DON'T YOU DARE READ THIS FIC!!!!! It's angsty and terrible and I don't want to get in trouble for fictional character homicide (because this is one that most of you would press charges on). D:
Oh fine. Read if you must. But don't say I didn't warn you.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Beyblade. Probably for the best.
DEDICATION: Whoever lives up in the sky and doles out angst. I got a lot done last weekend because of you, kind sir (ma'am?).
Lost
Contrary to popular belief, Raul liked getting lost.
He could wander aimlessly for hours and when Julia or whoever caught up with him and demanded to know where he had been, he could always honestly say, "I got lost."
Not that he'd ever make a conscious effort to get back, of course.
His mind drifted as aimlessly as his feet, commenting silently on everything from the Catholic cathedrals that were as common to the area as dollar-menu burger franchises, to the fact that no matter where he went he always seemed to need an interpreter. He hated needing someone to translate--maybe he should try learning a second language when he got home.
It was getting dark, and rather cold. As if swept by a magical, human-despising broom, the streets cleared of all who could find even a remote reason to be inside. All the better for him.
He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and stepped out onto the bridge. The water always understood his need to be in motion.
Elbows resting on the cold iron of the guardrails, he looked longingly down at the rushing current. Around the bridge, he felt the city's night life flare to a roar. The river cut a swath of black in the glow of the nightclubs, muffling the islands of flashing neon strobe lights and fast-paced techno music calling out to each other.
Nothing was ever quiet around him.
No one ever left him alone.
And yet, no one would give one hoot if he suddenly dropped dead.
They'd just stick him in the ground and find some other "cutie-pie" to fawn over.
That's how it always goes.
Raul's middle finger started dragging his hand round as it traced imaginary spiderwebs on the railing.
"Hey cutie."
He turned, only half interested by the husky male voice. The man was obviously drunk and/or stoned just shy of the "off his rocker" mark.
"Whatcha say we head to the club, have a little fun, eh?"
The only thought that clicked in his head was, Wow, someone in this city who speaks English as a first language. He turned back to the river wordlessly.
Heavy hands fell on his shoulders. The man was angry now. "Don't you ignore me, you little--"
Raul calmly extracted himself from the man's grip and boosted himself up to sit on the railing facing him. "I'm not a whore, and I didn't think I dressed like one. Sorry to disappoint," he said, tugging his grey hoodie's sleeves farther over his wrists. "I thought I saw a few guys who obviously leaned your way walking over there, though." He nodded in the direction of a square further down river.
Enraged by his insolent tone, the man growled, "No little bitch talks back to me!" He made a surprisingly steady lunge for the redhead.
Suddenly afraid, Raul tried to dodge. The only place he had to go, was back.
Cold air kissed him mockingly on the way down.
He hit the current head-first.
Splash.
Swish.
The beat of the music still pounded in his ears.
The cold and the thick, polluted water kissed his eyes closed.
He drifted with the current, not even bothering to put up a fight.
Gone.
The river still moved.
The lights still flashed.
Time marches on.
What's one little redheaded boy?
Now, I warned you at the beginning of this thing. You flame, and I will just flame you right back. Thank you.
Please review.