A/N: Okay, Kelvin actually does write about Jim, but what you guys are reading, unless included in Kelvin's part, is actually what's going on with him, part of this fanfiction, not Kelvin's. They both happen roughly at the same time though.

I've written fanfiction before, but this is something I've thought of doing often, just...never did. I've read a lot of self-insert fanfictions, and even though I enjoy them, almost every single one of them happen to be Mary Sue's. I hope Kelvin isn't. Jim is going to meet her, and he is going to hurt her. Jim's gonna be a little OOC in this fic. There will be violence. There will be swearing. There may even be torture, I don't know yet. What I di know, what I'm aiming for, is that this is going to be pretty dark. If you don't like that kind of thing, don't read this.

I don't own Treasure Planet or the girl Kelvin is based off of.

I DO own this story.

I don't own the idea of a fictional character of one person actually being real and expiriencing written trama, It was in some movie I saw that I can't remember the name of.

Everything in Kelvin's world is modern day. Everything in Jim's world is supposed to be era-accurate, so women wear dresses, girls aren't viewed that highly, children are seen and not heard, it's not uncommon for a guy to 'own' someone, so on and so forth. No internet, cell phones, cars, all the tech stuff is different from what Kelvin's used to.

Read and review.

-FDL

1. Pain

Sometimes she wondered if everyone really did feel the way she did. She'd heard the term 'depressed teenagers' so many times, accompanied by the annoyed, almost bored expression, so many times, she'd dismissed it a long time ago as a phase that everyone went through. She assumed that everyone, at this particular stage in their life, went through this sort of melancholy stage. The anger, the frustration, the pain, it was all part of life, and soon her hormones would balance out and she would become a mature, well behaved, adjusted adult who would have it together. She'd known that, had always thought that, and still did. But sometimes she wondered if everyone else's pain got this bad. She'd never ask, of course, because she didn't want to know. If pain this bad was common, it would mean that she was just weaker than the average person, which she already knew. And if it wasn't, if hers was clinical depression, then it meant there was something wrong with her, anyway. That she was a mental case. She put the thought from her mind, rocking a little harder. Her eyes were focused on a spot on the bathroom wall, her arms wrapped around her knees in the fetal position, though the wrist of her right hand was jammed into her mouth. She bit down harder, wincing at the pain, but it did what it was supposed to. Little by little, the pressure in her chest was lessening.

It was all her fault. Again. Really, if she could just keep her damn mouth shut, then she'd never have this problem. At least the yelling was over with. Not the entire affair, no. The storm was still present, she laid in the eye, but the thunder was over for now. Why did she have to say anything? Hadn't she learned by now that she just couldn't connect with her mother, the way everyone else seemed to be able to? She knew what it was, of course. She knew very well that her mother loved her and never meant to hurt her, and that she truly felt bad when things like this happened. The thing was, she didn't feel bad until the next day, leaving Kelvin to fend for herself in the meantime. The friction between them had always been there, and Kelvin had always felt it. She hadn't always known what it was. When she was younger, she had felt something missing, like whenever she lost a tooth and instead all that remained was a sore hole in her mouth. Something missing. Something that just wasn't there.

Kelvin Phillips was adopted. She was one of the fortunate few who, though a foster child at birth, had been adopted by a kindhearted, loving woman. Kelvin had never known another mother, and as far as she was concerned, this was her family. She didn't care that she didn't know much about her biological family, and from the way she hardly ever heard from them, neither, she supposed, did they. That was alright. She could handle that. Kelvin was a smart girl. She'd read before that often, children who are adopted lack the full emotional bond they would have formed with their mothers. She labled this problem thusly. Her mother was a generous, caring, loving woman, and Kelvin considered herself lucky. Things could have turned out very differently, and she should be greatful for what she had.

And most of the time, she did. She did everything she was told to do. She stayed out of trouble, she had good grades. She fit the 'average' lable perfectly. What Kelvin's problem had been born of was that she had very little self respect. She hated herself, couldn't stand herself. And though she tried hard to overcome this, it never got any better. She had tried, once, to make a list of her good points. She had a considerable amount of talent as far as creative writing and drawing went. She loved animals. She, like her mother, was very generous. She had good moral values, she was forgiving, and she tried very hard to be a good friend. That was as far as she got. The night she'd tried to further the list, her depression had gotten the better of her. In a metal box she kept in her closet, there sat a different, longer list. A list of things that she felt were wrong with her. It covered everything, from the horrible, bitchy attitude her friends complained about to her pock-eaten skin, her flabby figure, her dull mind, her terrible taste in clothes, books, movies, everything else she could think of. Kelvin couldn't stand herself. She just didn't have the time to deal with her feelings, so she surpressed them. She burried them, deep inside, and tried her best to keep them there.

