Orphaned.
A/N: Trigger Warning: this chapter contains the violent, minimally graphic death of character(s.)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Marvel Universe characters or ideas. All rights go to the Marvel company.
I own Annabeth.
-Here's the first chapter. Enjoy!
Chapter One: At the Iron Gates
My name is Annabeth Grey. Some people call me Anna, or Annie. My grandmother used to call me Beth. She said it was one of those names that sound mundane or overused, but is underestimated, because once people say it, they realize how pretty it is. "A pretty name for a pretty girl," she used to say. And I would sigh or roll my eyes every time, and she would still be smiling while she tried not to burn my birthday cake in the oven. It's a lie, of course. I've never been pretty. Passable, but plain. I have dark brown hair that's still trying to decide whether it's wavy or straight and low cheekbones with a spray of freckles and a nose that's so crooked from being broken when I cartwheeled into the table at my aunt's wedding it looks more like an extra limb. But it's helped with keeping a low profile, even if there have been a few comments about the shape of my nose or the indecisiveness of my hair. I haven't been called Beth in a long time.
I stare at the immense metal gates in front of me. Thin wrought iron loops curl into a metal maze, the columns on either side of it rusted over. Near the peak of the great spikes are lethal coils of barbed wire which spiral in dizzying circles. A pigeon has managed to embed itself in the trap, its innards dripping like water down one side of the gate, blood pooling in limp red ribbons on the cement. I gaze at the road behind me where the driver left minutes before, his car sputtering and wheezing exhaust from its leaden lungs. A granite plaque is fitted into the wreaths of iron, as if woven into the gate. Miss Cross's Home for Orphan Children is chiseled deep into the weathered stone. Orphan. Me. The two words seem star-crossed, like they would never be paired together. Orphans are people written about in novels, things of a page. I feel a sobering ache in my chest as I remember my favorite book as a kid; A Little Princess. I read it so often the spine was cracked and the cover page was torn at the corner, filled with dog eared pages. I used to dream about being Sarah Crewe, the little orphan who lived in an attic while a secret visitor would steal in through the window and give her treasures. Wish granted, I guess. I'm too heartsick to laugh.
Nobody bothered to tell me how cold it was in Autumn upstate, so here I am, in nothing but a thin Princeton sweatshirt and socks that stop at the ankle, feeling as bare as the trees. It's getting colder by the second and I'm still locked out of the foster home. The ground is littered with luminous yellow, flaming red, and shimmering gold leaves, as if they dressed for the occasion of my coming here. Delicate black branches frame the pale sky, a scattering of distant birds glide south, swallowed by the expanse of blue. I look back to the gates, which are fastened by old-fashioned locked chains, throttling the heavy iron. An intercom is screwed crookedly into the stonework to my left, but the screen is blank and void of life. I wonder how I'm supposed to get in. Suddenly, I hear a guttural sniffing sound and see a pair of burnt orange eyes boring into my light grey ones. It's a dog. It slowly creeps to the gates and stuffs his snout in between the narrow bars, ears flexing. It's a mutt; probably a cross between a lab and a German shepherd. But I'm no expert. His broad black muzzle is riddled with scars and there's a tear in his left ear. His body is covered in thick chocolate brown fur with a splash of amber on his chest, hints of grey weaving through his tail. He examines me for a moment with a critical orb, before growling a little, underfed stomach heaving. His ribs jut out like daggers through his mottled pelt. He gives an understanding sigh before wrestling his head from the metal bars, darting through the crust of parched earth towards a huge reddish brick building looming in the horizon.
