The Slightly Insane and Sometimes Random Thoughts Of A Teenage Girl
By A. Nonymous
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. Not even a little bit.
Chapter One: How I Almost (But Not Really) Got Killed By A Knife-Wielding Maniac
Hello, people, and welcome to my life. First I will begin by describing the ravishing creature you see before you. And I'm taking that artistic license that all writers are allowed to use far and beyond its usual capacity by using the word ravishing.
By today's standard I am certainly no oil painting, unless you count some pictures of Picasso. See today's standard of beauty (i.e. stick thin with the added impossibility of large breasts) is far from what I look like. Okay, on second thought, I might have the breasts down but the stick thin part? Nah-ah. Not this girl. I am strictly a plus-size girl, myself, which makes shopping an ordeal. I mean, have seen the size of some of the clothes shops are selling these days? What do they think we eat? Air?
Anyway, to get back to that description you were so desperate to hear. As has already been stated I am a plus-size girl, strictly XL or thereabouts. That's Extra Large for the dipsticks out there who only know about that size called S. To put it to you straight: I am a fat girl. Yes, people, she said that horrid word: fat! Not to say that I wouldn't love to be skinny but I just can't give up the things I love to eat. Namely chocolate...and almonds...and chocolate-covered almonds...Anyway. I am also incredibly lazy when it comes to that other dreaded word: exercise. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love walking. It's great. But don't even talk to be about (*shudder*) press-ups...or sit-ups...or (horror of horrors) running.
Now here come the specifics: I have short brown hair and blue eyes, which, according to my bossy great-aunt, are often sad. And when I look in the mirror, which is much more than you'd expect of a girl like me, they do seem sort of sad. Not that I'm a sad girl. Au contraire! I am actually pretty happy chappy. And yes I realise how sad that sounds.
My nails are shocking, my feet are ugly, my nose is average as are my ears, and my skin is the whitish-pinkish colour common amongst all British descendents. Not that I'm British. I'm, I am proud to say, a New Zealander. New Zealand, if you are unfamiliar with that country, is near Australia. And it is not part of the aforementioned country. In any way, shape or form. Don't even think about going there. Not that I have a problem with Australians. I hear they are very nice people. I just like people to get their facts straight.
Now that you know vaguely what I look like I'll begin by telling you why I'm writing this at all. Because on the day I was to leave home forever (a sad day, believe me) something happened that would change the course of my life forever. And I mean forever.
It started out as (watch out, people, cliché ahead!) an ordinary day. Nothing untoward happened from 10 o'clock to noon. But then nothing ever happened to me. My sixteenth birthday: nothing. My eighteenth birthday: nothing. Each Christmas: nothing. I hadn't even had sex. But then every boy I've ever meet seems to only be interested in girls who epitomise today's standard of beauty (for definition see above). Go figure.
So I wasn't expecting anything, even though it was the day I left home forever. My house is basically an ordinary house. Four bedrooms (well, actually my bedroom was once a sun room), kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, toilet, laundry. It is on a street that would be ordinary of people would stop using it as a shortcut and speeding down it, killing harmless animals while they're at it. That street is in a small town, complete with a cinema, incredibly tiny shopping centre and a park. And that town is in a tiny, insignificant country that no one knows about except as the birthplace of the Flight of the Concords and Peter Jackson. So you can see why nothing ever happened to me.
I usually spent my days, including this particular day, watching movies and television, with sporadic periods of reading (not subtitles, actual books). At noon exactly I was watching reruns of season two episodes of Heroes, so I could sustain myself through the long weeks until I could return and watch the episode my sister had recorded for me. I was currently watching the season finale, Powerless, and it was up to the part when Maya shouts, "You killed my brother!" and Sylar turns around and shoots her when there was a knock at the door.
Because the TV in the living room faces the window I had the curtains closed. So I had to open the curtain to see who it was. I was alone in the house since my dad, sister and brother had disappeared two hours ago acting very mysterious. So I had decided not to open the door but instead to at first see who it was. This was easy since our door is made of glass. And glass, as we all know, is see-through.
I was glad I'd decided that because the man at the door (yes, he was a man) had a knife in his hand and he brandished it threateningly. I have never been confronted with a man wielding a knife unpromisingly so I didn't know until that moment how I'd react. I screamed.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Yes, I know that there was glass between me and him but you can't expect me to be logical when a knife-wielding maniac (or so I assumed) tried to attack me.
The man paused. I kept screaming.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He looked irritated and glanced at his watch. Noticing none of this I kept screaming.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He tapped his foot impatiently and glanced at his watch again. At last I noticed that he didn't seem to want to him kill me. There were two options open to me: a) stop screaming and being able to speak, or b) continue screaming and most likely lose my voice. No surprise there. I chose the first option.
I stopped screaming. We looked at each other and I noticed something very familiar about him. Something about his eyebrows...I glanced at the TV screen. And then back at the man. And back at the TV. Then at the man again. "No," I said, a smile spreading over my face. "Are you...Zachary Quinto?"
The man looked confused. "Who?"
Okay, my first choice had been incorrect. I tried again. "Are you...Milo Ventimiglia?"
More confusion. "What?"
"Adrian Pasdar?"
"Huh?"
Okay. New approach. I closed my eyes. And opened them. "You're not...are you Sylar?"
The man seemed relieved. "She said you'd know me. Now could you open the door?"
I snorted and secretly filed away this 'she' business. "You expect me to let you in? A certified serial killer? Nah-ah. No way. I enjoy my life. I don't want to lose it by doing something as clichéd as opening the door to a stranger. Plus, you brandished a knife at me in a threatening manner."
I couldn't believe I was talking to Sylar (Sylar!!) in such a way. So I expected the sigh and the following, "I expected this. But I made a promise and I intend to keep it," and the ensuing unlocking of the door using just the power of his mind.
I froze. I tried to move, to run, to do anything but...nothing. I couldn't move an inch. I finally fully understood that cliché 'You never know how you're going to react until it actually happens.' I made a mental note to find whoever had first said that and kill them, even if it meant going back thousands of years.
He stood in front of me, the step up into the house the only object between us. We looked at each other. And I did something incredibly stupid, something I never thought I'd ever do: I fainted. Me. Fainted. Thank the powers that be that he caught me otherwise my skull would have cracked open on the side of the door. Yeah, from that experience I learned that I do not fall gracefully. Or well.
I can't tell you what happened after that since I was unconscious but from what I found out later he disappeared into thin air and, a few minutes later, Dad, Ann and Leo arrived home to find an empty house with the door gaping eerily. The rest you'll find out as I do. So there.
