'sup readers! :D
Here be chapter 2 :3 thanks so much to BigKwell for reviewing :D
Chapter two – I'm nothing but trouble
My alarm clock is beeping again and I have a splitting headache. I sit up and look down at my pillow. It's covered in dry blood again. I grab a rag from the side of my bed and wipe the corner of my mouth. The cut on my lip is still bleeding, even though my nose stopped ages ago. I haven't been able to sleep the whole night.
I throw off the tatty blanket and stand up, stiff as hell. I stretch and look out my open window. When I had eventually crawled home last night, I didn't want to use the front door in case I woke my parents up. So, I had climbed up the drainpipe and through my window.
A foggy memory about today surfaces. I have my little tour of my would-be high school today. I then contemplate whether to go or not. After what my father had said to me last night, I didn't think it would be such a smart choice to go ahead with it. But, I decide to go anyway. I need some excuse to get out of the madhouse.
I'm not going to stay home and be the punching bag again.
I slip on a baggy pair of cargo pants and a sports shirt. I tug on my hiking boots and lace them up.
Wiping another trail of blood from my mouth, I creep across the hall into the bathroom. I patch up my lip, smooth down my hair and wash the blood from my face.
I then tiptoe down the hall and slide down the banister to the front door, clearly not trusting the creaky stairs.
I make it out the front door without a sound.
Only when I'm halfway down the block do I realize I've forgotten my bag. I curse my stupidity and turn to go back, wanting to but not having the courage. I eventually decide to go without it and check my watch. It's 8:30. The school should be open by now.
I jog the last couple of meters to the school gates and then make my way just as quickly to the admin office, away from the stares of the students. I guess I've missed the assembly.
As soon as I close the solid oak door behind me, the young secretary is taking me by the arm and leading me behind the counter, through a small door through the back.
"I'm sure Mr Valkner told you about what you would be doing today, am I right?" she says as she tows me along.
"Yeah," I mumble as I follow her, looking up at the neon lights overhead and the leafy plants on either side of me as the secretary makes her way down another corridor to a room on the other side of the building.
I enter the room and see three girls around my age sitting on the couch opposite the door. The first one is a large bottle-blonde with piggy little eyes and a turned up nose. The other one is thin as a scarecrow with jet-black hair and tired brown eyes. The third one seems to be the liveliest of the three - a bubbly girl with brown hair in a high ponytail and electric blue eyes literally pulsating with energy.
The receptionist leaves me alone with them and they introduce themselves (albeit after much eyeballing and whispering amongst themselves).
The blonde's name is Berta (go figure), the skinny one is Liza and the brunette is Sylo (who names their kid Sylo?).
"Our fist lesson today is maths," Sylo says, taking me by the hand and leading me out a set of French door right next to the couch.
I can tell that the three of them are dying to ask me about my cuts and bruises, so I put on my best 'leave-me-the-hell-alone' face and keep walking.
Sylo leads me up a set of circular stairs to the second floor of the classroom block and down a corridor to a small classroom tucked away in the corner.
The classroom is small and dingy. About sixteen kids sit in the class, listening to the apparent ramblings of a middle-aged man with thinning grey hair and a rather large nose on which a pair of oversized glasses rest.
I sit down at a desk at the back with Sylo and Liza. Berta sits infront, right next to the teacher's desk. I sigh and look up at the ceiling. This is going to be a long day.
…
Some time later, Sylo informs me that her class is heading to PE on the upper field. Since the school is built on a large hill, all the sports fields and school buildings are built into the slope.
I follow the crowd up a flight of stairs and though another section of classrooms to the changing rooms. You can't really call them changing rooms, though. It's a small building divided into two halves – one half for the girls to change in and the other half for the boys. The girl's change room is an old kitchen, removed of the fridge and some cupboards. Sylo drops her bag ontop of an old stove and changes into her sports uniform along with the other girls. I feel like a bit of an outsider, seeing all of them in similar powder blue uniforms with all their friends, while I stick out like a sore thumb in khaki and black.
They eventually head out to the main sports field outside. The sports teacher, a wiry woman with shaggy blonde hair, lines them up for sprints. She asks me if I would like to join them. I politely decline and go sit on the stands nearby. I don't like advertising my speed when I know I use it for all the wrong reasons.