Several long minutes pass and I find myself yearning for the dog's company, if only to have him stare at me through the gates and thump his sweeping tail on the ground. As I wait, I examine my surroundings. Century old pines and cedars tower over the low plains inside the desolate courtyard. A scattering of evergreens rise stoically from the roots of earth which beg for a rainstorm. A rusted fountain with a bust of a stallion is planted in the center of a round pavilion, empty of water. A broken swing is nestled in the crook of a tree which sags, defeated, limbs drooping as if the sky is too heavy to hold. Three mangy squirrels chase each other through the heavy boughs of a lone spruce, bushy tails rustling in a playfulness which seems not belonging of the place. Near my feet is a collection of flowers which are wilted, crumpled against the pavement, dull petals strewn across the cracks. It looks like they've given up on life. I don't blame them. Without warning, the intercom crackles to life, sounding like it hasn't been used in years. A raspy voice reverberates through the dented speaker. "Please state your name and your reason for being here," it grinds out rudely. I kick away the corpse of the pigeon which has managed to free itself from the wire and land at my boots. A spatter of blood leaks onto the toe. Stupid bird. Stupid, stupid for flying here in the first place. "Annabeth, uh, Grey," I manage to stutter. I sound like I have a speech impediment. Great. "I was sent here by someone named, uh, Nick. Nick, uh, Fury, I think? He said you would know who I was…" The person on the other end probably thinks I'm an idiot, now, too. Things couldn't be going better. "Hmm, yes. You're on the list," the voice asserts, the monitor crackling with static. "Wait there. Misty will come and collect you." The intercom fizzles and dies with a final shudder. I wonder who Misty is, and if that's her real name. I knew a girl named Cloud, once. That's probably the most exotic one I've heard. I shiver in my light clothing. Damn. Upstate New York sure has fiercer weather than Manhattan. Another thing to get used to.
It's maybe ten minutes before she comes huffing and puffing through the cold. She's something out of a fairy tale, a classic maid, the one you'd expect would be serving you in old timey England. Dressed in a crisp black dress with a pristine white apron and sensible shoes, with thick stockings layered over her fat knees. She's overweight, and to her, walking is clearly a chore. She bends, gasping, as she drops the heavy ring of keys she's holding on the cobblestoned path, grunting as she snatches them back into her hand. Her face is scarlet when she shuffles over to unlock the gates, peering at me suspiciously through the iron bars, blowing her drab brown fringe from her dull periwinkle eyes. After she undoes the chains, she braces her enormous legs while wrenching the doors open. Her neck swells with the effort, veins throbbing. She strains to hold them open and I realize she's saying something. "What?" I ask, shaking my gaze. She sighs, now weary, like she's had to do this a thousand times today. Maybe she has. "Are you coming in or not? I don't mind dropping these things on ya," she snorts, fixing her grip on the iron. "Oh, yeah," I reply, quickly slipping through the crevice, knapsack thumping against my back as I run. "Sorry," I add, feeling it's appropriate. The poor woman is now struggling to regain her breath, hunched over as if about to vomit. I'd recommend she see a doctor, but I doubt my advice would be appreciated right now, as it appears her lungs are deciding whether or not to function. I guess they decide to let her live a little longer, because she straightens with a loud panting sound and releases the gates. "I'm gettin' too old for this," she grumbles, turning and walking towards the brick building. "Come on. I'm to take ya straight to Miss Cross herself. Best not to be late." I start to follow her, but freeze in my tracks when I hear the slam of the gates as they lock into position again. The thunderous boom that follows reminds me of the gunshots that ended my parents' lives. The bullets that turned my life around. The reason that I'm here. Funny how two small pieces of metal can make such a difference.
There's a crack in my bedroom ceiling, sort of in the shape of a flower. If you narrow your eyes enough, it looks more like a snake, and sometimes a bear if you tilt your head sideways. I've even seen a lion. It cuts through the soft yellow paint, looking like a constellation amid the glow-in-the dark stickers that are stuck to every flat surface. When you step into my room for the first time, especially if it's night, you might think you've been transported to some remote planet. Stars are everywhere, taped to the walls, plastered onto the headstand. It emits an eerie, ethereal glow, illuminating everything. When I was eight, I had an intense fear of the dark. Every night I would beg my parents to leave the light in the hall on, and then quake in fear at every scratch and scuffle in the darkness. Finally, my mother bought me a pack of sixteen glow-in-the-dark stars. She secured them to my ceiling, the window frames, my bulletin board. That night, with the stars' muted glow protecting me, I vowed never to sleep without them. I even remember asking all my relatives for stickers for my birthday that year. I unpacked box after box of them, scaling the highest step-stool we owned until all of the stars and half-moons were in place. To this day, I'm still wary of the darkness.
