Prologue pt.2

Robyn

The pencil glided over the page, leaving thin, light grey particles of graphite embedded on the surface of the paper. Time moved slowly as the sketch took form, and grew from a singular line into a blossoming flower. Shadows emerged, defining the petals, the texture of the leaves. The stem struck the ground, and the world exploded from ground zero. The soil, the small shrub beside the flower. The empty page became filled with a greyscale rendition of the blackberry bush in a contorted war with a chain link fence. A slender, pale hand guided the graphite tip, smoothly transforming the empty page into an elegant sketch of nature.

Hours slipped by the hunched figure that sat upon a park bench, her gaze flicking between the scene before her, and that which she was creating. The sun's heat was kept off of her by the canopy of trees in the small local park, located deep in the urban sprawl of Victoria. The artist paused her work, as an elderly couple neared. They gave her an awkward nod and smile, and continued on. That's right...ignore me. Realizing how her back ached from being hunched over for...how long was it? Straighten her back amplified the aches into pains, and she grimaced. The voluminous black sleeve pulled back, baring her watch. Sneaking a glance at the arms, she estimated that it was approximately 4:15. Slouching back down, her spine's protests silenced. Toying with the idea to just stay put, and keep perfecting the sketch until daylight ended...but there was coffee to be had.

Pencil to the little black bag, stained with chipped, peeled, and sullied whiteout; the ancient designed lost to time. The sketchbook, its pages ragged from use, was non-chalantly crammed back into her over-stuffed backpack that was held together in equal measure by the band patches, and safety pins. Pencil bag into the front pocket, and closed with vibrant neon green pin.

Standing up, the leather boots creaked softly, as her immense jeans slumped back down, buckles and zippers softly plinking off one another. Adjusting the loose "Arch Enemy" t-shirt under her aged black leather jacket, she slung the backpack over her shoulders, and left the quaint park. Large black headphones covered her ears, and as she thumbed the remote, the CD player in her backpack spun up, and supplied her with the sound of a rainstorm, the opening track to the Ashes to Embers album from Eyes of Fire.

The hike down to QV's took her another half an hour, not the least to blame was the stifling heat. She was forced to walk slowly, at a steady pace lest she risk breaking out into a sweat as the mongrels around her shopped and met up, all wearing the lasted fashions, talking to each other on the latest cell phones, or ignoring each other with their iPods. Everything they did was just mass consumerism.

The cafe was at the entrance to China Town, and was a local hangout for...just about anyone. It didn't matter who you were, just so long as you could think outside of the "Starbox". As she walked through the open main doors, a black sleeve beckoned her over, and she nodded, first ordering herself a chai tea. The table was filled with those whom she felt most comfortable around, the local "Goth" kids. Truth be told, they weren't "Goth", but it was as close as any label, and seemed to have stuck with them. It was an unusually early coffee meet this Friday, as most were going to a show in support of a local band that was the opening act.

The conversations were diverse, ranging from what shit was on the radio now, to how ridiculous the current economic status was. How the hell was Bush the president down south, to why did chicken taste just so damned good? Alliances were built, and then sundered as people of different views banded together to out-debate the others. But the verbal wars were short-lived, for those who were going to the venue, bailed at seven.

Robyn caught a bus, headed in the general direction of home. She sat at the back, and watched the familiar cityscape roll past. The shadows were stretched as the sun sank for the horizon. She could see her reflection in the window, and loathed it. An awkward mix of Italian and....everything. Her black hair hung to just below her ears, all cut the same length. Her face thin, almost gaunt. Lips thin, unpretty. Worse were her eyes. Though she couldn't see them due to the contacts, her eyes distinguished her. Made her recognizable. She had been ridiculed about her eyes throughout her life...her one vibrant green, and one dark brown eye.

In the seats on the other side of the bus, and a little forward, she should see the reflections of some yuppie girls glaring at her. Slowly their voices got louder, penetrating the musical shield. Finally she closed her eyes, turned her head, and opened them again, the all black contacts staring down the two girls, "Freak!" cried the blonde.

"Whore," was the soft reply.

"What did you just say Goth bitch?" The little girl was intent now, rising, trying to quell her prey.