As I sit down, I hear a noise – faint at first, but growing louder by the second. I know that sound all too well – gunshots and screeching tyres. The sound intensifies and suddenly I'm up and running, sprinting across the width of the field, jumping over kids cowering on the ground like miniature hurdles. I'm aiming for the massive concrete steps leading up to the staff parking lot above the field, where the noise seems to be coming from. I don't know why I'm running towards it – maybe it just brings back memories from my past that I want to experience again. I don't know how my twisted mind works at the best of times, anyway.
A car bursts into view, screeching to a halt in the middle of the parking lot. It's a red Chevy Camero with a gunman hanging out the window, firing wildly at the blue Datsun following behind it.
The occupants of the Camero – three, by the looks of things – pile out of the car and take refuge behind it from enemy fire. I spot a dark-haired woman shooting over the bonnet of the Chevy and immediately recognize the double-handed firing style.
"Revy!" I shout, clambering over the steps like a monkey.
The woman, who stops to reload her gun, looks up at me with a mix of shock and surprise. I grin in relief when I see the same murderous glint in my sister's eyes as she takes up arms again from behind the Camero.
"Jamey!" she shouts back, grinning at me over her shoulder. "Get your butt over here! I need some support fire!"
That's Revy – no hellos or soppy sentimental greetings, just straight to the point and down to business. I reach the top of the stairs and scoot over behind the Camero. Revy nods her head to a pair of joint gun holsters lying on the back passenger seat of the car. Reaching in through the open door, I grab my Berettas and quickly check if they're loaded.
There are two other men sheltering behind the car with us – a big, burly black guy with dark sunglasses and a shaved head, and a blonde dude in a red Hawaiian t-shirt.
I know who they are – I've met them a few times before – but I ignore them for the moment and cock my guns, flicking the safety off with my thumbs. The ivory grips feel cool to the touch, the coal black triggers smooth under my index fingers. I've missed these guns so much, it's unbelievable.
I prop myself up on my elbows next to Revy on the hood and let all hell loose from the triggers. Firing both guns simultaneously, I take down three gunmen from the other side at once.
I turn to reload and glimpse the kids from the school staring at me from behind some dustbins with a mixture of fear and awe. I laugh humourlessly.
Welcome to the real world, kids. There are no law-abiding citizens where I come from. Where I come from, everyone's best friends in their gun. Where I come from, almost everyone is your enemy.
I get back on my knees at let rip, even the slightest recoil of my guns making my arms hurt under their mountains of bruises and cuts. My weak shoulder is jarring and my trigger fingers are tense. But I'm smiling. It's been ages since I've been in a decent gunfight.
The gunfire dies down, with both sides almost out of ammo.
I look over to Revy, both of us breathing heavily. She smiles at me, one of her beautiful smiles, and clasps me warmly on the shoulder. I wince and she takes her hand away, looking worried. She notices the fresh cuts and bruises, just starting to turn blue-black.
"My God, Jamey," she breathes, her expression hardening. "What have those monsters been doing to you?"
I look down at the ground, ashamed at not being able to speak about it. Ashamed at being so weak to let this happen to me.
"That settles it," she continues, sitting on her haunches. "You're coming with us."
"Huh?" I say, confused.
"I'm not going to let you go back there as a human punching bag. I wouldn't be your big sister if I did, now would I?"
I smile and laugh. I throw my arms around her neck – I've missed my big sister so much.
"Now, then," Revy says, prying me off, picking up my guns and handing them to me, "Why don't we," she smiles wickedly and gets that familiar glint in her eyes, "pay our little… friends a visit?"
I grin back and nod my agreement. "Let's go."
I strap my dual holsters around my waist so that the bridge runs across the small of my back and the gun pouches hang at my sides, within easy reach.
I cock the guns and reload with some fresh ammunition from the car. Together, Revy and I stalk across the short distance between us and the blue Datsun.
"Before we start shooting," I ask, just out of earshot of the enemy, "who are these guys?"
"Italian drug dealers that got on the wrong side of the Russian Mafia. We've been hired to take them out," Revy replies, cocking the hammer on her Berettas. Our guns are mirror images of each other.
