A/N: I apologize for this being so late! First my computer had issues, and then I just did not feel like writing, and of course writer's block. So Yeah, sorry. I am working on chapter 3. If you see any spelling/grammar errors, please PM me! I will change them ASAP! Here is Chapter 2!

BTW: If you see any Andrew's or Joel's in the story, just know that they are the original characters in my story. Sorry. FYI: for future reference:

Olivia Benson: unnamed Girl (for time being)

Elliot Stabler: Andrew Shelbern

Any other names are as is because I am too lazy to make a new names for all the characters in this story.

Disclaimer: Elliot and Steve belong to Dick Wolf

Oh Yeah! I'm changing the title to "Parting Solitary!"

UPDATE: July 31st 9:38 am! Added more!

SEPTEMBER 6, 2014-I am updating this chapter today. Minor changes.


CHAPTER TWO-Andrew

"No! Stop please!" A woman's shrill rings in my evolving dream. "Please don't, don't hurt her! I'll do whatever you want, please, just don't kill her," she pleads helplessly, eyes wide and filled with terror. Her voice breaks, sounding like an whimpering dog who just had its tail crushed. Tears overflow her lower eyelids, creating a water fountain effect as they splash onto her rosy cheeks. "Come Back!"

Beep, beep, beep, my alarm clock honks, making me jump into high alert.

"Holy fudge!" I pant heavily, my heart pulsating as if I had just run a mile.

"Andrew, are you up yet?" Joel grumbles, like he does every morning.

Joel is my older brother, by a whole two years. He is most definitely not a morning person nor is he a night owl. In fact, he is not any type of time-of-day person. More recently he has been moody. He is happy one minute, the next on a rampage, trying to punch a hole into his bedroom wall. I think he may be bipolar, but my parents are those type who believe in the non-medication solution, believing that God and prayers will heal everyone's problems.

I remember once, when Joel was chatting on the phone with one of his high school buddies, and Haley, my thirteen year old sister was belting the chorus of "Since U Been Gone."

"Shut your freaking' mouth up!" Joel growls for Haley to quiet down, but the soundtrack from her radio/cd player drowns his cry, and continues blaring.

All of a sudden, from all the way in the underground garage, I jump when the interior walls begin to wobble. I bolt into the house, worried if it has been broken into or if our house is crumbling due to its old age.

Turns out, the only thing that got crushed was the sidewall of my brother's bedroom, which now has a permanent crater impression of his knuckles.

"Hurry the hell up!" Joel grumbles from the flip side of my door. "Don't make me miss the bus!" He threatens, I can picture the annoyance on his face as he descends the stairs of our two-story house. His feet scuff the hollow wooden steps. They creek and screech as if they were auditioning for a part in a horror film. Finally his hooves clatter on the hardwood in the foyer.

Stripping the white, plastic hanger of a plain, grey, sports shirt, I stick my head in the proper hole, and my arms in the sides. Ripping shorts out from the armoire, sitting only a couple of inches from the same wall that was punched, I yank them onto my waist. My socks and shoes fly on next, and lastly my favorite hat, once belonging to my father, rests on my blond crown.

Taking two steps at a time, I slide down the stairs into the foyer. My untied laces slap my ankles and calves the way a horse's tail does when flies nip at their heels.

"Drew, is that you?" Mother greets me wiping her delicate hands on her buttercup colored hand towel. Her loose blond bun unravels and stray strands stick skew in an unorganized fashion. Her unkempt hair-do makes her appear as one of those types of school teachers worn after a seemingly endless day of chasing pre-scholars who will not listen on the playground. A kind lady is she, always productive and thoughtful. She is a hard working housewife, like all are.

"Yes, good morning Mom," I peck her cheek, her face twitches when the few, short and taunt, chin hairs I have brush her jawline.

"Morning Honey," she smiles sweetly as she turns into the kitchen where I smell toast cooking from the out-of-date toaster.