She hadn't meant to cause any trouble. She'd come home that day, actually in a good mood. One of her friends wanted to come over. Reccently, the girls had descovered a liking for tribal-styled jewelry. Erica had bought some wooden beads and leather cord, and Kelvin desperately wanted to try her hand at carving on the beads. Wouldn't it look nice, she thought, to carve maybe leaf patterns or animals on them? Better yet, Erica's mother had given her the okay to stay the night with Kelvin. Kelvin had very few friends, and hadn't had a sleepover with Erica yet. It had sounded like a lot of fun. However, Kelvin hadn't counted on her mom. Kelvin's mom could at times give the okay for one of her friends to come over, and sometimes she even joined in herself. She could fit seamlessly in with the girls. Kelvin's friends really liked her. But other times, like today? Kelvin had found her mom in the kitchen when she'd gotten home from school.

"How was your day?" she had asked, not looking up from the potatos she was peeling. Kelvin had noted the tone she'd used, and should have taken a hint then and there, but her spirits were too high for caution.

"It was great! I got a ninety-eight on my English test."

"That's great."

"We had a sub in math and didnn't have to do hardly anything."

"Bet that was nice."

"Mhmm, and we're having a pizza party Thursday, the entire class passed their exams so our homeroom teacher said we could. And Erica's mom said she could spend the night-"

"What?" Now she looked up.

"Erica's mom gave her permission to spend the night. I thought maybe we could do it Friday night, that way we don't have to get up early the next day. And I can drive her home."

"Her mom might've said ok, but I know I didn't." she snapped. Kelvin felt her confidence dwindle. The good day she'd had had fogged her mind and judgement. Now she was doubtful.

"Well, I know. I'm asking if it's okay."
"No."
"Why? She was here last week-"
"Yes, and did you take out the trash? I must've asked you ten times, and I ended up having to do it myself." At this Kelvin looked down at the counter. It was true. It had slipped her mind. "Whenever you're around those girls you dont listen to a word I say. They're bad influence on you and I don't want you talking to them. How many times do I have to tell you? And Jessica. She still think you're her 'dorky girl'?" she spat the last two words with such contempt, Kelvin had a bad feeling in her stomach. She could just tell. Still, she couldn't shut up.

"Mom, she didn't mean it in a bad way."
"Oh wake up, Kelvin! How did she mean it then, huh? Endearing? She called you a dork!" Well it's better than being called a bitch, Kelvin thought. She bristled at the way her mother began throwing things around, setting the bowl down a little too harshly and dropping the potato peeler into the sink with a loud 'clunk'.

"It's not bad."
"Are you really that nieve? Do you even know what that means?" Kelvin wisely held back from saying her best friend Brett, whom she was fiercly foribben to speak to, called her a dork all the time- and it was, in fact, affectionetly. Her mom scoffed loudly and all but hurled the spoon she'd been using into the sink. "Oh, what do I know? I'm just old and stupid." The words, though not really directed at her, were the first blow. The guilt trip.

"No you're not, mom." she said softly.

"I must be, if you'd rather listen to some white trash slut than your own mother." More guilt welled up inside her. There were several examples of this on her right now; the black rubberband around her wrist, the blue eyeshadow she had on, blue nail polish, handcuff earrings, and a button on her bag with a picture of Johnny Depp in his famous role as Jask Sparrow. Her mother thought that, after seeing an episode of George Lopez, colored string bracelets, rubberbands, and plastic bangles had a sexual meaning, and she hated to see Kelvin wear them on her wrists. Kelvin's friend Monica had assured her that it was a specific type of bracelet that held such a meaning, and that rubberbands were perfetly safe. Kelvin only wore them there for convinience, as she had rather long hair and was constantly losing rubberbands. Her mom also thought that blue nailpolish on her fingernails made her look gothic, and that 'goth' had spiritistic connections. Kelvin knew this had the potential to be true, but Monica explained that nail polish had nothing to do with spiritism in itself. Sure, if she was dressed head to toe as a goth girl, it could be bad, but Kelvin wore a lot of blue. It was her favorite color. The polish meant nothing. The earrings had been hers for years, and she liked to wear them sometimes just because they actually worked. Nothing more. Above all else, Kelvin's mom hated violence. Violent movies and TV shows were expressly forbidden, and the woman even gave her lectures for watching shows such as Batman or Superman. Pirates, she had explained numerous times, were murderers. Did she want to glorify murderers? Did she think that was cool, to murder innocent people?

