumbly, at least it is mostly good news. "When are they expecting him to wake up?"
She shrugs her shoulder, "they don't know, whenever he's ready."
I sit on his other side, my feet feeling instant relief. "I would have brought us a change of clothes, but everything is ruined."
She sighs heavily and leans back in her seat, "we'll have to buy some stuff today, at least they didn't get what we earned tonight."
"Yeah… at least there's that." I reply numbly, then lean back in the seat, and shut my eyes.