A booted leg swung off the sideways facing bench, and Robyn braced herself, making it obviously apparent that she was much taller. "Whore."

The blond girl slunk back, cowed, but not finished. "Fucking Goths, think they're better than everyone. Cunts should just go commit suicide. All of them." Robyn reached up and pulled on the yellow cable, signalling for a stop. "Feh, coward. Running to your little Goth friends?"

Standing up, and shouldering he engorged pack, Robyn glared down at the two. Her near six-foot height amplified by the boots, making her 6'2". The girl was instantly silent. When the bus stopped, Robyn stepped out, onto the sidewalk.

The trek home just a bit back, and up the steep Russel street to Henry Rd. The house was marked by the overgrown weeds that dominated the front yard and garden, peeling paint and unwashed windows. She tried to gain access without notice, but her stepfather was already home. Inside, her sense of smell was accosted by the stale cigarette smoke, and sharp stench of bad marijuana. "Bitch, where the fuck you been?" The deep bass voice of Gord came from the filthy living room. Stacks of newspapers piled in an old table chair. The carpet was hidden from view, except in the threadbare high-traffic lanes, which were kept clear of clutter. An ashtray on the coffee table so full, it had started spilling over. Rolling papers scattered, and two bottles of Jack Daniels...one empty, and the second on its way to the same fate. The living room was lit by sunlight, filtered through stained curtains, a single 60-watt bulb lamp, and the glow of the old TV.

"Piss off Gord, you don't care anyways." She slung her heavy pack to the floor by the entrance, and started for the washroom.

"Don' you fucking talk to me like that Robyn! I been fucking waiting for diner for a god damned fucking hour!" The man was belligerent already. "Now get in the fucking kitchen and make me a god damned sammich already bitch!"

Biting her tongue, she beat down the urge to tell him to make it himself. Get off your fat ass! She snarled and did it anyways. Throwing together a sandwich thick enough to shut the fat bastard up for now. Throwing it onto a plate, she took it to Gord, and handed it to him, almost violently.

Sneering, he took the plate and inspected it as she turned around. His thick right hand snatched her wrist, spinning the waif-like girl around. "Robyn, the hell is this shit? This is goddamned bologna! You fucking well know I hate that fake meat shit! Are you fucking trying to piss me off?"

"You said, to make you a sandwich Gord. You never specified what kind. Not only that, we only have bologna in the fridge!" She slapped his hand from her wrist. Because you haven't gotten off your fat ass to buy any more food you cock sucker! She added mentally.

Snarling, he threw the plate at her feet. "Get me some fucking soup then." He reached out and took a swig from the almost empty bottle of Whisky.

Stepping back from him, she turned around, "Fuck off Gord, get off your fat ass and make it yours-AUGH!" The bottle clattered to the floor beside her. She was face down on the repulsive green carpet, with an ache from hell between her shoulder blades. Stunned, she tried to move, and that's when his weight hit her, a thundering palm slamming her against the putrid fibres...she could see something moving in them before the world went wild with static.

The slap across the side of her head stung! Gord repeated the "discipline". "Bitch, you stupid fucking bitch! I work all fucking day, I pay for your shit, and this is how you fucking treat me? You're not even my own fucking daughter and I treat you like my own!" His breath mingled with the toxic fumes from the horror her nose was pressed into. "No child of mine would be so fucking ugly. No child of mine would be so ungrateful. You are not my fucking child!" The weight lifted...She rolled over slightly to breath in stale air, but even the rancid shit from the floor was better than the foot she received to her stomach. "Remember that. You are NOT mine!"

Coughing, sputtering, gasping for air, she wheezed on the floor. When she finally regained some of her breath, she staggered to her room, dragging her backpack with her. The tears flowed endlessly as she locked her door. She fell against the cheap desk, and her bed. Between the mattress and the box spring, she found what she was looking for.

A thin blade of steel that he held carefully in her right hand. The edge glided through the skin, leaving thin, red lines in that drew up glistening crimson beads. The line curved as the pain seared through her mind like fire, blinding her to to the day. This was her true art. Her true masterpiece. The scars would be the tale of her autobiography. Each cut, each slice telling more words than any single picture could. Tears fell until she fell asleep, a single rivulet of blood tracing down her leg.