She didn't even have to say any of it right then, all the previous lectures sprang to mind immediantly.

"You're not stupid, mom." Kelvin said again. She moved closer to her mom and hugged her arms around her. Her mom turned to look at her, and she must've had a pretty bad day herself, because all she did was stare blankly back at her, making a point to leave her arms hanging limply at her sides. Kelvbin held on for a moment, grinding her teeth as she felt something deep within her stab her square in the chest. When her mom did move, it was to snap the rubberband on her wrist. Kelvin didn't move.

"I have to make dinner, you know." she snapped again. "It would be done by now if you'd done your dishes last night, but nooo, I had to wake up to a door slamming and a dirty kitchen." Now Kelvin let go. She was in for it now and she knew it. She could've sworn she'd shut the door quietly that morning, but apparently she was wrong. "You don't do anything all day long but goof off and sit on your lazy butt. I ask you to do one simple thing and it's just so hard." Her voice was getting louder now. Kelvin was starting to feel the sharp nipping pain in her chest that was akin to that static-y feeling right before someone's struck by lightning. That foreboding feeling. Her mom went on, not needing another word from Kelvin. Her voice began o get more and more shrill, climbing in volume. Her movements got sharper, and she bustled around the kitchen forcefully, throwing things around and finally just throwing things. Screaming, hurling insults. Crying. Through it all, Kelvin sat at the counter, focusing on the fruitbasket in front of her, not saying a word. Not to defend her friends, not to defend herself, not to defuse. She let it all hit her like knives being thrown at her.

Kelvin had several very strange coping mechanisms. One was to picture a rolling object in her chest, like a ball of string. As long as it kept turning in the right direction, it couldn't unravel, and neither would she. Another, more destructive measure was to tell herself that she deserved this. In Kelvin's mind, she was beneath everyone around her. She wasn't good enough, never had been, and never would be. Everyone around her was important; she was not. She didn't deserve to be happy, she didn't deserve to have friends, and she certainly didn't deserve to have them over. Everything her mom had said was true. She listened to a lot of what Monica said. She had gone to bed the night before without cleaning the kitchen. A lot of what she did at school was just messing around. She got light-headed a lot, and was always sitting down to wait out dizzy spells, but that must be because her body was used to just sitting around. What her mom didn't say, a little voice in her head did.

"Worthless. Pathetic. You're nothing. You're here to help everyone else. People come to you and tell you their problems, and you listen. You're the shoulder to cry on, you're the sounding board. Don't you EVER try to be anything else. You're not good enough. You're beneath them. Look what you did to your mom. Ungreatful, selfish little brat." She'd sat there until her mother had declared Kelvin could make her own dinner and had stormed off to the garage. Kelvin had taken this oppritunity to slip into her bedroom, then into the bathroom with a very close friend.

Yet another coping mechanism she had, as well as one of the items on the list 'Things Wrong With Me', was that Kelvin was cutting herself. It had started out as an expariment earlier that year. Jessica cut herself to releave her issues with her boyfriend. Kelvin, however, was on a different scale. Jessica used a razor blade. Kelvin used an 'N' shapped nail with a very sharp point that she kept in that metal box. Jessica lined her shoulders and arms with deep cuts that bled heavily and left scars. Kelvin 'cat scratched', as she called it, under her shirt, just under her arms, in a place no one was likely to ever find out. At first, she had run a knife over her ankle. She hadn't even broken the skin. Knowing what a bad idea it was, she had confided in Jessica, Monica, and Brett. The girls did nothing. Jessica had actually laughed when she'd seen the tiny, almost nonexistant mark, as if it was cute. Monica had told her it was a bad idea, but acknowlaged that she didn't have a lot of room to talk, since she'd done it as well. Brett, on the other hand, had freaked out. He'd gone to the guidence coulser and had 'ratted her out', as Kelvin had called it then. After that had been settled, she'd been greatful. But she'd never stopped. She just stopped trying to get help.

And now, there she sat, in the dark, with the door locked and seven fresh lines on her ribcage, stinging like hell and oozing blood. But at least now she could breathe. She stopped bitting her fist and gave into the tears that were begining to fall anyway. She let them stream down her cheeks, trying hard not to cry too loudly, less she start another fight. She felt the makeup she wore being washed away, and she just knew she looked like shit. But she wasn't going anywhere, so who cared? She wished this was a movie, and that she could slip out the back door and run to Brett's house and cry to him, and that he'd hold her and comfort her, the way she'd had to do with Jessica earlier that week. She wished she could call him and tell him what had happened, the way Erica had called her, crying, after her dog had died. She wished someone would check on her, the way she did with Monica every now and then, to make sure she was alright. But the cold, brutal truth was that no one was there for her that way. She was a burden on her friends when she talked to them about this, and a burden to her mom when she tried to confide in her. No, Kelvin's problems were nobody's but her own. If this was how she had to deal with them, then so be it.

