She was breathtakingly beautiful, even whilst sitting in a cramped room of decrepit decay. The woman focused on her reflection as she combed her hair in the vanity mirror. Despite the cracks littering the reflective surface, her stunning red hair seemed to light the room on fire. She was young, no older than nineteen, yet her posture and clothing portrayed her as a mature adult. Her nose was small and angular, eyes a lovely baby blue, and her fair skin was dotted with freckles mimicking a starry sky.
She set down her comb and got to work applying her lipstick. It was the brightest shade of red she could find in the marketplace, yet it still paled in comparison to her radiant locks. It was her hair that defined her outer beauty, and it was what usually drew her customers.
The frilled white skirt was just short enough to show off her dainty ankles, her feet dolled up in a pair of deadly black stilettos. The purple corset showed off her freckled décolletage, adorned with a faux pearl necklace. Depending on where she was, she could pull off the look of a young woman having a good night out. However, her profession was clear when caught in the daylight, standing at the mouths of alleyways and at the intersections between the low-class and mining districts. Inside her rented room, however, she could pretend to be an ordinary woman getting ready to start the day. The average mother with no obligations other than to love her son.
"Mom! I'm heading out, okay?!" A streak of red flashed behind her in the mirror and she dropped her lipstick to snag her son as he raced by.
"And where might you be going, my Little Red Cat?"
She hugged the young boy to her chest, nuzzling the fiery hair that matched her own. The disparity between the qualities of their clothing often horrified her, but they were not a wealthy family. Money that wasn't spent on rent or food was put into her makeup and wardrobe. She needed to keep up appearances to bring in clients, and the limitations of their funds did not allow for many new clothes for her son. Even now he wore the same clothes she had seen on him every day for the past three months. The threadbare striped pants and shirt were covered in numerous patches and tiny holes. What had once been a crisp white shirt was now a muddy brown. On his head was a pair of circular goggles, and they helped tamed his unmanageable hair.
"The junkyard!"
She smiled at her son's loud voice, always so much larger than life. He was a rambunctious child, running around all day and night, coming home with scrapes and bruises for her to tend to. He was the light of her life, even if he was the source of her constant headaches. Despite his nature to disappear for days on end, he always returned to soothe her worries. He was her Little Red Cat, always coming back with presents to cheer her up. So intelligent, her ray of sunshine, already an inventor at the tender age of seven. She could see he was holding one of his newest projects, a small robot he had made himself. She wondered where he got such talent, and if it had come from his father.
Of course, these were dangerous thoughts, as she saw the man every other day, keeping him in the dark about his offspring. He was one of her clients, and she had only known him to be the father once her child was born. Most of her customers were drunken middle-aged men, but sometimes she was purchased by a truly ferocious customer. Many a time she was able to play off her fear as arousal, but sometimes she was not so lucky.
Her lengthy skirts hid the nasty bruises and scars she refused to show her son. Of all the young ill- tempered men who visited her on occasion, there was one in particular with sandy blonde hair and rusty eyes who had a hard time keeping himself in check. Since her son's birth she had hid him away, sending him off to play while she did her rounds. It was not her intention to hide her profession, but she hoped to keep him in the dark for a few more years. As was her son's disposition to surprise her, he had caught on quickly. He never said it outright, a worry in itself, but she caught him watching her on the corner from a distance.
"Mom! I'm gonna be late! The guys will get all the good parts!" Her Little Red Cat struggled in her arms and she kissed his nose for good luck.
"Have a good day, Kidd. Make sure to watch your step and keep out of the others' way." Her son blinked up at her with his unique set of eyes and beamed a brilliant grin.
"Yes! Bye Mom! Love you!" She lowered her head so he could kiss her on the cheek, and he was out the door.
She returned to her makeup, cleaning the red smear from the countertop. She would make the best of the day, for the sake of her Little Red Cat.
Kidd sprinted through the backroads, avoiding toppled trash cans. The town of Oresmith was, for lack of a better word, a trash town. While it had its commonplace market square and town hall, a shopping district and the upper class condos, the town was a dump. Literally and figuratively, as Oresmith made its living off the garbage heaps making up its borders. Surrounded by more prosperous cities and territories, Oresmith had created a wall of the discarded waste, mooching off its wealthy neighbors.
Most of the townsfolk made their living in the trash heaps, collecting useful items to be resold at a meager price. Many people were starved and diseased, making a living off the bare bones of others. It was eat or be eaten in Oresmith, filled with human scum and surrounded by rotting garbage, as if they had emerged from the filth themselves.
Even at his age, Kidd wasn't a stranger to the world of living garbage he resided in. He had created his own home in its recesses. A place he could play during the day, and at night he had enough blankets to keep warm. The sun was unforgiving in South Blue, and the night was just as brutal. In a neighboring city, one whose name Kidd had yet to learn, there were several factories who let loose their wastes into the air. Tall smoke stacks spewed ash and dust, and those unaccustomed wore masks to breathe. Kidd had grown up in this world of acid rain and rusty metal, of smog and living garbage.
"Fuck! Watch it, little shit!"
