My Best Defense;
an: hi. sorry this isn't a continuation of "drop the bomb" (oh hey, you should go check that shit out if you haven't… oops, was that a shameless plug? I think so…) but what's this? a multi-chapter fiction? perhaps. here's the pilot, kids. enjoy!
p.s.: this is not the writing style I am planning to write the entire fiction with. the omniscient narrator, I believe, will only be present for the first chapter, a scene setter, if you will. oh. and yes. it's very short. it's just a little "hey look, this is a story setting! cool beans!" the next chapter might follow quickly. OH! and my second shameless plug of the note, the cd "no more sad face" by a band called "single file" is basically the soundtrack to this fiction. so go youtube them. they're amazing.
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A bed with white cotton sheets and a high thread count sat unoccupied, the cloth pristine and uncorrupted—not even the tiny eyelet details had been torn as a sign of the first wash. The petit brunette eyed it from behind her counter, and then averted her lovesick gaze from the beacon of warmth and comfort to that of her cheap phone, checking the time for what seemed to be the tenth time. She fondled the cord of the department's phone, noting that "Line One" was still illuminated by that horrid red LED light. Her chewed fingernails started, on their own accord, to drum incessantly, waiting for her boss to end her phone conversation and call her in to go over the "serious issue concerning next Tuesday's sale".
Bella Swan, twenty four years, eleven months, and thirty days old, was waiting to be briefed on "proper sales etiquette concerning final furnishing closeouts" so that she could finally catch a few hours of sleep before her oddly demanding friends kidnapped her for her birthday. Hours past closing time, she had been holed up in the aged department store, afraid to interrupt her, for lack of better word, bitch of a boss, for fear of a verbal beating. Bella let out a loose yawn as she placed all her belongings in her purse that she'd already retrieved from her locker before glancing once again at the nondescript black telephone, that, oddly enough, was one LED light darker.
Yes, she sighed to herself as she started toward her boss's office that was craftily tucked away in the personal shopping department. She knocked softly on the fogged glass door, "Tanya? You wanted to see me?" After no response, the bitter and tired twenty-something hastily opened the door, not seeing the statuesque strawberry blonde but Bud, the graveyard shift janitor, who was quietly dusting the desk.
"Need anything, Miss?" He asked, glancing up from his bottle of Pledge and rag, his grey eyes wandering up and down the slightly swaying brunette.
"Oh, um… I guess not," she said, biting her lip, tossing yet another anxious glance toward the wall clock, before looking back at Bud, who had resumed dusting. "Actually, have you seen Tanya, er… the supervisor of the home furnishings department?" Bella ran her right hand through her thick hair and nervously scratched the back of her neck.
Bud placed the can gingerly on the maple desk before speaking, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw her walking to her car with that young boy from Hot Dog Nation… what's that kid's name… Newton. Yeah, with Newton, uh about an hour ago. Hope that helps."
The girl's right hand at the base of her neck turned from nervous to infuriated in about twelve seconds, forming into a tough fist before she nodded to Bud and turned on her somewhat unsteady heel and started toward the parking garage. She sailed home, catching every green light almost as if karma were congratulating her on her fourteen-hour workday. Her large brick apartment building stood like a beacon at the corner of the street, and she hastily pulled into the parking space with her number on it, nearly forgetting her keys in the ignition in her elation to be home.
Bella moved like a ghost through her small apartment, tossing her beat up keys vaguely toward their bowl and haphazardly tossing her bag and coat somewhere near the rack. She immediately began undressing herself, groaning every time she saw a clock and realizing she had only three hours before she had to be out the door again. She was slightly comforted by the fact that she wouldn't have to pack for the overnight excursion, but her comfort shifted quickly to disdain upon realization that the person in charge of her wardrobe was the same person who wore five-inch heels and tight corsets because they were comfortable.
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"Happy quarter-century birthday dear Bella, happy birthday to you!" A broken chorus of tequila infused women sang to the brunette who was currently sitting on the bar countertop, legs crossed and head in hands as her face was overcome by a brilliant blush. The short black-haired girl next to her rubbed her back soothingly before erupting into giggles about some earlier joke, the "you're not that old" speech forgotten before it even began. Rosalie, the standoffish blonde quietly passed Bella a glass with a caramel-brown substance in it, whispering to just drink it before she started thinking of exactly how old she had become.
Minutes later, the warm (or was it on ice?) drink settled into Bella's stomach, and she and the two friends that she could remember meeting before she enteed the bar, were leaving the bar and walking toward their hotel room that they were splitting. Well, that Alice and Rosalie were splitting—part one of Bella's present, two free nights in Las Vegas.
They entered the street, walking on the wide curb under the famous neon signs. Alice seemed to dance as she walked, seeming insanely comfortable in her leather pants. Rosalie, on the other hand, walked calmer, more like a glide, which also seemed insane to Bella, how could one glide if she was wearing four-inch heels? Bella, contrasting her two closest friends completely, stumbled. She stumbled on every single crack, every slight change in the sidewalk, as she was not used to the tight pencil dress she was wearing in addition to the black "come hither" (as Alice insisted) pumps.
But, she was drunk. So she hardly cared. Perhaps this was the reason behind her next brilliant decision.
"Hey… uhh Bella! Look at that sign! It says Tat-oo. Now, why would someone ever buy a sign that says" she hiccupped, "tat-oo?" Alice asked, pausing around ten feet ahead of Bella and Rosalie, who had both stopped to look at the sign in question.
Bella shook her head carefully, as if she could somehow slosh the alcohol to the back of the brain so she could power through the odd thing Alice had pointed out.
Odd thing?
Even marinated in alcohol, Bella could figure it out. The sign's second "t" had gone out, only leaving a small part illuminated. Duh, she thought to herself.
However, this revelation seemed to make Bella ponder… Tattoo. She had always dreamed of one, all romanticized and such. A pretty tattoo would just appear just as she wanted, in just the perfect color and just the perfect placement. Nevertheless, she could never find it in herself to just do it, and get one, to finally fulfill her secret wish. And this too got her thinking, had she fulfilled any of her desires in life? This question, of course answerable with many different desires that she has indulged in, hung in the air pointedly to the drunken Bella, a sort of quarter-life crisis for her.
"Guys, I'm getting a tat-oo."
According to drunken Bella, that night would be the pivot point of her entire outlook on her future.
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The three of them entered the brightly lit tattoo parlor, Bella fastest and most determinedly toward the crinkly man behind the counter.
"I want a tattoo," she said simply, eyeing the one of a snake crawling up and around his neck. The man—Jeff or Jack, it was an ambiguous nametag—eyed the brunette up and down, appreciating the tight black and gold dress.
He replied to her chest, "Sorry, it's a bit late right now for a tattoo. How about tomorrow morning sugar?" He clasped his hands together and smiled a toothy (and exceedingly) creepy grin. "Now, how about we fix you guys up with some beer, eh?" He asked hopefully, eyeing the blonde and black haired women in addition to his favorite brunette.
Rosalie, seemingly more sober than her counterparts, replied stiffly, "That's quite alright, Sir, we'll just take our business elsewhere." She extended her arms out to her faded friends and steered back out of the parlor. Not, of course, before the overconfident (due to her new realization) Bella decided that the threshold would make a fantastic place to trip.
Ah well, isn't a split forehead everyone's favorite twenty-fifth birthday gift?
Of course, it's a followed closely by having Dr. Carlisle Cullen as one's attending ER physician.