( Yes, yes I know I haven't been updating, but I've just been juggling my school work with my recent role of Rosalind for my school's production of As You Like It; I'm so sorry for the delay but my school year is nearly finished; so I'll begin writing more and more ^_^ )
The room was engrossed in a silent opulence, every possession in his room; even the walls were crafted perfectly, made just for him.
It was noon now, and the sun droned through his window, the only filter were the strips of curtains which barely covered the blinding bright rays. He was nestled in a deep slumber of sedated sleep, his sleeping schedule now was very chaotic and unpredictable, sleep had lost its gratifying fulfillment, he grew restless of lying in bed but sometimes he couldn't sustain those nights of sleeplessness and fell into an unintentional rest.
Chris now had so many new ideas, lately they had been plotting and plotting but he had no place to store them. Not even on paper could he depict these brilliant new designs.
His eyelids cracked open, burning and stinging from the intensity of the sunlight. "Damn.." He muttered, his tone of voice interlaced with a sudden irritation and ache for more sleep.
Now that his father was dead, he lived in a new apartment. An entirely different penthouse, the previous one was sketched with memories of his childhood. Although his relationship with his father was a materialistic one, he was his father and even if he was sometimes a complete ass; he did miss him at times. Of course, he refused to admit this to anyone. Not even his grieving mother who Frank had left a large sum of money to, in which she left the muddled city to pursue a life at god-knows-where doing god-knows-what with all of her money.
He didn't understand why his mother was so choked up on him anyways, Frank was always at clubs, fanning his money to other exotic-dancers and women, she was pathetic.
Propping himself up onto a pile of Egyptian imported bed-sheets, he snatched a small notepad from the side of his nightstand and a small pencil,
Trap him in a building.
The words were scribbled onto the paper in a small tiny print that would be considered illegible for anyone else to read, part from himself.
Grunting he struck through the sentence, how many times had he written this idea down? It was such an unoriginal plan, plain and boring.
He needed something different, something original.
The darkness of the approaching evening enhanced around her, concealing her in the silhouettes of surrounding banisters and drug stores.
"Are you sure you're okay?" The voice of Collette's one and only younger sister was sinking with worry.
"Yes.." Collette repeated, her words butchered in exhaustion.
"No you're not; I don't know why I even asked. You're obviously not.." Collette's mind dazed off, too many words..
"Daisy." Collette finally interrupted.
"What is it?" Her sister's eyes were power-driven with hungry questions, filled to the brim with heartache.
In this angle, she could see every detail in her sister's expression, the lines which were retorted and curled; wild with sudden concern.
Collette captured her sister's small, bony wrist in her hand, tugging her along like a defiant toddler before gesturing her to sit down on a nearby bench, where she proceeded to join her, "A week ago. Near the parking lot I was attacked." She decided to leave it at that, she wouldn't add any crucial details; not the ripping of her blouse or the stitches that she had nursed on her own, "I'm okay though. Because there was someone there. A man. In a.." Her voice was growing skeptical, every time she brought it up, it seemed to grow more and more ridiculous.
"Oh my god.. Col.. Oh my god.. Who? A man? Who?" The young blond was frantic, turmoil ruptured in her cracking voice.
"You're.. not going to believe it but.. a super hero.. Er, he looked to be a villain…" She paused briefly before unclipping her satchel; revealing a black drawing book, "Look here."
An abundance of drawings flashed before Daisy.
The drawings, from what she saw, were well-done. They were nothing special; many of them seemed to have been coaxed from her imagination, things she marveled at. It was evident Collette filtered her emotions through these drawings; they weren't amazing, in fact, she barely considered them to be 'good'. But there was a sense of movement in the lines. There was an aura of disturbance in the sketches as well, twisting the images into mangled sadness; the artist was someone who Daisy thought to be a happy person, she could never see her sister scribbling down these portraits of women with severed heads and distraught, helpless expressions. Was this how she felt? Was she a façade of forged laughter and artificial smiles?
"Him." Daisy's thoughts were paused as Collette spoke.
"Him. The man. I drew him. Him." Collette repeated in a dignified manner, the drawing was inked with an unusually awkward looking boy. Daisy had made the assumption that whoever this 'man' was; he did something heroic. The way Collette spoke; the gentle breeze of grateful undertone in her voice; framed with fondness as though she were mentioning someone she loved. And it was silly that he was so.. scrawny..
He wore an intricate costume, jockeyed with layers of spikes all along it. It was almost amusing.
"He saved you?"
"He did." Collette replied with a discreet nod.
"He reminds me of this guy everyone talks about." Daisy's voice was casual now.
"Who?"