I smile grimly as we pause briefly, me at one end of the car and Revy at the other. She nods, and we round the other side of the car, guns drawn and aimed to fire. Three surviving Italians trying to reload their guns – Mannlicher-Carcano rifles, by the look of them - in a frenzy stop suddenly and look up at us, a mixture of pure fear and horror plastered all over their faces.
I seem to switch off and let my fingers do the thinking. The next thing I know, I'm looking down at three dead bodies slumped at my feet. Their mouths are gaping and their eyes are sightless and glazed over. There are bloodstained holes covering their heads and chests.
Then, I hear it – the police sirens. Their wailing and screeching intensifies at they come closer.
"Time to go!" Revy jumps over the bodies, propelling me towards the bullet-riddled Camero.
Dutch, the big black guy, pushes the blonde dude into the driver's seat, and he jumps into the front passenger seat. The car starts moving with the back doors wide open, and Revy and I jump in. Then, we're speeding out of the parking lot and down the road, crashing over the speed bumps that run the length of the street until we skid onto the main road.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and my heart is hammering in my chest.
Revy takes a couple of deep breaths before saying, "You remember Dutch and Benny, don't you?"
"Yeah," I laugh. "How could I forget you two goons?"
Revy laughs too. "Couldn't agree more with you, kid!"
"Careful, Revy," Dutch says with a smirk. "This is your boss you're talking about."
"Yeah, I know," Revy answers with a defiant smile, reclining back on the seat.
"How's it going, kiddo?" Benny asks, glancing at me over his shoulder and flashing me a welcoming smile.
He hasn't changed much since I last saw him a couple of months ago – his shoulder-length hair is still dirty blonde and tied on a low ponytail. He still hasn't lost his five o'clock shadow and fetish for Hawaiian shirts.
"Not too bad," I reply with a shrug, pulling myself forwards and sitting in the middle of the back seat, looking straight out the front window. "Just a little rough at home, that's all."
"The folks giving you hell again?" Dutch turns to look at me. I can't see his eyes through his dark sunglasses.
"Nothing I can't handle," I lie.
Revy pulls me backwards and gets me in a headlock, ruffling my hair with her fist.
"Stop trying act like such a hero!" she scoffs playfully, although only I can tell it's false. I know she's worried about me. I know what she would like to do to my adopted parents right now. Good thing our ammo was almost out. "You're taking all the attention away from me!"
"You can be such a drama queen, Revy," Benny says with a wide grin, turning hard at the next left as another blue car starts chasing after us, presumably filled with more Italian drug-dealers.
"Do you want to live past twenty-three, smartass?" Revy growls, reloading her gun and sticking her upper body through the skylight.
"Preferably, yes," Benny mumbles as I reload my guns and stick myself through the gaping hole that used to be the back window.
The Italians already have a gunman on their roof, firing a crudely wielded AK-47 at us with little success. After his fourth failed attempt, Revy and I glance at each other with warped smiles and cock back the hammers on our Berettas. We've always had similar taste in weapons.
The Italians know their man doesn't have a hope in hell of bringing us down with that kind of shooting. They're already pulling back, but that isn't going to help them. You can't get away fast enough from two expert markswomen.
Revy and I aim and fire. Three bullet holes pierce their windscreen and the car careens off the road and into the guardrail. Smoke pours from the bonnet and the shooter is draped over the windscreen, either dead or unconscious.
We speed away, leaving a huge build up of traffic behind us. I look back at the rapidly disappearing blue school gates and pull a face. Well, there goes my secondary education. Darn it.
Revy and I drop back into the car and collapse in the back seat. Benny floors the accelerator and the Chevy shoots forward.
"What are you guys doing so far inland? Is business that bad?" I ask, flicking the safety of my guns back on and slipping them back into the holsters.
"Apart from Italian drug-dealers, we had a couple of errands to run. Supplies and stuff you can't get near the coast," Dutch replies.
"So are you guys heading back to port, then?"
"Yeah," Revy answers, holstering her guns and leaning her head against mine.
"Are you sure you want to come with us?" Benny pipes up. "It's a long trip."
"I go wherever Revy goes," I reply decisively.
"And she sure as hell isn't going back to that shit-hole of a home!" Revy shouts at him, almost launching herself forwards as she grabs hold of the back of both seats infront of her.