I follow her into the room, Joel is parked on the far left barstool, and I hop onto the one beside his. He gives me a look, one of slight annoyance, but is empty of threats or warnings. That is a look I have grown accustomed to over the years since entering high school. The "big brother" glare.

The toaster dings, notifying me that my breakfast is ready to be gobbled.

Routinely, as I do every day of the school year, I dig through the fridge for the Land O'Lakes spreadable butter. And, as I have done every weekday for the past two months, I glide the butterknife across the rye.

Sliding the plate with my toast onto the countertop, I weave through the toys left from last night's play session.

Joel finishes his share of toast and is scribbling answers onto his half completed arithmetic homework from the other night. He is one of those 'wait 'till the last minute' people.

"Joel Shelbern, stop that! Mind your manners!" Mom scolds, retrieving a napkin from the cabinet. "Here, you still have some left on your chin." She smiles warmly, her face wrinkles as she chuckles kindly. Her eyes roll in a sarcastic way, but her closed mouth grin remains.

"Sorry Mom. Thanks," he blushes while clearing any excess jam. "I'll see you later, bye," he hustles to his slip on the shoulder straps of his boring, muddy brown, JanSport backpack.

"Bye boys, have a nice day, okay? See you later," Mom yells as we walk out the door.

"Bye Mom, see you later!" Joel and I wave as we trek to our bus stop, which is a good 15 minutes from our house.

The worst part about going to public school is having to walk that far especially when snow falls or rain pellets strike my head. I ought not to complain. Mom reminds us always that folks less fortunate than us do not have the luxury of an education.

Checking my watch, the digital clock reads 7:16 am. The yellow bus always is remarkably prompt. The gas guzzler pulls into the stop at exactly 7:30, unless the unfortunate event of having a substitute. We have plenty of time.

Passing by the bakery, I briefly wave hello to Mr. Weiss, who is sweeping the tiles as his wife Paula is behind the counter, stocking today's baked goods. Mr. Weiss, grins and raises his hand, returning a quiet 'hello' to us. Paula smiles kindly, her wrinkles scrunch when she smiles and nods. This is our daily school day routine, ever since I entered sixth grade and began walking to school with Joel, who is two grades ahead of me.

The bus wheezes as it comes to a steady halt, the doors wobble as Carrie, our middle-aged bus driver, parts the rickety door panels painted with unclean bird poop. The scent of stale air wafts to my nose making my nose squint to vent the oxygen through.

We climb the black steps each greeting her politely as we advance to our chosen seats.

Joel slides in with his buddy, Mark. They rave about last night's football game.

Me, I sit alone in a two-seater, only capable of fitting one person now. I gaze out the small window paying no attention to the billboards and trees whizzing past me. My mind is consumed with the dream I had this morning. That woman, she seems so familiar, like someone I ought to know, but cannot, for the life of me, place.

That woman, in my dream, has dirty blond hair, most of her locks dark. She is definitely Caucasian, but she has a bit of European blood. Maybe one of her ancestors is part English.

She cried so desperately, pleaded and begged for her child's safety. Her face was so vivid, like a frame from an HD photo. Her voice hitched and stammered, succumbing to weakness and then flat out nothing more than sobs. Her arms extended half surrendering and half reaching out for her child.

All throughout the day, I cannot rid my mind of that dream. For example, in Art, I draw a stick figure drawing of that woman. Then in English, I write about her in my class assigned journal. My mind will not let me shut the images off… Maybe the dream is a cosmic sign…


(Months Later)

I did not have that dream again, until I eventually stopped obsessing over the woman, until I almost forgot.

Then one night, I saw that woman again…

She clings to someone's body, and that person ignores her, as if she is nothing but the spring breeze snapping at his arm. He shoves a smaller person, possibly one of youth, into a vehicle. Yet, the automobile is not large enough to be a truck, not by a long shot! Nor, is the car puny enough to be one of those cute "punch-buggy" Volkswagens, or the "energy saving", cramped lego-like cars.

I cannot determine the color, but I think the four-door is black or maybe navy blue.

