Disclaimer: Don't own the show, just my characters and the plot line.
A/N: Ok, here I am go with another fic. I really shouldn't be doing this, but hey, when I get an idea, it harasses me until I give in and write it! Neways, this fic is probably going to be pretty dark so I'll give ya the warning now.
Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of and sexual scenes, self-harm (Cutting), and mentions of and/or attempted suicide.
Ok, with all that said.............
Like Petals From a Rose
Chapter One
Everyone Has Their Private Hell
For this story, you wouldn't need my name, or my description, or anything else about me, but for some reason, I have a feeling that you want it.
My name is Sekka Tate. How do you pronounce that you might ask? Sake-a. I have long dark hair that ends about to mid-back, and angry and sad aqua eyes. My eyes usually display my every emotion, announcing how I feel to the cruel world outside my bedroom door, which I hate.
There's nothing special about me really, just another depressed gothic girl in a world full of them. Despite knowing that fact, I still felt alone. I was dangerously thin, which my mother always claimed to be worried about, at least when I had seen her last, which had been about two years ago, but I had the lingering feeling that she didn't. Not really anyway.
If she did, why would she have drove me insane enough to the point that I was living in a run down apartment building, nearly starving to death, and hardly enough clothes to put on my back after I paid the rent? Motherly love? I don't think so.
The morning started like any other. Wake up with nothing but my hate to keep me company, reach for my pack of cigarettes, lit one, get dressed in what little I had, and head to school. God, it was a miracle that I even had the energy to get my ass to school after my job.
I let out a bitter laugh at the thought of it.
A prostitute, a hooker, a slut, a whore.
But hey, I needed to do it to live, we all have to eat, pay the rent, and well, try and live in this shitty world where probably no-one even cared what the hell happened to you. It's not like I hadn't tried to get other jobs, but I was either too young, not experienced enough, or I scared the customers with my pierced tongue and lip, my black clothes and my hateful eyes.
Whatever the case, it caused me to become desperate, desperate enough to be standing on street corners with a few other girls I didn't know the names of or care for that matter, giving blow jobs and whatever else they wanted. Usually me naked under them, but hey, what can you do?
I heard the bell for class before I was even on the property and cursed. Looks like I was going to be in shit again. Ah fuck it, who the hell gives a fuck anyway. Glaring at nothing in particular I threw my locker open grabbing my books and other shit that I needed.
A laugh caught my attention and I looked over, more for something to do then actually caring, and rolled my eyes in disgust.
Yami Moto, Tea Gardner, Joey Wheeler, and Tristan Taylor. The laugh that I heard was clearly Tea's as she draped herself over Yami, not that I cared. Some bastard and his own private whore, after all wasn't that what every man wanted, this one was just lucky to find someone so willing.
This sight alone almost made me not want to go to English, seeing as Yami, Tea, and Joey were in it, but hey, I had to learn that way maybe someday I would look in the mirror and see something other a white-trash gutter whore.
Hating the world and slamming my locker shut I followed the popular assholes to the classroom where I took my seat in the back as usual, but not before the teacher said something about my lateness, not that I listened, I just kept walking.
"Miss Tate, I'm talking to you, now get back here and listen." I turned back around and glared. I needed some way to get all this hate out of me and it was either cutting my arms until they bleed like fountains, or lash out at the world that had made me they way I am.
Seeing as it was a classroom, I chose option b.
"Do I look like a give a fuck if your talking to me?" I asked, my eyes I knew flashing fury, and proudly displaying the pain as deep as the ocean that was eating me inside. Fuck, sometimes I wish I could just shut the damn things off. "Cuz you think I do, your more stupid and fucked up then I thought. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to sit my fucking ass down in this shitty classroom and pretend to listen to what's coming out of your goddamn mouth just like the rest of this fucking class ok?"
He stared at me in shock for a few seconds until the moron had enough time to get angry.
"Get to the office." He shouted, pointing to the door, I just smirked. At least now I had a reason to get out of class. Turning around I flung my binder at the wall and walked out, giving the teacher the finger before slamming the door, wondering how long it would take before the rumors started flying.
Running down the hall to my locker I threw it open looking for the exacto knife that I always kept at the bottom of it. Breathing a sigh of relief I walked into the bathroom, locked the stall, and rolled up my sleeve.
Without blinking I tore it across my skin, a small smile gracing my lips as I watched the thick blood gush out, letting me cry and scream in ways I couldn't in life. Most people thought me crazy, insane, bitchy, and whatever other insults they hurled at me.
