Hi! I'm happy that some of you are liking and reviewing this! I don't have a lot to say as I need to get off to head off somewhere else but I hope the new chapter is to your liking. Enjoy!:D
~Over & Out
Title: Lost In The Shadows
Author: The Song of Luthien
Rating: PG-13 or R- horror violence, language, and sensuality/sexuality
Summary: What if you were betrayed by your own flesh and blood so they could save their own skin, to be left with a bunch of dangerous vampires? David allows Michael and Star to become humans but Michael must give over his sister to him and the lost boys as their end of the bargain. Celia is furious and hates that her own brother would do this to her but she seems to hate, even fear, her captor more. Will she be able to escape or will Celia be forever lost in the shadows? A dark, mature retelling of Beauty and the Beast; Lost Boys style.
Characters: Celia (Emma Watson), David (Kiefer Sutherland), Michael (Jason Patric), The Lost Boys (Billy Wirth), Alex Winter, and Brooke McCarter), Sam (Corey Haim), Frogs (Corey Feldman and Jamison Newlander) etc...
Pairings: David + Celia, Celia + another OC
Theme: Only One by Yellowcard and Beauty and the Beast by idk (Maybe the Stevie Nick's 1983 version)
Disclaimer: I do not own Lost Boys.
Over & Out
Celia's POV
The sun shined through the opened windows of Bryce Hastings's TriBeCa's townhouse. It wasn't really his real, daily living residence; that one was a mansion up in the Upper East Side. Bryce just used this place for parties when his mother didn't want puke and guts all over her precious Shaw carpets, like any of that mattered. Apparently all that mattered at the moment was who were the British gods of classic rock: The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. Lot of debating and people still getting over their hangover made it a bit more entertaining.
"You can't just prefer The Rolling Stones over The Beatles!" Jimi Binx cried out. "That is just so wrong on so many levels. I'm not sure you can actually compare anything to the Beatles-"
"Says you!" Laughed Anita Madison, Bryce's girlfriend and the annoying chick in my art history class. "The Rolling Stones are still going on and kicking it! Face it darling, The Beatles are dead. Quite literally dead, actually!" And so more annoying helium-like giggling continues.
"Now wait a minute, we all should know who are the gods of claasic rock: The Doors." Bryce crowed. "Seriously, their music is amazing and sick-"
"-I thought we were talking about British classic rock." I said. "And last time that I checked, The Doors were American."
The idiotic grin on Bryce's face faded. "Man, Celia, why you always harshing me? Why you always so-"
Ruta Valquez, a diplomat's daughter, cuts him off. "Oh don't bother, Bryce. You know why."
"Yeah baby, we all do. It's getting boring," Said Anita.
"And one last thing," I said, ignoring them. "And if my memory serves me correct from last week, when Mr. Canovas asked us who was our inspirations. Jimi said- besides John Lennon- that his inspiration was Jim Morrison. And then I hear giggling from behind and a little voice saying, 'That crack head? Makes sense.' So yeah, it does make sense when you also love going through your brother's weed because you just gotta have a high moment. However I can't decide what moment shows off your intelligence; this or when you said that that WWII was that thing where we went to fight off the Chinese? That was the Japanese dumbass, and we didn't fight the Chinese till a few years down the road in the Korean War. Now what do you think makes you feel high and mighty now?"
Bryce's eyes harden. His mouth twitched. "You're battery acid. You know that?"
"I do."
I am. I can be when I want to. No doubt about it. I like humiliating Bryce. I like causing him pain. It feels good. It feels better than his dad's whiskey. Because for just a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For a few seconds, I'm not alone.
I plopped down on the couch and sing the first verse and chorus of The Door's "People Are Strange" and then "L.A. Woman". A bit over exagerrated and badly, but it does the trick. Bryce swears at me and storms off.
Ruta glared. "That was brutal, Celia. He's a fragile soul," she says; then she takes off after him. Anita takes off after her.
I called out. "Not my fault that he doesn't think before he says anything!"
Ruta doesn't give a rat's ass about Bryce or his precious fragile soul. The only thing she'll ever want from him is her buzz from the alcohol and drugs for the morning and then she's ready to go out and face the world.
I sit up on the couch and grabbed for the phone and start dialing the number I needed. The other end keeps ringing and ringing until it's finally picked up by it's owner. "Sanjay, party's over. Need you to come get me and Jimi."
