Into Dust
Summary: Set in 2002, two years before Amanda Young was "reborn". The adventures, relationships, and mistakes that caught John Kramer's attention are documented here. This is Amanda's past life, and a bridge that lead to her next.
A/N: I don't know exactly where I'm going with this, but I've got a few ideas to work with. I hope you enjoy it, and even if you don't, I need some constructive criticism.
Amanda
2002
I ran my fingers through my hair as yet another car flew past me. After attempting to hitch-hike for what seemed like years, I let my arm rest. The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains in the distance and I was starting to walk out of nowhere. I sunk my hands into the pockets of my black leather jacket and took out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. I didn't have much of a past, and I was obsessed with having a future. I heard the subtle rumble of a car approaching, I looked behind myself and held out my free hand in a thumbs up. The car came to a slow stop a little bit ahead of me, and I breathed out a cloud of smoke, relieved. I grabbed the passenger's door handle and slid inside, inspecting the driver. He looked my age, around 27, with messy dark hair and a crooked smile.
"Where you headed?" He asked, looking me over as well, and started to drive.
"The nearest city, and thanks, I've been waiting for a ride for hours," I smiled at him, then turning away to let the smoke out the window.
"Nearest city would be Newark," he paused. "You been there before?"
"Mm, no, can't say I have." I lied, watching the sky grow darker.
He nodded. "It's pretty nice."
I smirked. "I guess I'll find out."
*
I woke up in the back of a car, my hair ruined and two bottles by my side. I stretched and straightened myself out. I peered out the window and what's-his-face was inside a convenience store probably paying for gas. I vaguely remembered something I needed, and I opened up the glove compartment to find a joint and a wallet. I check the wallet; a couple of twenties and change. Just as I prepared myself to run, I noticed the idiot had left his keys in the ignition. I glanced at him in the store, he had the cashier at gunpoint. I felt that I should care, but what I felt was the opposite. I turned the key and I was gone, dust curling around the back of the vehicle like a blanket and I was safe.
1981
I am six years old and sitting at the kitchen table drawing. The colors from my Crayolas seem to dance and move to my imagination. Just then my mother walks in and drapes herself over me tightly. I'm not used to this kind of affection, so I continue to scribble. What's with you? She asks, withdrawing her embrace. I look up at her, she's holding a wine bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Nothing, I say, innocently. She frowns at me and puts her cigarette out on her jeans. You're growing up rotten, you know. She's scowling at me now.
She walks away and I can see her bones sticking out. I wonder how my mother got so skinny and if that's how I'll look when I grow up. I lift up my shirt and poke at my ribs, but I am warm and soft. This is when I started to become afraid of growing older, becoming something I didn't know I was.
2002
The car rumbled to a stop outside an old motel. I stepped out of my new vehicle and the cold air nipped at my bare legs. There was a ball of tarp, blankets and bags huddled in the corner of the doorway. As I entered the buidling I was reminded of the week I tried to live on my own and ended up homeless. I was only 16 at the time; young, foolish, naïve... hopeful. I could really use some of that hope right now, as useless as it may be. At the the front desk I was greeted by a middle aged man with sideburns and a strong face.
"Hi, I need to rent out a room for a while," I asked, leaning over the counter.
He smiled. "For one night it's twenty-nine ninety-nine, and fifteen dollars every extra day. I'll let you have it for a month for three-fifty."
It was late and I really didn't care how I would come up with $350 by the end of the month.
"Sure," I took out two twenties and handed it to him. "I'll have the rest later."
He nodded and turned to grab a room key for me. I followed him up the stairs that cried out with every step and he unlocked my new living quarters. He flicked the lights on; it was bland and empty.
"If you need anything, just call me." He turned, leaving me.
"Alright, thanks," I leaned on the doorframe, staring at the room.
I felt a knot build in my throat, my face became hot with emotion. I was so afraid of wasting the time I had — not many people knew that about me. Afraid of death in general, of not being able to do everything I needed to. I was kneeling in front of the entrance now, tears managed squeeze their way out of me. What had I done to make my life worth it? Had I cliff jumped like I'd always wanted to? That had always mesmerized me, why'd I never do anything about it? Why hadn't I ever followed my dreams to become an artist?
Bawling, now. It felt good.
Such a waste of days, I knew I couldn't live forever. Why did I treat myself like I was? Images of the past forced their way into my head. I was 15 and felt like I hadn't done anything, I didn't feel like I was alive. I had tried to be so good, tried not to do bad things. Tried not to be like my parents; but it was in my blood.
If I smoke once I won't become addicted.
There's no chance of me having a bad trip on acid.
If I have sex with him he won't leave me, he'll love me.
The good times were killing me.
And now here I am, trying to start over — who was I kidding? I had returned to my hometown, horrible move. I picked myself up and found my way to the bed. I didn't bother taking off my clothes, removing my makeup, nothing. I would try this again tomorrow.