I am gazing up at them now, at their artificial beauty, wondering who could have invented such marvelous objects, trying to avoid falling asleep. It's one of those nights when it's too warm to wear a quilt, but too cold not to. I gave up tossing and turning hours ago. It's just me and the constellations now.
It's quiet, and all I can hear is the muffled sound of the evening news, listening to the hiss of the iron as my mother presses her pale green blouse for school tomorrow. She's a kindergarten teacher; responsible for cleaning sticky fingers and scrubbing dried applesauce from chins, and reading Harold and the Purple Crayon over and over again. Dad's a high school principal. He fills his days with lecturing dull-witted teenagers, worrying over PSAT scores, and yelling over the P.A. system.
I am spinning in and out of reminiscence, lost in the galaxy that fills the ceiling. My eyelids are drooping dangerously low, and I start listing zodiac signs as I drift off. I'm on Aquarius when my mother bursts in. For a moment, she stands there in the doorway, light from the hall pooling in, and all I can see is her silhouette. Once again, I'm struck by how beautiful she is, and how we will always be separated because of it. She has narrow hips and honey-colored hair, which dusts her shoulders. She's the one with the perfect nose, passed on from generations of Grey women, and here I am, with a disastrous chunk of cartilage, which is probably going to be some sort of dangerous weapon if a boy ever tries to kiss me. I can hear our conversation now, clear as day. Boy: "Hey, want to make out?" Me: "Sure, just sign this waiver first." The odds of my kissing someone in high school don't look so promising. Maybe I'll never look like her, but she's sure something to see.
Mother ghosts into the room, as silent as if she's riding on a silk carpet. A lock of golden hair falls from its tight bun, and she absently brushes it away, bending down and ripping the quilt off of me. "What's happeni-" she cuts me off, clamping a sweaty palm across my mouth. I inhale, smelling salt and something I can't identify. She places a finger to her lips, and drags me out of bed, thrusting her free arm out. My heart skips a beat when I see what's in her hand- a kitchen knife, slick with blood. I feel like vomiting, but my throat is too dry. Fear licks my veins as Mother ushers me to the doorframe. She leans out, raising on her tip toes, the knife glinting in the haunting yellow of the hall light. I guess she doesn't see anyone around, because the next thing I know, she's hauling me towards the closet. She shoves me into the dark recesses, and suddenly I'm sitting, back pressed uncomfortably against the washing machine, elbow digging into the box of detergent next to me. Closing the door, Mother sags against the dryer, looking fifty years older. She rubs her temples and wipes her sweaty forehead on a beach towel in the laundry, then turns to me with an expression I can only explain as sadness. Maybe there's even a little terror in it, a scattering of uncertainty. Her fear turns my blood into ice.