Some guys I had fucked had thought my scars were kinky, sexy, or whatever else they had thought in their twisted fucking minds, but to me, in a few days it would be just another scar upon the hundreds of other that I have, making a thin spider web pattern of white flesh against peach, or what should have been peach had I had proper nutrition.
I heard the door open and threw the knife into my pocket, grabbed some toilet paper to wipe of some of the blood, before pulling my long sleeved shirt down. I never wore short sleeves unless I was working. Calmly I walked out of the bathroom.
The two blondes were busy apply there way-too-heavy makeup fell silent, whispering to each other and giggling and as I walked by I overheard one of them whispering.
"Oh my god, look at her, like who does she think she is, Marilyn Mason?" This comment was followed by giggling and I had to laugh myself, turning to face them.
"No, I don't." I replied calmly. "Although, I'm not exactly fond of the Brittany Spears look, so next time you want to insult somebody, at least do it right you fucking dumb blonde bitch." Without looking back I walked out, headed back to my locker, replaced my knife and took out my poetry binder.
This I had never shown to anyone, and didn't plan to ever. There was too many of my personal feelings, thoughts, and yes, even my fears were all in this book. Sitting down in cafeteria I began writing, and I wasn't until someone let out a yell of disgust or fear I didn't know which, did I realize that my blood was soaking through my black shirt, and making a small puddle on the table.
Seconds later the nurse rushed in, asking me what had happened, I didn't say anything, just pushed her off when she tried to take my arm and left the cafeteria. I went back to the bathroom, ripped a piece of my pants off, tied it around the cut, and walked out.
Maybe I should stop cutting so deeply at school, but how else was I supposed to survive a day? I couldn't yell at everyone who crossed my path, or kick the world's ass for being a bitch, and it's not like I had any close friends I could rely on, sure I had my 'co-workers' but I would hardly call them friends.
Nope, I had only myself, my knife and razors, and my scars. The world didn't need me, and I didn't need the world. I waited around until at least first period was over until I left school, heading back 'home', washed my cut, and sat down, playing endless games of solitaire and writing poetry.
The hours passed, the world went by, but to me, it seemed like I was locked in a cell that was forever frozen in time. My past and future blended into one, so did the minutes, hours, days, months, even years. After all, I had been working as a call-girl two months after I had first moved out, two days after my fourteenth birthday, and I had been working as a whore ever since.
At first it had seemed I dunno what, fun maybe, at least then I had enjoyed the sex, but now, it was just something that I had to do, I didn't even really like it anymore. And I wished to god that I could go back in time and kick the shit outta myself for thinking it was a good idea at the time.
But again, as the days went on, and eventually two years later I realized that I had created a prison for myself and threw away the key. A bitter laugh escaped my lips at my own stupidity and naiveté. The memory was pushing into my waking mind, but I pushed it back, refusing to relive my life again - once had been bad enough.
I wished like hell that I could turn back time to when I was young enough to change, but it was far too late for that now. I couldn't go back and fix things between me and my mom, and I couldn't kick the shit out of my younger myself.
True, I had had fun, being wild, and learning all about sex (usually when I was either drunk, or stoned out of my mind), making friends that would abandon me later, drinking, partying, living my life before I had even begun it.
Then I got landed in jail for a few things, and when I got out, everything I knew was gone. I couldn't find my old friends or anyone else, so I went back to what I knew - the corners.
I was trapped in my own hell, and only walls of fire surrounded me. I had nowhere too run, maybe when I was younger my strength and hope could have destroyed those walls, but what could I do right now at 19, having been a hooker for five years, and staring at the sky as it turned dark, knowing that I had to go out and do it again? Fuck all, that's what.
Slowly, unwilling to move, I stood up, walking into my bedroom and looking in my closet that held mostly work clothes and two outfits that I could wear to school without them having another reason to throw my ass out.
Slowly, I habitually chose my clothes, threw them onto the bed with a sigh and began stripping my clothes, throwing my bloody shirt into the sink wear I rise it out later - not that it mattered, blood doesn't show up on black.
I turned and stared into the full-length mirror- the only one in the apartment that I hadn't smashed, mostly because I needed it to put on clothes. My eyes traveled to my hollow aqua eyes, haunted eyes some might call them, framed by dark brown hair, the skin beneath them almost translucent, over to my shoulder that still harbored the bullet scar from being shot, to my skinny arms and legs that were barely more then bone, and it was then I had to stop and look away if I wanted to keep this mirror.
I hated looking at mirrors, hated looking at the wreck I had become. Instead I put on my mesh leggings, leather miniskirt, leather bra-like top with a mesh shirt over it, and high-heeled hooker boots. I managed to add at least some color to my face with cover up before applying thick black eye-shadow, mascara, and all the other shit that came with being what I was.