Awhile later, after she'd stopped crying, she stood up and turned on the light. She looked in the mirror, at the disgusting girl who peered back at her, and felt the contempt. Brown, lackluster eyes stared back at her, smeared eyeliner and blue eyeshadow, the coverup washed away by tears to reveal purple scars from acne that would never heal. A figure that wouldn't attract even a blind boy. Kelvin, although eighteen, was pretty much flat chested. Her arms were covered in scaly, red splotches that could be quite painful when her psoriasis was acting up. She covered them by wearing jackets all year round, no matter how hot it got. She looked down at her hands, and the tears stung her eyes again, because the palms of her hands were red and scarred, as were her fingertips. This was her own fault, she supposed, for not wearing gloves while she washed dishes in scalding hot water, but curiously enough, she didn't think that was where it had come from. It had come slowly, like a plague, covering one hand, fingertip by fingertip, until her fingerprints were pretty much gone. She couldn't feel anything anymore. What was worse, it seemed to be contagious. Her sister was starting to get it. What boy in his right mind would ever want to touch her? She wasn't just not pretty, she was repulsive. She was alone now, had been alone all along, and would have to stay that way, unless eh wanted to hurt someone. That was all she would ever do. Hurt people.

She washed her face and stormed off to her toom. Her dark, depressed mood was giving way to something else. She liked to consider this her Phoenix moment, where at least a tiny part of her arose from the ashes and forced her to keep going. Anger. Anger at herself, at her mother, at her friends for not caring, at everyone and everything. This, she didn't keep to herself, but she didn't exactly share it, either. There was one thing she was allowed to adore, almost obsess over, and that was Disney. She knew a great deal about the animated movies, about the characters, and one in particular she loved the most. Though it was one of the less popular movies, Kelvin absolutely loved Treasure Planet. In a way, it was her silent rebellion, since the movie feautred pirates. She also connected, in a way, to the main character. Jim Hawkins had lost his father when he was eight, and he obviously felt that missing something as well, and a lot stronger than she did. She had descovered fanfiction when she was thirteen, though for a different fandom. At fifteen, she had dabbled in writing a bit herself. Now, though, she poured out angst and horror into her fanfiction. She had an ongoing series, published under a false name. She didn't take it seriously, just something she did when she got angry.

There was someone she took her frustrations out on after all. It was days that ended like this that her fingers began to pound the keyboard rapid-fire, the only time when she expressed a side of her so gory, so dark, it made her sick. But it was only fiction. Fanfiction, and actually, other people seemed to like it. The more she had Jim beat and betrayed, the more he fell down on his luck, the more her readers wanted. In her story 'Failings', Jim had an abusive stepfather. His mother out of the picture, dead on account of some illness, Jim dealt with the same pain she did, only on a greater scale. Locking her door to make sure she was left alone, Kelvin booted up her computer. After texting Erica that her mom had suggested maybe another time(white lies never seemed to snowball for her), she began.

Jim didn't know Samuel was home...

o~O~o

Jim winced as the pain filled his body. He waited until the heavy footfalls left the alley before he attempted standing up. Everything hurt. He let out a moan, accompanied by a cough which left blood spattering on his vest from his busted lip. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet, leaning against the lamp post for support. Just his luck, it wasn't lit. The one night Morph had wandered off instead of staying with him. The brunette spat the blood out of his mouth and glanced around the darkening spaceport. Not a soul in sight, neither his assailants nor a constable. Not even a robocop. Of course not. And to top it off, they'd escaped, not only with the engine part he needed, but his change as well.

"Perfect." he muttered, and hissed as his still-tender knee reminded him sharply that this was the third time this month he'd been jumped. Tonight had been especially bad. He'd never known a boot to the face could hurt so much. Assuming that was a boot, and not a meat tenderizer. Heaving a sigh, the young man began the long, painful walk back to the small apartment he was renting.