"Ugh.. I don't even know.. Some guy.. The Motherfucker or something? So stupid.. He's like a 'villian'.. he like, dresses up, right? And he just goes around like that. Lame." She snorted a quiet laugh, "But I think you should report it to the police.. I'm glad you're okay, Col. I really am. You should have told me sooner.." Daisy's words faded off slowly.
There was both a flush of anger and gratification that coursed through him like a typhoon.
Somehow, his though process had steered into a solidified admiration for the girl in the alley, at times, he thought about her. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even to himself; as though the inner-workings of his mind would judge him with a bloat of criticism.
She would sail into his mind, his rotting anger surged into an obsession for her. But just as quickly as she was brought up into his mind, he kicked her out twice as fast.
He decided to have coffee at a nearby family-owned coffee house. It was nestled in the more 'sketchy' part of the city but he could care less, he could fight and if anyone was stupid enough to instigate a fight with him it would be their own idiotic train of thought that would leave that dumbass tangled in a cocoon of broken bones and black eyes.
Within an hour he sat alone at a booth, inhaling the aroma of espresso beans and cinnamon pastries. He no longer lugged around the body guard, quite frankly, it pissed him off. He understood the extra precautions and shit but what was the point? The only advantage of having a bodyguard up his ass all the time was the intimidated glances and murmurs that mostly related to things like, 'he's probably part of the mob.. or something.'.
He sat semi-enthralled by a comic book that lay in front of him. The coffee he failed to finish was now losing the taste, but nonetheless, he enjoyed it.
"Oh.." A familiar, effervescent voice twisted in a struggle before a loud smack, a hard-back book tumbled onto his table, knocking the coffee out of place, before specks of hazelnut liquid poured out in rivers over his comic book.
"You idiot.. You fucki-" He began, his voice invaded with toppling fury.
"I am so sorry.. I was.. Oh gosh, I'm so sorry.. I'll pay for your comic, I swear.. I was rushing out of here, and I just, I'm so clumsy I couldn't keep a hold of the book.."
His eyes shot up like daggers, pin-pointing the source of the fumbling words.
It was her. Collette. An outpour of joy, mind-boggling anger, and confusion traced through him. "Uh.. it's fine." The sudden modification in his voice caused a flame of rosy embarrassment to tint her cheeks.
"No it isn't.. Look at that, it got all over your shirt!" Her voice was framed with an astonishing amount of guilt; her hands were shaking with culpability as she mopped up the pools of caramel-colored coffee; she continue to ramble, not offering Chris a chance to speak, so she continue to pursue in the matter of apologizing, "I just – Ugh.. So stupid, I'm sorry about your comic book. I'm sorry for saying sorry so much, I know it doesn't change that fact I ruined your comic book. Or your shirt."
There was a fleeting moment of silence, followed by Collette picking up the book she dropped while passing through the cramped aisle.
He wanted to speak, but words failed him.
"I'm Collette, by the way.. Sorry.. Again." As expected, she apologized once more, her words were now spoken clearly, and the sound of her crooking words, like a young pre-teen girl had gone away.
"Really, it's whatever.. This comic is really predictable anyways, it's not like I'm missing out on anything. The only redeeming quality was the graphics."
She stared; her eyes projected the deep thought clouding in the fore-front of her mind, "Sorry.. You just – You look like someone I know. But." She adjusted her arms, which were tightly knotted against her chest, compressing the book against herself.
Promptly, he spoke up, cutting her off before she could piece together the puzzle; he had to act quickly, early on he learned she contained a wit and acute intelligence that many lacked, "Yeah, I understand. Shit like that always happens. Yeah."
"Sorry.. I'm not usually like this. Except the whole dropping books and tripping on air.." A nervous chuckle attempted to soften the awkward interaction between the two.
"Nah, it's whatever." He restrained from running away from her; it was unlike him to dodge from someone as doleful as Collette; she was no villain, she had no fighting skill, she was so stupid that she probably didn't even know she was alive. And the fact that she left him tongue tied only added to the never-ending list of reasons why he wanted to slaughter her like one of those stupid kick-ass impersonators.
There was a dense discomposure suspending against the two. She felt wary of him; it was something along the lines of deja vu and becoming reacquainted with an old friend.
So the two continued to stare at one another, for a long measure of time until she salvaged what was left of her vocal cords, "I've gotta go.. But yeah, I'm sorry about the whole comic book thing." She pulled at the fabric of her scarf, leaving the monochromatic colors to hang loosely from her neck.
As she plodded away, he was left only with the dainty fragrance of her perfume in which he internally basked in.
In that instance, he realized, it wasn't Kick-ass who he needed to defeat. It was that fucking Collette girl.