"It's 8:30!" Sanjay whined, sleep still evident in his voice. "I got a cousin's wedding in a few hours! Couldn't you call your dad-"
"No way!" I cut him off. "The last thing I need is another battle of WWIII in the morning. Please?"
I heard him sigh on the other end and say, "Fine. I'll be there in ten minutes."
After that was over, I turned and saw Jimi taking out his pack of cigarettes.
"Hey. Can I have a smoke?" I asked. He gave me a cigarette and lighted it up for me.
"I thought you didn't smoke?" Asked Jimi.
"I don't," I said after taking a drag. "But I don't have any coffee right now to get me easy and relaxed. Besides, there's always a first for everything." Another drag and blow. "And by the way, definitely the Beatles."
I opened the front door slowly- very, very slowly and quietly so as not to wake anybody and get caught. That was the last I needed right now. I looked around the living room. No Dad or Step-Whore in sight. I breathed in a sigh of relief and continued my way to my room. As I was climbing up the stairs, I was stopped by a voice near me, "Had fun at the party?"
Shit.
I turned to see Dad coming out of the hallway that lead to the kitchen. He looked weary and pissed off, but that wasn't anything new. He's looked that way ever since the divorce. "I hope you do realize that you missed your curfew."
"Yeah Dad, I know." I sighed. I knew this was going to happen anyway; I just didn't want to hear it right now. A door opened, and I saw my very pregnant stepmother, Gloria, coming and standing at the landing of the stairs.
"Stephen, is everything alright?" She asked, her Spanish accent drawling all over the question.
"Yes Gloria, everything is fine," Dad reassured, smiling. "I just need to speak to Celia for a moment. You go on back to bed."
Gloria smiled back and left. The smile on my father's face was gone in a flash, and his stone cold expression was back when he turned to face me. "Living room. Now."
I sighed again and walked back down and into the living room. I sat back on the rocking chair that had been my grandmother's, while Dad sat on the couch facing me.
"Celia, this has to stop." He said, which sounded more like an order coming from a military general, not from a brain surgeon.
I shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head.
"I mean it."
"I know you do." I muttered, turning to look at the window but not him.
"Look at me." He pleaded. I didn't and he sighed. "You've been here for a month to take that Art program and you act out. Going to parties without my permission, disrespecting myself and Gloria. I get a call from the headmistress at Rothschild's. Saying you're getting into fights with Bryce Hastings-"
Okay, I had to laugh at that one because Bryce was a pussy when it came to fighting with me or even anyone. Dad's glare only deepen. I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Sorry."
He did the same thing and sighed. "And what type of things you're doing there-"
"Like what?"
"Like creating things too disturbingly macabre and dark-"
"But that's art! Being creative! I thought that was the point in being an artist-"
"You used to paint and draw so many lighthearted things and landscapes-"
"And I still do! But I also found another thing I like to make besides that." I pointed out. "With everything I do, art is everything I wanna do when I'm older-"
"Just stop there, please!" Dad hissed. "Do you hear yourself? You want to be an artist- as a career?"
I nodded my head as a 'yes'.
And then, something happened. My father's lips started to wear an odd kind of smile. And then, derisive laughter escapes him. It was loud and hearty that I thought Gloria would come down to see what was the matter. But there was no sympathy. Just cold, mock, and humorless. Then Dad stopped abruptly and he was back to being cold and calculating. "You can't be serious!"
I shrugged by shoulders. "I am."
He scoffed. "That is no way to make a living!"
"Yes it is!"
"There must be something else you want to do than this. Like a doctor, teacher-"
"But I want to be an artist!" I snarled. "I never want to be like you!"
Dad looked like he'd been slapped. "My God, Ceely," He said. "Why must you be so difficult? Why can you just be-"
"What?" I scoffed "What d'you want me to be like? Like Michael?"
Dad sighed in frustration. "That's not what I meant-"
"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what you mean, Dad."
I want to stop the words, but I can't. Dad means well. I guess in his own way. He cares. I know he does. But I can't stop. Because even if he means well doesn't excuse him. He shouldn't have said. He knows that. I know that. The rage is there, rising higher, and I can't stop it.
"You wished that I was more like Mike," I told him. "Sweet, good, Saint Michael. The perfect son. The perfect child that doesn't do anything wrong. Well let me tell you something, I'm sorry I can't be more like-"
"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Dad finally lost it. Everything was silent.