Like last time, I dive, pour all of me into deciphering what following should occur in my slowly evolving unconscious, subconscious state. And again, I predict that that dream would not recur until I ceased. All there to do at that point, was guess, fathom. Even though that is never my prefered option, and I would rather be 100% sure, that is the only choice I am allowed to gift myself.

Maybe the woman is begging her husband to stay, and he is reasonably giving her the cold shoulder. After all, the shorter person is complying without such resistance.

I reread the notes on this dream, depicting the text as if I am a private eye on a case. Then again, I am not an actual PI, but I am simply a teenage male finishing preteen stage. Yet, I am on a solo mission.

No, I scratch that notion from my reasoning. A divorced mother would not plead for her child's safety from a custody battle case she lost. That does not seem the least bit rationable.

My mind dawns on the idea that the smaller person maybe a victim of kidnap!. I do not like the scenarios of the vicious accounts of abducting people toying in my brain. But, in all the accounts from kidnap victims, the offenders frighten their victims, and hardly ever do they leave witnesses. They are brazen, cocky in believing and reliant that the witness will be unable to report.

As nights progress, miniscule bits of color begin sneaking into the dream. The vehicle, the man who shoved the smaller person in, is a taxi resembling car. The four door is grey, a sedan with a lifting trunk, and tinted windows that conceals inside.

The plates interest me the most. Wherever these people are, they live outside the states, in another country. I can almost read the state or province of the plate origin, but the black letters and numbers smudge together like one blur.


I awake with a jerk, cold sweats lining my forehead.

The little person, Her, is a youth. She is merely a child, no older than five. The odd fact is she replicates the mother, a copy cat. That woman must be related to that girl. The barrier intercepting their passable double ganging act is the junior's age.

The girl fashions tiny red bows fastening the ends together. Wearing cute blue jean overalls, stained with bleach in the few splotchy and overly white areas on them. A pink shirt blocks the adjustable straps from resting on her undeveloped chest. Smack in the dead center, a character I recognize from my sister's long dead obsession, sticks on her sternum. The Hello Kitty decal is worn, spots chipped from having been worn down from when the shirt had been prime. The brown eyed girl models pink sandals, the type that protect toes from the harm of crushing by others too focused in their own worlds to duly note the potential injury their weight can cost. The girl's a cutie with sparkling eyes that twinkle and smile when she does. She looks like a cowgirl right out of a storybook who is set to gallop into the sunset. But she is stolen out of that with one shove.

The girl cries, one that is described as a bloody murder scream pierces through my heart, and my whole being aches for her cry to be relieved.

"Mummy! Mummy!" She yelps as if she were a dog squealing for attention. The child sobs vigorously for rescue, but none comes. The roar of the resounding engine from the sedan rumbles to life.

The scene replays from part three of the dream. Every action, cry, and expression of fear and despair recounts as dream four in the series as the nightmare progresses. Witnessing, always frozen in horror and shock of the events unraveling. I do not comprehend why each time I am in the same state in the dream. I remember every intricate detail, and all the lines in the scene. Although the rehearsed act plays consistently, my frame cowers in the shadow of the rustic brown stone. I am not an almighty God viewing from above. That perspective unwilling to allow me access to capture the total film. No, I must stare through my set of eyes as I take in the commotion and chaos. I want to holler a warning, but my mouth will not operate properly.

I hear the shriek of the woman, fighting with tongue language to the man who has his hold on the wailing child. I remember his rougher than necessary shove of the woman to the sidewalk. My heart pangs in guilt, hearing the child's screech as she flushes her nose to the window as her mother pleads for the girl's life. Then the growl of a dormant engine shuttering being propelled to tend to their owner's command to move.


(Three Months Later)

From dream one to dream five, this time, I finally pick the scum who had the audacity to steal an innocent from the woman. I sketch in my notebook, penciling as much detail as possible.

The man has dirty blond hair, with matching dark green eyes. He wears a baseball cap with an owl on the front.