The shock having worn off, I am now wondering what the hell is going on, why I'm stuffed in a closet with my mother, why she's holding a bloody kitchen knife. But before I can open my mouth, she speaks, voice barely rising above a whisper. "Annabeth," she whimpers, and there is so much sorrow in those words. She cups my cheeks gently, her smooth, white hands encircling my head. She leans further in, her forehead resting against my own; her lake blue eyes shimmer with tears before they clench shut, a single tear escaping, slipping down to her chin, a perfect liquid crystal. "We haven't been… honest, with you," she finally says after a long beat of silence. "You're not going to understand… not… not for a long time, I hope." She chokes on a sob, and I press my knuckles to her flushed cheek, feverish under my icy skin. "Just tell me," I urge, rubbing against her neck, like she used to do when I was a baby. She shakes her head. "I can't," she whispers, a bittersweet smile on her lips. I stare at her, bewildered. What can she be hiding from me? "Please, just… just tell me. I can take it," I assure her, bracing myself for what's about to come. A million thoughts echo through my brain at once. "There's no time, Annabeth," Mother suddenly snaps. I jerk my head back from her comforting palms. She exhales slowly through her nose, her head bowed, as if supporting a great burden. "And… and because… I'm afraid," she whispers brokenly. My eyebrows knit together. Afraid? Why? "What are you afraid of?" I murmur, settling back on my heels, bare knees digging into the scratchy carpeting. She looks up at me then, lifting her golden head. I notice she's crying, really crying. Saltwater tracks skim the bridge of her nose, leaking like rain down her chin. "I'm afraid… that if I tell you now… that you won't love me anymore," she sobs. She looks fragile, as if made of glass. She reminds me of one of those Russian nesting dolls, where each wooden doll is fitted into a bigger one, each getting smaller and smaller, the littlest one no bigger than a finger. It's like Mother is that tiny, forgotten doll, hidden behind layers and layers of other ones, the facade finally melting away after you unstack all the bigger dolls to unearth her. I feel like I'm seeing the real version of her now. The rough draft, full of weakness and fear.
I wonder what secret could shatter my fifteen years of love for her, how all of it could be gone in an instant. "Your father and I," she begins, pulling herself together, flicking away the tears which now splotch her blue shirt. "We're not who you think we are. We... we aren't the people you've come to know. And love." Her voice cracks on the last two words. "The thing we've been hiding, it's, it's that-" suddenly, there is an earsplitting crash from downstairs, a few muttered curses, the sound of a lamp hitting the floor, shattered into millionths. Then there is a loud, sickening boom, a crack as a bullet whistles through the air and connects with its target. Mother forces her fists into her mouth, rocking back and forth, knocking her skull against the dryer in grief. One look at her broken, lost expression is all it takes to understand. Daddy is dead.
Ten seconds later, she's bent over my ear hissing words I know will be her last. Mother's hazel eyes, usually so warm, morph into something colder than snow. "Whenever you find out the truth, remember that we loved you, loved you more than we ever thought we would when I realized I was pregnant. Didn't see that love coming. But it was there. It's always been there. And it always will be. I'm so sorry about this. So, so sorry. This was never anticipated, we didn't sniff out the danger, before it came knocking on our door." She smiles now, and I hide myself in her bosom, gripping her hands. She smells like sun and fabric softener. She strokes my hair, long fingers lost in my scalp. "My darling. My love. My life," she breathes. I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, listen to something else shatter on the floor. Mother leans back, now, but still holds my hands in hers, which are even smaller than mine. "Annabeth, Listen to me. Stay in here. Don't open the door, not for anyone. Try to be brave for your old mother, okay?" I huff a laugh at her words, even as the tears fall. "You have to survive," she whispers, briefly stroking my cheek. The last time she will ever touch me, the last time I'll feel those hands holding my own. Rising, she fixes her shirt collar, picks up the knife, the blood drying. The footsteps are on the stairs now, a story below us. Twenty three steps until he reaches us. Twenty three steps until she dies. Mother looks down at me, the hardness returning to her features, affection suddenly wiped clean. Her face is shadowed, half dark, half light, like in an old film. "Trust Nick," she says, opening the closet door. She steps out into the hall, long skirt billowing behind her like a cloud, taking the bigger half of my heart as she leaves. I hear the lock click, hear her running down to meet the man who murdered my father, fleeing to her fate. Then the door snaps closed, and I am plunged into darkness.