Kidd ducked beneath a couch two men were moving slowly along the path. He stuck out his tongue and they flipped him off. He hated these people, with their cruelty and lack of care for living things.
If he wasn't careful out here he could get killed by the elements or otherwise, but for the latter he was well equipped with speed. He had lost count of the number of times he had run circles around his pursuers, usually angry collectors trying to take back their stolen loot. But Kidd was greedy, as all children are, and took what he could.
Reaching the foot of "his" trash mound, he began the arduous climb to his hideout. Rusted metal and festering rot, the trash mountain of treasure he had claimed for his own. He had hollowed out a portion of it, using coolers and sheets of metals for walls, created his own little cave. He shimmied through the tight gap that made the entrance, and braced himself for impact. It was conical inside, a tepee just for him.
The darkness was a welcoming embrace from the blazing sun, even if the hovel was eternally warm. During the day the trash mountain became a furnace, with Kidd as the bread. As long as he stayed in the bottom of the funnel, he could rest in relative comfort without having to fear for his life. For light he had a gas lamp he would use in emergency, usually working with the natural light of the sun reflecting off the metal surrounding him.
If he wasn't napping, he was working on his newest invention. The robot he had carried with him was only one of dozens he had hand crafted out of his pseudo-walls. They were a way to pass the time, and they became the toys he couldn't have. It had started when he had been chased into the shopping district after he had stolen a set of discarded leather shoes. Running past the storefront windows, fogged from the humidity and smeared dirt, he had spotted a red action figure.
Too expensive to obtain without stealing it, he stared at the glossy figurine, rapt with want. He had promised his mother to never steal anything other than trash, and he would keep to his promise despite his desire. In its stead he crafted his own toys, action figures of faulty gears and rusted iron. In his hovel he could pretend to be a superhero, or even a dragon. He could be whatever he wanted, defeat the villains and save his mom. She loved his robots and his other inventions, like the pocket watch he had managed to fix for her birthday and the automatic watering can he made for her garden.
He had always had an eye for fixing things, for creating works of art from the garbage he lived in. Oresmith was a hell hole, filled with cinder and ash, blood and death, but he could rise above that in his imaginations. He could sail away with his mother and live happily ever after somewhere far away. Somewhere with snow, from the season that never graced the burning town.
Yes, snow would something beautiful to witness, a pure, unsullied wonder. What he wouldn't give to see a snowfall with his mother, to visit a winter wonderland just for them.
Meanwhile, in the North Blue town of Flevance, a boy trudged through the snow. Clutching his parka, the boy gnawed on the fur lined hood to hold back his tears. His thoughts drowned him in a downward spiral.
Lami would be alright, his father was a brilliant doctor. He was sure there was a cure, and he trusted his father's skill. He hadn't shown signs of amber lead poisoning just yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time. Until then, he had to stay strong for Lami so she would get better, he just had to keep his faith.
He fervently held on to the hope that in the future he would be just as astounding a doctor as his father, and that Lami would be able to live out her own dreams. They'd live in matching houses, side by side, and he would relish their closeness. Never again would he have to trudge through thick snow to visit her in the hospital on the other side of town. They would never have to worry about things like amber lead poisoning and white patches.
About dying.
He cursed the snow.
IMPORTANT NOTICE PLEASE READ
I am aware people browse and a03 for their smut to fap to, and I am no exception, but my stories are not smut. Any sex in them is realistic and gritty, and often unwanted. I want to tell a story, not a porno. I want to drag my readers in and make them cry, I want them to root for my characters and even sympathize with my villains. Of course, most of them aren't given any good traits with which to do so, though my actual novels are different.
Yes, I write novels, and have over seventy planned and two manuscripts in my desk drawer. My grammar and spelling are way off on because I am a horrible reviewer of my own work, while I am a grammar nazi for others. I have recently buckled down and started to comb through my own writing with the addition of roping in a beta to help.
About the previous chapter's graphic detail, I apologize, but that's the way I write. There is no stylization of my writing, I give you hard cold facts. My writing isn't pretty, it's beautifully tragic. Psychological trauma and the physiological effects of mental and sexual abuse are my specialty and I take pride in the legitimacy of my fanfics and novels for their roots in reality. I'm not trying to rag on you, I'm just trying to explain what you can expect in the future of this fic. What I wrote there is just the tip of the iceberg of the cruelty and graphic detail coming in just a couple chapters.
For example, as stated in the warnings, there will be graphic depictions of rape and sexual torture, which will be given its full list of warnings beforehand. I am a person who is fascinated by how trauma affects the human brain, as I have gone through my own fair share of torment in my life and noted its effect on my development. I wouldn't change any of it for the world, however, as I am proud of the individual I am today because I overcame my demons. I seek to write about characters who go through severe levels of trauma and slowly overcome their demons in order to help others going though similar situations.
I preface, however, and strongly emphasis, that the warnings before each upcoming chapter are taken seriously. While my stories may be disturbing they are written to help those in trauma see a light at the end of the tunnel. However, it may also serve as a trigger for those going through the specifics mentioned in my stories. Please be good to yourself and know your triggers, I wish to help, not harm.