This is a spin off of If There be Thorns by V.C. Andrews, If I get far enough, I may do another on the next book, Seeds of Yesterday. Yes, there is an 'original character' added to it, and yes, she is an extension of me. I honestly do not understand why some people like to scoff at 'original character' fanfics. They're not really meant to entertain the reader, but rather, the writer. We make up "OCs" because we want to be in the story in some way, and we do this purely for our own enjoyment. The truth is, if I really wanted to write a story without me in it, I'd just make up a new story. Really when you think about it, all the great novels are just extensions of the writers in one way or another. Any who, like dear Bart, I am just pretending. If you like it let me know. If not, fuck you.
With love and plutonium,
Missus Wicked.
Riding along in the slick black limousine, I could only stare out the window at the Pacific Ocean that bore me to America. Despite all my adoptive Okaisa Corrine did to strike up a conversation, I could only nod or give some other vague answer. Soon she fell asleep. Even when she slept, she kept her long veil over her face. I'd only seen her without it once before, when she came to the group home to find a "companion" as she put it. I couldn't blame her for hiding her hideous face, covered with scars and wrinkles. In public I called her "Miss Corrine", in private, Okaisa. She was my second best mother.
My real mother, named Iwamura Akemi, had the best job anywhere, in my opinion. She was an assassin. By the time she was twenty, she had become the top assassin in Japan and one of the top female assassins in the world. My father, who was Columbian, was a hitman. Few people understand the difference between hitmen and assassins. A hitman works for a simple mob or a drug lord. They take care of small, insignificant people who owe money, or have disrespected their superiors. An assassin, however, is hired or employed by only top flight mafia, to find and take out important figures. Such as politicians, other mafia bosses, and royalty. To be an assassin, was to be a professional killer. When my parents met and married, they retired to a small flat in Tokyo. Their bosses didn't like that they quit without notice, and spent a lot of time trying to find them, for "dead men tell no tales" type reasons. But my parents were not without their wits, and lived simple lives, though they could have lived lavishly if they so chose. This technique worked well for several years.
Growing up, my parents did not hide a single thing from me about killing people for a living. They taught me that it was natural, because killing was a part of nature. It existed in all other animals, they said.
"And we are animals," my mother would add.
They made points to make it very clear to me that killing was not an "appropriate" thing to do just because you wanted to. If you had a sizable fortune to gain, then killing was perfectly acceptable. This is what my foundation was built on. "Kill to gain, not because you can."
My parents were not killing machines; cold, lifeless, and sadistic, No. They were loving, devoted, and intelligent role models. Even though I learned what most people thought and think of killing and murder, I did not blame my parents in the slightest. They did not kill because they liked to kill, but because they were good at it, and were paid handsomely for it.
In our little flat in Tokyo, my parents' home schooled me. They did not teach me math or reading, but focused more on language, and the art of combat. When I was learning how to speak, my mother taught me Japanese. When I was a little older, my father taught me Spanish. And finally when I was eight, both of them taught me English. For one language is the most widely spoken, and that is English. When I was eleven, I spoke all three languages fluently. My mother stayed home with me every day, and for three hours a day she showed me how to defend myself and how to attack others. Swordplay and marksmanship were her specialties. And when all of that was over….I still had to get up and go to school in the mornings!
A few days after my eleventh birthday, my parents and I were settling down in the one bedroom we all shared. No sooner had my father clicked off the light, when there came a horrible, wrenching noise from the front door. My mother barely had time to order me to the closet, before the door seemed to blow off its' hinges. I heard my parents quickly springing into action, but it was all over in a few seconds. The first gunshot rang out loudly, and my mother swore. Called them bastards. Then the second gunshot screamed through the small closet. There were footsteps, a distant door slamming, and a ringing silence.
I did not wail loudly as I drew the covers over my parents' corpses, though fat salty tears slid down my face. I missed my parents already, though they had exposed me to all that guns and swords could do. They even expected to be killed before I reached eighteen, and told me so. No surprises, only grief. I prayed that my parents found their places in paradise, and that someday, I'd do them proud.
After many judges and many hearings, I went to go live with my father's very old mother in San Francisco. Her dark, wrinkled face always had a smile for me, and though she spoke only Spanish, I loved her dearly. I went to American school for a time, and found American teenagers self indulged and stupid, so I studied at home, on a computer. It was our morning ritual to drink our 100 Columbian coffee together, and one morning, a few months after my thirteenth birthday, my grandmother did not get up.
So there I ended up; in a group home, with many silly American girls. No family, no friends, and having little or no money in my purse. I had to sell what little I had of value to buy little things. Without my books, without my shamisen, without my parents, I was in hell.
But I only had to suffer for five miserable weeks, when Miss Corrine found me. She came to the group home looking for a young girl of twelve or thirteen years of age, that she could keep. For as she told the people who ran the group home, she was very lonely. She would pay them substantially if there were no questions asked. They of course, working minimum wage jobs, consented. The other girls were frightened by her Muslim appearance and avoided her, but I was merely curious. I permitted her to sit and talk with me. She commented on the beauty of my long, sleek, jet black hair, and I allowed her to brush it while she talked to me.
"Why do you want a girl specifically of this age?" I asked calmly.
Even though I couldn't see her, I could feel her grow heavy with sadness.
"I had a young girl of your age once. She looked just like me, and I was very beautiful at one time. She was sweet, and beautiful, and loved me so much."
"What happened to her?"
She stiffened.
"She….died. When she was fifteen."
"I'm sorry for your loss Mrs. Winslow."
"Thank you. What is your name, my dear?"
"Jasmine. But my mother would call me Rin."
"Rin. What does that mean?"
"Severe, cold, dignified."
I felt her shudder, but she regained her composure quickly.
"Where is your mother now?" she asked, still brushing my hair gently.
"Both of my parents were murdered." I said flatly.
"That's awful! I'm so sorry. Did you love your mother?"
"Very much."
"Do you miss her?"
"Every day."
"You seem so calm about it. But I suspect that is the Japanese in you."
"I guess it must be, Mrs. Winslow."
"You know, I am very wealthy…I could give you anything you wanted, if you should like to leave this place and come live with me."
I turned around to look at her. Her bluest eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled so hopefully at me. She needed someone to replace her dead daughter and keep her company. I needed someone to replace my dead mother and take me away from here. All I can remember are her sweet eyes, brimming with wistful optimism.
"I would like that very much, Mrs. Winslow."
She beamed, and got up from the floor.
"Well I'll see to it that you are taken out of here straight away, tomorrow if I can manage it."
She embraced me briefly, which made me feel awkward, and turned to go.
"And no more of this 'Mrs. Winslow' business, you can call me 'momma' or just Corrine."
"I think I will call you Miss Corrine in public."
"And in private?"
"Okaisa. It means 'mother'." I added. She smiled indulgently.
"Thank you, Jasmine. You've given this old lady a reason to smile again."
"You're very welcome….Okaisa."
She closed the door gently.
Immediately, I rushed over to the mirror to gaze at my reflection. Same black, rectangular, horn rimmed glasses. Same small lips. Same deep-set, round, brown eyes. Same heart shaped face. Same coffee-with-just-a-little-too-much-milk-added complexion. Really what had I expected to be different? My expression, perhaps.
Having no desire to sleep that night, I lay awake pondering over the great fortune that had befallen me. To think, a girl facing nothing but emptiness, had found a place in the world in just a few short hours. I felt lucky, thrilled, that at last some hope was on the horizon. But I should have learned from the mistakes of my parents. I should have known that getting involved with the wealthy and the powerful always leads to trouble…and misery.