I'm curled in a ball now, cheek pressed against the floor, silent tears running down my cheeks, clutching the beach towel my mother was draped in earlier. I can still smell her on it, and my nose is buried in the soft folds, counting down the minutes until the scent fades completely. I heard the gunshot minutes ago, heard something halfway between a sob and a choke, listened to the dull thud as Mother's body hit the floor. Maybe it hasn't registered yet, the thought of my parents lying dead in our apartment, and I spend a few minutes imagining the patterns of the blood stains on our living room carpet, where my father was shot. I wonder what will happen to me, now. If I'll let myself rot in this closet, if someone will find my corpse amid boxes of detergent and bubble bath. If I'll even care. The ground shakes as a heavy set of footsteps returns to the hall. Earlier, after Mother was gone, they disappeared into the bedroom, obviously looking for their victim's daughter. I picture the killer opening my bedroom door, only to find himself lost in a sea of stars, looking up at the ceiling in wonder. Now he's here, not a foot away from my hiding place. I squint, looking underneath the crack in the door, hardly daring to breathe. A pair of green combat boots clomps noisily in front of the closet, and I inhale, tucking my arms beneath my torso, trying to make myself smaller. He reaches out, rattling the handle, finding it locked tight. He gives it a kick, gripping the knob and trying to wrench it free. "I know you're in there, girlie," he grunts in a gruff voice. "Let's get this over with. Open the door now, and I promise it'll be painless." He smashes his shin into the frame, curses as it doesn't give way. "I'll be real gentle, if you just come out," he coaxes, voice suddenly soft. I listen to the brass hinges groan in protest as he slams the butt of his gun against them. "You won't feel a thing. It'll be like falling asleep," he promises. I squeeze my eyes shut, grabbing the first thing I can find, in case he manages to break it down. And eventually, I know he will. It's only a matter of time. I realize I'm grasping a plunger, and almost laugh at my pathetic attempt at staying alive. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, opening the door, going out to meet him. I'd at least have a shot at seeing my parents again, and if not, I'd be too dead to care. I'm reaching up, about to unlock the door, about to stare death in the face, when something stops me. You have to survive. Mother's words ring through my ears, and I see her face, just for an instant. Her eyes are soft, and full of love, hair braided down her back, like she does every night before bed. My hand falls from the lock, extending to her lovely face, only to brushing darkness as the vision fades. I sigh, curling into the fetal position, pretending to be a Russian nesting doll. The wood in the corner of the door collapses, suddenly, splintering. Sawdust smokes the air, fading for a moment before I see the weapon pointed straight at me through the hole. The bullet clicks into place, a finger poises to squeeze the trigger. I let my eyes flutter closed, hoping for a quick end…
"Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!" A deep voice barks from somewhere outside. The gun goes slack as the killer freezes, then clatters to the floor. I sit up, sagging against the washer, heart beating wildly, threatening to wrench free of my chest. There's a scuffle outside, before more loud voices join the fray. A startling commotion of heavy boots, the clink of handcuffs, the sound of labored breathing, men panting as they fly up the staircase, all hit my ears in the broken closet, and I cover them tightly, trying to drown everything out. Twenty minutes pass, until someone approaches the door and gently knocks on it. "Miss?" says a soft voice. "Miss, can you hear me?" I don't respond, shock and grief rippling through my veins. I sniff the towel, finding my mother's scent gone from it, her warmth finally evaporated from the material. More voices approach me, begging me to exit, asking if I'm injured, if I'm alright. No! I want to shriek at them, shriek until their eardrums bleed, until their blood fills the hall, until they're swept down the stairs in a current of red. I'm not alright. I'll never be alright. Never again.