All Jim could figure was that he had somehow upset some higher being. Things had been going alright for him. Ever since his now-famous journey to Treasure Planet, he'd really gotten his life together. He'd graduated from the Interstellar Academy, and had earned himself a high-paying job aboard one of the finest fleetships in the Emperial Navy. Things had been going so well for him. Then, out of the blue, he'd been accused of selling naval secrets to Pycron spies. He'd been taken to court, and thankfully he'd been able to pay a lawyer to clear his name, but by then it was too late. Word had spread fast of the affair, and in less than a week he'd gone from being the star cadet of the Etherial Navy, universally known hero, to a double-crossing rat. That had been a year ago. Ever since then his luck seemed to have been getting worse and worse. His mother had fallen on hard times as well, and had had to sell their beloved Benbow Inn. Delbert and Amelia had graciously taken her in, but she had told jim that she just couldn't stand the thught of being a burden to them. She was working three jobs just to support herself, but she had moved out and had a place to call her own again. Unfortunately, a relative of Amelia's had moved in with them, bringing with her three sons of her own. Added to the Doppler's four, that meant seven children and three adults, which equaled a full house. Which meant Delbert had had to ask Jim to leave as well. Which had resulted in Jim's scrounging for a job, and being homeless for quite some time, until he'd found the repair shop on a rather crowded spaceport. The pay was a mere fraction of what his navy job had paid, but Jim was glad to have it. He spent long hours fixing everything from skiffs to children's scooters, from age-old rickshaws to the strange, newfangled carriges that seemed to fall apart more often than their predecessors. It was hard work, and it was scarecly enough, but he was making due.

At least, he had been. He'd lost that month's rent because of the gangs that had begun to frequent the docks. His landlord was pretty pissed about it, but Jim had been able, by some miracle, to convince him to let him stay. They'd come to a compromise, and Jim had become the unpaid handyman of the complex. It seemed as though the only hours he didn't spend with a wrench in his hand were those when he was tossing and turning from those blasted nightmare. They weren't like normal nightmares, where you could wake up when you wanted to and escape them. No, he was trapped in them. He could never wake up while he was having them, not alone. What was more, he actually felt pain in them. If he was hit with a two-by-four, he felt it. If he was slapped in the face, he awoke to a nasty bruise. It was as if he was trapped in an alternate reality during the night, and he woke the next morning just as exhausted as when he went to bed.

Jim stumbled over the threshold of his modest home, which he had come to call his rathole. It was a tiny one-room appartment, with the bed jammed up against one wall, a closet, and a small table against the far wall that held a wash basin, a ragged towel, and a cracked mirror, all of which Jim was threatened with death if the condition of which worsened in the slightest while in his posession. He sat down on the bed and pulled his worn boots off his feet before laying back, groaning loudly as his sore muscles made contact with the threadbare sheets. He had no idea whre Morph was. Usually the little guy was right by his side. Jim was convinced he'd come back sooner or later. He always did.

There was a sudden banging on his door that had Jim on his feet in an instant.

"Woods! You owe me money!" His pulse slowed when he heard those familiar words, even if they did bring dread. He was trying to save whatever he could of his meager earnings to get back to Montressor. Running a hand over his face and wincing as he brushed his lip, Jim emptied out the money he owed, then cracked the door open a bit.

"Here." he mumbled, handing it to the infuriated lizzard-like alien, who counted it quickly before storming off. Jim sank back down onto the matress, ignoring the pains in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and he was starving, but he didn't have enough money to buy anything to eat now. What he hadn't had to use for rent, he'd lost to the muggers. Again.

In a fit of anger, Jim grabbed one of his boots off the floor and flung it at the wall. It didn't leave a mark, thank goodness, but it did help him feel a little better. He recalled an image from his bizzare dreams, one that brought an intense feeling of hate everytine he thought of it, though he had no idea why. He saw her in every nightmare, right before the pain started. Some kid, beant over a glowing square, tapping it with her fingertips as if it were a typewriter. He heard a voice which he could only guess to be hers, describing the situation he would soon find himself in. And then the voice faded and he'd be left to face whatever hell she'd dreamed up for him. It made him sick. He had no idea who she was, or even what she looked like, since her back was always to him, and she was always bundled up in baggy clothes. She sounded young, maybe even younger than him. Maybe it was stupid to take his agressions out on some weird figment of his imagination, some kid his subconcious had thought up. It was definetly something he'd never admit to anyone. He half wanted to strangle her in those dreams, make her pay for it, make her stop. If he could ever actually move in those dreams, he would. Blowing his overgrown, dirty hair out of his bloodshot eyes, Jim laid back down on the matress. It was stupid to let himself dwell on some weird dream.

Still.

A/N: Oh, and after Jim got so infamous, he goes by the false last name 'Woods'. Reviews appriciated.