Last was the long blonde wing that I used to cover my dark hair. I didn't really like it, but it survived it's reasons, like helping to get away from cops, and at least try to maintain some dignity when I walked on the street during the day.
Throwing all the make-up into a bag which I chucked at the wall as I left, walking into the night air, and heading to my usual spot, were the four other girls were already waiting.
"Hey Sekka, what the hell took you so long?" Ping asked, taking a puff of her cigarette as she looked around to see if any males had come yet.
"I got distracted." I answered, pulling out a cigarette of my own.
"Early customer huh?" She said, licking her lips and winking, reminding me of what I had been like.
"Not exactly." I drawled, my eyes scanning for cops or men, whichever I saw first. I waited around, listening to the other girls chatter about this or that, laughing and smiling, and talking like they cared about what the other was saying.
I knew all the smiles and the laughter was fake, that they were only trying to kid themselves that they had reasons to laugh. Like if they pretended they were happy for long enough, maybe they would actually feel that way someday.
Bullshit, but when it gets so bad that reality makes you want to die, sometimes you need dreams to keep you alive. But I wasn't like them, I didn't bother forcing any smiles to the world, but what does it matter?
The minutes passed by, the five of us waiting until we spotted a group of guys. For once, we didn't have to go and flaunt ourselves, they approached us with the wide grins and glassy eyes of lust that I knew and loathed so well.
I inwardly groaned when I spotted Tristan Taylor among them. I knew that he was among the men that had whores at least once a week, and I felt my skin crawl as he fixed his eyes on me and wink. 'Well it looks like his found his fuck for the night.' I thought bitterly, hating my job, him, the world, but mostly myself.
"Hey, you wanna, go somewhere a little more private?" He asked, leaning in so that only I could hear him. Every part of my body screamed no, but I made myself nod and look eager.
"Later Sekka." Ping said, and winked. I mustered a weak smile before getting into his car. Minutes later we were driving.
"So what's your name anyway?" He asked, his eyes running over my body, lust smoldering in them.
"Sarah." I answered. I never used my real name whenever I had sex with anyone, none of us did. It would be too easy for them to track us down.
"Interesting." He purred, turning onto a dirt path. I was amazed they even had parts that resembled the country in Tokyo. A few more moments passed in silence until he turned the car off and leaned over, resting his hand on my thigh. "So what's the going rate babe?" Anger flooded my body at this, and more then anything I wanted to castrate him in the most painful way known to mankind.
"50 bucks." I answered, and hardly before I knew what was going on, I was in the back seat and he was all hands. Like any other time, I laid numb as he had his way with me, doing whatever he pleased. It was a few moments before he entered me, and I faked my moans just as a actor reads their script.
Slowly he climbed off me, letting me sit up and reach for my clothes. A knock on the window made me jump, grabbing for Tristan's coat to cover myself as he rolled down the window, revealing the bushy blond head of Joey Wheeler.
"Hey man, what da hell are ya doin' out here?" He asked, peering into the car. Upon seeing me, his face spread into a wide grin. "Havin' fun?"
"Somethin' like that." He replied casually.
"So, you wanna go out to a bar or something?" Wheeler asked, Tristan nodded.
"Just let me take her back." He answered, Joey nodded and moved away, revealing another man - Yami Moto. His crimson eyes locked with my aqua ones for a moment, making my breath catch in my throat. What if he recognized me? But then again why would he? Sure I recognized him, but only because the entire fucking student body knew who he was.
Blinking he seemed to shake himself before turning slowly back to the car where he got into the drivers seat. Slapping myself mentally, I focused on getting myself dressed and getting back. The drive back was fairly quiet as he took me back to the corner from whence I came.
Slowly I stepped out of the car and turned to him.
"The fifty." I said, my voice laced with ice. He smiled and pulled out his wallet.
"Here ya go babe." He replied, stuffing the bill down my top. I turned away, heading back to the others when something made me turn around, only to meet a pair of crimson eyes staring straight at me with a emotion I couldn't quite place.
It wasn't pity or lust it was.......... almost like a questioning.
Narrowing my eyes slightly I turned back and waited with the other girls until just a few hours before sunrise when we headed home and got whatever sleep we could.
But as I laid in bed, those eyes came back into my mind. The crimson eyes so filled with a power and an emotion that I still couldn't place, but I knew something for sure.
There was more to Yami Moto then meets the eye.
Much more.
A/N:
Ok, well there it is! I hope you guys liked it, I know I did. And I think the reason that I'm starting so many fics is because I'm trying out different writing styles, so that means I need reviewer input of this fic is likely to be forgotten in the place of something else. Neways, Ja ne.