Chapter 2: Illusions of Blindness to Realization
Reader: Become bored with the posh- Excuse me. Rose Lalonde. Become someone else entirely.
You are now someone else entirely. How exciting. You guess you're a little bit like the person you last were. Wait. What the fuck are you thinking? You've always been the person you are right now. And right now, you are the coolest human being the world ever had the pleasure of meeting. And your name is Dave E. Strider. The E stands for Excellent. No it doesn't, you just like to think it does. You would never even think about what it actually stands for. Your horrible ass of a brother legally changed your middle name when you were too young to fix it. You've decided after this god awful train ride, you're going straight to one of those prissy British Law Firms, and you're fucking getting it changed.
That's right, you're on a train in England. You're originally from Texas, so you have this bitchin' accent. However, you are still very liberal. It's really not like you could help it, your brothers are both pretty liberal themselves. It was hard to live in a place like that, though, being so goddamn liberal all the time. So you were pretty stoked for the change of scenery when your second eldest brother decided to take you to the "Other Side of the Pond". Even though you know it was just for his own gain with his fuck bud- Ahem, "best friend", you mean. Evidently your brother, Dirk, has a pen pal in London named Jake English. He invited you and Dirk to come spend your spring break up here with him in his apartment, or what he calls his "flat". British people and their grammar, you swear. They could kill a bear with their proper use of language and their perfect hair. Not like you really care, you've got your own bitchin' flair, you've even got some to fuckin' spare. You-
Reader: Please stop mind-rapping. You're terrible at it. Get on to tell us why you are on the train in the first place.
Right, of course, you almost forgot. You tend to get off track a bit every once and a while. Luckily, you have this magical darker text telling you to get back on the mind wagon. Wait, what? Never mind, that last thought didn't make any sense. There isn't any dark magical text inside your head!
Reader: Accept me for what I am.
Ha, nice try. Anyway, English evidently got some sort of letter in the mail from one of his old colleagues from work. It was pretty creepy, you have to admit, it said something weird about wanting him to go hang out on an empty island in the middle of the Atlantic fucking Ocean. Jake didn't really want to go though, (probably having something to do with your brother being at his flat) and so your brother offered for you to go. It didn't really make a lot of sense, but the mysterious colleague seemed cool with it. You know the only reason your brother offered for you to go is because he just wanted to fuck Jake English, and he couldn't really do that with you in the other room. It was pretty nice of him, you guess. You always have a hard time sleeping when there's fucking going on in the other room.
Long story short, you are now on a train off on your merry way to Liverpool. You kind of wish you knew what was going on. It was pretty shitty of your brother to just send you off, now that you think about it. The mystery person could be a rapist or killer or some shit, you know? You aren't really prepared for this! You're only 16 years old, for God's sake!
Not to mention, trains are really boring. You would text your friends from school, but they kind of bother you and you don't really have reception anyway. You end up plugging your ear buds into your sweet iPhone 4, and begin listening to the sick beats you've made. Your friend, Cal, always makes fun of you for listening to your own music. But you can't really help it, your music is just so much better than that of anyone else. You're not narcissistic, it's just a personal preference.
Finally, you decide to go to sleep, even with the sick beats in the background. You've kind of had a long day, considering you just flew in from the United States a few days ago. Sleep is better than loneliness, right? Wait. No, you're not lonely. Dave Strider is never lonely. People get lonely and wish for Dave Strider, yep.
Reader: Wake up.
You open your eyes behind your sick-ass shades (which you totally have, by the way. Duh. You never leave the house without them. Or...apartment?) just to find a girl sitting in front of you. Underneath your shades, you start to look her up and down, trying to get a feel for who she is. But certainly not checking her out. Nope, you would never do something like that.
She seems small, but not too small. But smaller than most people, probably around 5'3". She has caramel brown hair and tan skin, and a petite form. Her boobs are pretty small, but they're not horrible. What? You're a 16 year old boy, of course you look at her boobs. She's wearing torn jeans and a graphic T-shirt. When you look up at her hair again, she has a teal strand in it, so you're guessing she's probably emo. Or gothic. Most likely just a wannabe. However, when you look up at her eyes, you realize she's not staring at anything through her red glasses, so maybe she's blind. That might explain a lot. She looks like she's just zoning out, unless she's trained herself to sleep with her eyes open. You highly doubt it. You decide to make your presence known. You sit up and look at her.