The anger inside of me is still there, red and deadly. I look away, trying to wrestle it down, bite my tongue down till it started to bleed so I wouldn't say anything that I was going to regret later, wishing he would just leave it alone and go to work. Wishing I was hearing a lecture about art history but not his voice. Wishing I was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Cloisters. Wishing I was upstairs and working on my latest project. Art was all that I wanted and needed. It kept me sane and balanced. My art teacher and mentor at Rothchild's, Abram Weir, said I had the talent and the making to be a professional artist. Which reminded me, I'm supposed to be at my art lesson with Abram. Right now.
"How is my Georgia, ja?" He always said when I came into his classroom. His favorite artists were Picasso, Van Gogh, and the no brainer, Georgia O' Keefe.
Abram Weir is old. He's seventy-five and wears a small gold hoop earring in his left ear. He originally came from Cologne. When he was in his teens or twenties, he lost his father at Auschwitz. He was separated from his girlfriend, Anna, his mother and sisters when they were on the train; his father was gassed on their 22nd day at the concentration camp because he was too weak to work. Abram was able to get out when the American soldiers came and liberated the camp and he traveled to Paris to make a living as painter and then later came to New York when he earned enough money.
I knew what Abram would say about the argument. He'd say that some people were ignoramus but yeah it was going to be a tough to be an artist. You had to give everything you got to make it cut. He was on that road before. He says I've got what it takes to be on that long road. And so what was the point to piss all over yourself about it? Abram wouldn't make a tragedy of it. He knew better. He knew tragedy. He knew loss. And he knew there was no such thing as forgiveness.
"Celia? Celia, are you hearing anything I'm saying?"
Dad is still at it.
"Yes, Dad, I am," I said solemnly, hoping that if I look contrite I might get out of here before midnight.
"If you don't clean up your act and continue pulling shit, then I'm going to pull you out of St. Rothchild's Art Program and send you back to your mother in Santa Carla."
My head shot up at this. I shake my head, cutting him off. Both legs were jiggling now. I'm sweating. Trembling. I need my classroom. My teacher and mentor. I need my art. Badly. Very badly. Now.
"You can't do that!" I hissed.
"I'm still your father. I can and I will." He shot then sighed deeply. "I'm already late for work. I only stayed behind so I would talk about this with you."
He got up, grabbed his suitcase and walked to the door. "I expect change, Celia. I mean it or you're going to Santa Carla. Is that clear?"
I don't say anything. I just remained silent. I nodded. Not caring. Not at all. Just desperate to get to my lesson. The shuts and he leaves. I jumped out of the seat, grabbed my bag that had all of my art supplies, running out of the door and getting a cab to take me to 100 Fifth Ave.. Thirty-nine minutes left. The cab stops, I paid and rush into my destination. Luckily the halls are nearly empty. I break into a mad run. I thanked God from heaven above that no faculty or staff didn't tell me to slow down. I'm paying no attention. I'm paying no attention, running flat out, when suddenly my foot catches on something and I'm airborne. I hit the floor hard, feel the breath knocked out of me and knees slam down, my chest, my chin. Some of my supplies scatter across the floor. My right knee is singing. I can taste blood in my mouth.
"Oops."
I look up. It's Bryce. He's walking backward down the hall, smirking and feeling smug. Anita is with him. I get up. He tripped me. Payback for making him look like a total idiot this morning.
"Be careful, Celia. You could break your neck that way," He said.
I shake my head. "Really, Bryce," I said. "Out of all the million way you could get back at me, you choose the 2nd grade, juvenile choice. However, I'm not surprised by the effort." I licked the dripping blood from my moth at I speak.
Bryce stopped dead. His smirked slipped. He looked confused, then annoyed.
"Freak. Let's get out of here." Anita hissed. She tugged on his arm.
I get up, get my stuff off the floor, and limp off. Down the hallway. And around a corner. And then I'm there. Finally there. I yanked open the door.
Abram looked up from a canvas he was working on. He smiled. "How's my Georgia, ja?"
"Like I'm about to loose my head." I said, voice cracking and smiling weakly.
His bushy white brows shoot up. His eyes, huge, travel my bloody mouth to bloody knee. He crossed the room and grabbed a book and mor paint brushes and pencils.
"Shall we now begin our lesson, ja?" He asked.
I wiped my mouth on collar of my shirt. "Ja, Abe," I said. 'I'm ready to learn more about medieval art and Bosch. Please, please continue."
Hope you love the new chapter and plz review!