"Okay, okay!" Benny jumps, his hands jerking involuntarily on the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve.
I turn and look out the rear window to make sure we hadn't caused any major highway accidents. The road is empty except for a few late-morning travellers coming from the other direction. They honk noisily at us before speeding off.
A thought suddenly occurs to me.
"Turn here," I tell Benny, pointing to a small side road that leads to my house.
"What the hell are you thinking, Jamey?" Revy scowls and grips my shoulder tightly, clearly not pleased with my decision.
"Trust me on this," I reply, my expression cold. "I need to do this."
I cock back the hammer on one of my guns after pulling it from its holster and flicking the safety off. The Beretta gleams wickedly and I smile. "Time for a little thing called payback. No other kid should have to go through what I did."
Revy grins at me, catching my drift. We pull up outside the bleak two-story house that has been my torture chamber for the past seven and a half years. I open the car door and step outside, my gun gripped tightly in one hand. I know Revy wants to follow me in, but she knows I have to do this on my own.
My mother's car is parked in the driveway, my father's right behind it. Good, they're both home
I walk up to the front door and open it before I can chicken out, stepping inside. My conscious self switches off, letting a side of me that I had long abandoned come to the surface. My inner killer takes over. I feel nothing. My body is simply a vessel. My mind in somewhere else, probably in Tahiti or something.
I can hear them talking upstairs - my 'parents'.
My slight weight on the stairs alerts them to my presence. Their conversation stops as I near the top landing of the staircase. Their bedroom door opens and my 'father' pops his head out into the corridor.
"What the hell are you doing back here?" he asks curtly, clearly not pleased to see me back in his house.
"Unfinished business," my voice sounds far away, like I'm a spectator looking down on the scene.
"What unfinished business?" I can see he wants to slap me again. He then sees the gun in my hand and his piggy eyes grow wide.
"Where-where the hell did you get that from?" he stutters, momentarily taken aback.
Before I can even consider answering, he slams the door shut. I can hear the sound of a bolt being slid across from the inside. What a coward – seeing me cowering at his feet gave him power for all those years. I bet the dead, fearless look in my eyes was like a kick in the pants to him. Without his little security blanket of power, he's just a scared little man with low self-esteem issues.
I walk over to the door and give it a powerful kick, sending the whole thing crashing inwards. Cement and plaster dust billowing around me, I step into the luxuriously furnished room. I remember never being allowed in here when I was a kid.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the red-painted room; there are a million and one scatter cushions thrown all over the place. An armchair sits in the corner, right next to the large window. My father has his right leg half-thrown over the windowsill. My mother is standing behind him, literally pushing him out of the window so she can get out.
I point the gun at them. I give a short, humourless laugh on autopilot. They look so scared it's like they're about to shit themselves or something. I pull the trigger. A loud bang echoes around the room. The familiar smell of gunpowder fills my nose.
My mother topples over, a bright spot of blood staining her shirt. I knew she was dead before she hit the floor.
My father is still trying to launch himself out the window, but fear has rooted his foot to the spot and he can't lift his other leg off the floor. I pull the trigger again and he falls off the windowsill, back into the room, clutching his wounded arm and whining like a little girl.
"What are you crying for?" even to my own ears, my voice sounds dead and emotionless, mimicking what he says every time he attacks me.
I walk forward and press the muzzle of my gun against his forehead. He looks up at me with his beady black eyes, sweating like a pig.
"What do you think you're doing, you retard?" he shouts, fear making his voice go all high-pitched so he sounds like a girl. A bastard till the end.
I smile cruelly and give him his answer, not scared for the first time in my life. So this is what it feels like to have all the power…
"Simple, you heartless bastard. Revenge. That's all there is in this world, anyway. All that's left for people when other's take everything else away from them is revenge."
And with that, I pull the trigger a third time and a dark hole appears between the man's eyes, followed by a trail of deep crimson blood.
His eyes glaze over and his mouth hangs open, lifeless and motionless, before he slumps to the ground. For a few moments, I stand there, looking down at the two bodies at my feet. I feel numb. A picture fills my mind's eye - a million pure white feathers cascading down around me, some stained bright red with blood…
Remember to review for ch3 :3