"Sup." You say plainly, sitting up and flipping your blond hair into place.
"Hi." She says as she focuses on you, almost looking at you. Which would be weird because she's clearly blind. You realize that she should have probably jumped when you said something. Most people do that, because it's suprising. You've trained yourself for anything though, which is why you're not surprised by shit like that. But most people are, and it's funny when they flip shit. So why didn't she?
"I'm blind, remember? I didn't know if you could see me or not. Duh." She smiled, and showed a row teeth that were way too sharp for any human. "And if you're wondering how I knew what you just thought, I'm a psychic."
That's it, you need off this train. No way you're sitting on a moving vehicle for three hours with some crazy ass psychopath.
"High functioning sociopath. Do your research." Her smile widened as she made the stupid ass reference.
"Please don't tell me you sit around watching that shit just 'cause you're British." You groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes under your shades.
"Of course I watch it! And it isn't 'shit', sir!" She giggled. Okay, maybe not giggled, but freaky-cackled. Like, more freaky than the Wicked Witch of the West. That freaky. "But you're not British, are you?"
"No shit, Sherlock." You smirked as you hit her back with another equally dumb reference. Well, sort of reference. They don't actually say that in Sherlock. Whatever, why are you arguing with yourself?
"No idea. Do you argue with yourself often?" She asked, and you swear to god her grin could not get any fucking bigger.
"Could you please not do that? It's freaking me the fuck out." You sigh. "And you wouldn't be a psychic if you could read minds. Psychics meet ghosts or whatever. Do your fucking research."
She only smiled again, as she looked over at some girl who was walking past you. She had long black hair and a goofy smile. She was okay-looking, you guess. She walked over and sat by some snooty looking blond woman in a pencil skirt and most likely a huge stick up her ass. You smirk as you see the glare the posh blond lady give the hyper girl a death-glare. You turn your attention back to the girl in front of you as she said, "Terezi Pyrope."
"Dave Strider," You said, offering her a fist bump, which she took happily.
"So what are you doing out here? You're an American and you look too young to be on your own." She crossed her legs.
"My ass of a brother sent me on a trip so he could have a 'shag-session' with his boyfriend." You looked out the window in the coolest possible way. "And I am very old, excuse the fuck out of you."
"Mmmm, no you're 16." She cackled again, "Mind-reader remember?"
"Ugh." You mumbled, "How old are you? I mean, you don't look much older than me."
"20." She giggled again. So an older woman, wow. Why the fuck is she talking to you? "Thought you were interesting." She added.
"Stop doing that. It's freaking me the fuck out." You glared at her. "Where are you going?"
"That's a creepy question to be asking a lady." She smiled.
"Hey, if anyone's a cougar here, it's you, TZ." You said, playing a smirk with the new nickname you so-smartly came up with. She cackled at what you guessed was the clever nickname as well.
"Anyway," She continued, "I got a mysterious phone call telling me to come out here. Being who I am, I got interested. Much more fun than another week of Law School, that's for sure."
"Yeah," You knew she wanted you to ask her about her career, but you don't give two shits about that. "Why would you go on a trip if you don't know why?"
"Eh, it's an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, how dangerous could it be?" She cracked another smile, which seemed a bit dangerous. Huh.
Reader: Fail to notice terribly written foreshadowing.
What? There was foreshadowing? Eh, whatever. You didn't notice anything. You smiled at the girl again. "Sweet. Hey, where're you headed once we get to Liverpool?"
"The 36th Moor." You felt your eyes widen behind your shades.
"I'm going there too." You said.
As she began to "read" an erotic novel, you looked at your phone in your lap. It was pretty weird coincidence that you and Terezi were headed to the same area. You wondered what other people this vacation could bring, because most likely, you and Terezi weren't the only ones invited. Shit.
This should be interesting.