An hour passes, though, and their patience is wearing thin. They start to growl into their headsets, radio static filling the silence. They snarl and spit over the speakers, reminding me of a pack of starving wolves. Finally, someone else draws near the door. A low voice demands to know what's going on. "She refuses to come out Sir," a man replies. "We've called out to her, but she won't respond." The voice murmurs something else, and the others start to fade away, shoes clacking downstairs, the static giving way to a blissful quiet I'm grateful for. Just as I start to think I'll be left alone in peace, the lock is being picked, a hand is slowly turning the knob. He glides into the room, closes the door. "Drop the plunger, Miss Grey," he orders in a gravelly voice, but I can tell it's softer than usual. I realize I'm still clinging to the wooden handle, holding it in a flimsy grasp, and let it fall to the ground, the rubber end soundlessly hitting the carpet. The strange man grunts as he sinks against the opposite wall, and I glance up to examine him. Dark brown skin, the color of chocolate. A regal looking black coat. An eyepatch slung over his bald head, leaving the other one piercing my own with an intensity which makes me uncomfortable. He cocks his head, running a finger along the splinters in the hole, resting his shoulder on the laundry hamper. I feel self-conscious as his one good eye roves over my body, and I cringe, only imagining what he sees.
He probably sees a terrified girl, hugging her scrawny knees, scabbed over from falling off her bike last week. Sees her wild ocean of brown hair sticking up in tufts, as if electrocuted. Sees her dull eyes size him up, then drop, not caring. Sees her pitiful excuse for a nose, her limp, underweight body. Sees her threatening to unclog him with a plunger. Shaking, trying to hide her shivers as she cowers away from him. He must get paid a lot if he has to deal with this on a daily basis. But the man simply blinks, then starts to speak. "What happened tonight was an accident," he informed me, tone neutral, no glimmer of sympathy to be found. "Though not entirely unexpected. But then," he gives a dry, barking laugh. "S.H.I.E.L.D agents aren't supposed to have days off, I guess." He soaks in my dumbfounded expression, the way my shoulders tremor slightly in their short sleeved pajama shirt from summer camp. S.H.I. agents? Is he implying that- "Your parents, they worked for us. Some of the best operatives we've ever had. In the office building's hall of fame, even. You should be real proud." He gives me a grin, his canines glinting in the light, like a jackal. I decide I don't like him. Something tells me that I'm not alone in my judgement. "They never told you their real jobs. Had to keep you safe. Pretended to be something other than they were," he says, flicking some lint off of his majestic coat. "Funny, how painful protection can be. Isn't it?" he scrutinizes me with a heartless eye. I wonder what happened to the other one, picturing the dark, endless socket beneath. "You must be mistaken," I manage in a steady voice, blood pounding in my ears. Who is this man, how dare he come and lie about my parents? "My father was a high school principal. He went to church, tucked his shirt in, had a flip phone for fuck's sake. There is no way he was some kind of secret agent. And my mother taught kindergarten. She earned a living reading The Velveteen Rabbit, not working for some high-tech organization!" I spit out the last sentence, boiling with rage. "I know it's not ideal to learn this now," he replies calmly, seemingly unruffled. "But that's the cold, hard truth. And what's more, the man who murdered them tonight was an assassin from a terrorist organization called H.Y.D.R.A. Your parents were tracking them." He looks weary now, exhaustion suffocating him as he rubs his polished brown head.
"And we believe that the same organization is bent on eliminating you, as well." His words are filled with a dead, leaden weight, and he seems to age as he massages his temples. "Me? Why?" I ask, voice on the verge of hysteria. It's been the longest day of my life; my parents were murdered, I was nearly assassinated by a psychopath, my parents are supposedly a fucking pair of secret agents, and I'm now being told that my life is in danger. I'm surprised something hasn't exploded yet. "I wish I could tell you," the man replies, folding his hands. "But there isn't a clear answer yet. Some theorize it's for revenge, pure and simple. Others, like myself," he gives me a sidelong glance. "Think they might want information, information that your parents wouldn't give them. They'd drag you out, take you to a base of theirs and torture you for it. Of course, it wouldn't take them long to figure out you don't know anything, and they'd put a bullet in your brain. A real one, I mean. Unlike this," he tosses me something, and I realize it's some sort of dart. "What's this?" I ask, turning it around in my fingers. It's smooth, silver, sleek. Deadly, though? I couldn't tell.
"It's what that asshole shot at you, before we intervened," he explains. "It's a tranquilizer. Wouldn't have killed you, but it'd knock you out for long enough. Perfect for your average kidnapping." I fling the dart back to him, and he catches it deftly, slipping it into a leather pocket. "In the meantime, we have to keep you safe. In order to do so, you're being sent upstate, to live in a foster home, where they're less likely to find you, in lieu of a regular orphanage. The city is no longer safe for you to be in. We'll be keeping tabs on the situation, but you'll be staying there indefinitely. No contact with the outside world. A clean slate, so to speak." He stands, knees snapping in the process, before offering me a hand. I tentatively accept it, and he pulls me to stand next to him, sighing as he realizes how badly I'm shaking. Without another word, he shrugs off his coat and wraps it around my thin shoulders, giving one of them a squeeze. "Go and pack your things. Only the practical stuff. The rest will be kept in storage, seeing as you have no other living relatives.
He opens the closet door, strides through with a surprising grace. I follow him out, walk to my bedroom door. He starts down the hall, coatless, muscles rippling in his shoulders. "Wait!" I call, voice timid. He freezes, his back still facing away from me. Slowly, he turns, his one eye scanning mine expectantly. "I don't even know your name," I say. He smiles slightly, and I can see some of the softness return, his wrinkles smoothing out. "It's Nick," he replies, with a little pride. "Nick Fury." At my fearful expression, he pauses, black brows knitting together in bewilderment. "My mother… her last words. They were, 'trust Nick,'" I explain, and the smile is back, now, a little less like a jackal, a little more human. "Hmm. Smart woman, your mother," he mumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "How smart, though, I can't say." He meets my grey eyes, the mysterious glint of his own returning. "Let's hope I can be trusted."
Misty leads me through the foggy courtyard to the brick building ahead, frosted over with ice. I walk a little slower than her, lagging behind. Which is a feat, because she's huffing and puffing again, hacking and spluttering, her face as red as a beet. I see the dog again, who lays, panting, in a patch of sunlight, pink tongue lolling out and drooling over his massive paws. He turns a sleepy eye on us, curling back up and dozing off. "Tha's Rusty, over there," Misty points to the canine before clutching her side again. "Won't hurt ya. The Missus calls him a guard dog but he just sleeps all day. Worthless brute." We reach the entrance, a faded black door with a knocker on it, carved into the letter 'C.' Misty opens it, walks inside, still muttering about how old she's getting. Before I step in, I look back longingly at the gates. I see a few scrawny pigeons near it, nibbling at a few crumbs. One of them flaps its speckled blue-grey wings, thin legs wobbling as it takes flight, soaring out of the pavilion, over the gates, into the sky, until it is hidden by distance. I wish I had wings, strong enough to carry me away, out into the great wide world, and hide someplace where no one can find me, like in a fairy tale. I sigh longingly, entering the building, following Misty into the kitchen. She starts stripping off her winter gear, tossing her black scarf and mittens onto a coatrack, smoothing down her apron. "Oh yeah, I fergot. Ya got a name?" She demands, hands on her wide hips. I look into her bland eyes, and she licks her lips expectantly. "Ana-" I start to say, but cut myself off. I remember what Nick said, about having a clean slate here. About starting over. "What was that?" she asks, cupping her ear. "Beth," I reply, summing up what little courage I have left. "Just Beth." She smiles slightly, tries the name out on her tongue. "Beth, eh? I like it. It's plain, but kinda pretty, ya know?" She gives me a lopsided grin. "C'mon then, Just Beth. Gotta get ya to the Missus." She turns and waddles out to another door which leads to a flight of stairs. I wonder if her lungs will finally give out if she tries to climb them. I trudge behind her, feeling miserable, head hanging low, but unaware of the hell I was about to endure.
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-Dreamgirl13