Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers.
I do not own any of the following songs:
Buckcherry-I'm sorry
Red - Buried Beneath
Papa Roach - Hollywood Whore
Papa Roach - Burn
Carrie Underwood - Blown Away ***This song inspired Shelbie's past.***
Papa Roach - Before I die
Carrie Underwood - Temporary Home
Kelly Clarkson - Dark Side
Warning: Negative thoughts about humans, bad language and illegal actions (arson). Again, this OC is disturbed, and this chapter will explain more about why that is. This story is borderline Mature. Please let me know if I should bump the rating.
Facts:
Heath-Shrubland area with low-growing woody vegetation
Rhapis humilis (also known as Slender Lady Palms) - Vegetation; Shrub
Facts about rhapis humilis (in relation to Shelbie) - Does not like soggy soils (cleanliness); can survive in short periods of drought (dehydration); provide only light feedings twice a year (starvation); no seeds are produced (does not want children); can survive freezing temperatures into low twenties...it may be damaged but it will recover (first chapter) Information obtained floridata (.com).
~0~
There was a time in my life when I didn't care for anything. I had no worries or concerns; neither dirt nor germs bothered me in the slightest. That time, of course, was when I was born.
I was once born a human. There was no shame being born a human because it was only supposed to happen once.
Rain tapped at the windows repeatedly. The gray and blue light that came through those windows were heavenly. But this scene was far from heaven.
Smoke rose from the cars' hood. The headlights were on. In the distance, another car alarm was going. The car I was in was small and black. It was all my father could afford. I had no great emotional attachment to my father. He was a tailor for suits in the military. When I was born, his head laid on the steering wheel. Upon closer inspection, whiskey could be smelled on his tongue. Mother used to say, 'we don't drink whiskey. Whiskey was your father's drink. Your father was whisked away.' My father died driving and drunk. My father died the day I was born.
My mother was sobbing in the backseat. Giving birth to me gave her great sorrow. I gave her pain. I was her misery. I was red, crying, and still connected to her. I had more of a voice when I was born then at any other point in my life. That connection and voice were all too easy to sever. At some point or another, I must have been concerned for her health. I say that because I was her health. Mother never said it, but I was her cancer. I was born in the midst of rain, darkness and despair. I made her bleed (for the last time).
I was told as a child that, before me, my mother was a nice woman. When my mother found out she was pregnant, she was scared. Even though she was scared, she convinced herself that, as long as my father stayed with her every step of the way, she would survive her pregnancy. My mother was correct. Father did stay with her throughout the pregnancy. But only just.
After I was born, my mother's emotions took a turn for the worst. In her fear (whether of children in general or just me I will never know), she reacted. She reacted to things she did not see-or, rather, things I did not see. She made up for lost time in the pregnancy by drinking tequila. I don't know how many shots per day she took or when she started drinking. Knowing her, it was probably after my father's funeral.
The drinking did not help my mother-at least not in my definition of the word. Mother, in her unknown state of consciousness, would buy multiple items. These items were things that she would never use. But my father used to think that the 'hobby' was 'enduring.' The 'hobby' was not 'enduring.' I did not 'endure it.' I suffered through it until I could suffer no more. The hobby exploded into an obsession after my father's death. The hobby exploded into mountains of items that littered almost every inch of the home. The bathroom, for the most part, was kept clean-but only because of my efforts to have a safe haven in the war zone known as home.
When it comes to that house, there are things I would rather not speak of and then there are things that I cannot speak of. Her marking me was one of those things. I understand that she had too much to drink, but why pour it on me? Although I suspect that it was because I tried to clean the bathroom, she never gave a reason. She didn't have to have a reason. She was the mother and I was the child. There was no room for discussion. She had the right to mark me if she wanted to. At least, that is what she thought.
Did others think she was in the right? Did others even notice? Did they notice, but come up with an excuse to ignore it? 'She is the parent. I am the bystander. I have no right to intervene.' 'Oh, she just soiled herself. She will grow out of it.' That is not something you 'grow out of.' That is something you burn and scrub until your skin goes raw.
It came to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. I was sick, tired, miserable and depressed. No nine year old should have to feel those things.
There were tornado warnings on the news that morning. Mother didn't care for current events. She found weather to be a bother. I did as well, but not in the same way. Nothing we did was ever the same.
I found tins of gasoline hidden deep within the mountains. I emptied the contents all over the house. My mother didn't notice anything because she was asleep on the couch. I took a shower. I set a match-several matches, in fact, just in case.
The grass was soft and squishy between my toes as I stepped out onto the lawn. It was raining. It was pouring. I was soaked, naked and chilled to the bone. Lightning struck in the distance, but it sounded close. I ran to the shed-made-bomb shelter, locked the door, and turned on the lamp.
No nine year old should know what arson, abandonment or survival of the fittest is. But I knew. I knew that what I had done was wrong. That is why I thought that staying in the shelter complex would be okay. I thought that, in my physical condition, I would never survive. I planned on staying in the shed, on the bed, curled up under the dark green sheets, and dying of starvation or dehydration. I never planned on leaving. I never planned on being rescued by the police.
The police deemed it a case of child abuse. But they did not know who the parents were. They did not know where the house had gone. They could only assume it was a tornado. They could only assume that my mother had been a hero that had sent her only daughter out to the shelter first. They could only assume that I would rejoice in being placed in foster care. They assumed wrong.
I was angry. I was supposed to die in that shelter. I was supposed to die a human and be done with humanity. I considered myself to be dead. When a policeman opened the shed door and light came pouring in, I was reborn. But I did not want to be reborn. I wanted to die. It was not fair. My mother got to die. Mother died in the midst of tequila, fire, and a new beginning. I died in the midst of rain, darkness, and despair.
I was supposed to die a human. I did not die a human. The past died. My parents died. I did not die a human. I was resurrected as a human. I had been resurrected. Therefore, I had no right to be human. Humanity was shameful. Humans were wrong, disgusting and unclean. Humans were not of heaven. I was not, and never will be, of heaven.
Dispatch the hungry and call out thy name
For I am not worth of heavenly gain
Impeach the general and die in vain
I am not for what he came
For hence he came and took away
Angels are impossible to say
For devil's tongue is within reach
Those who sin are those who preach
I was born to be a curse and have a skin of thick
I was not born of the strongest rhapis humilis
Wicked is he and wicked is I
For I am a lowly human, born to serve, and never to die
This is my lullaby
I did not deserve the orphanage. It was white and clean. People-nurse maids-cleaned for you. You were given a new bed sheet every night. Pillows were fluffed and flipped. Clothes were washed. It was perfect. It was heaven. I did not deserve heavenly perfection.
There were parties at the beginning and end of each year. They used to tell us-the social workers-you must be on your best behavior.
I was bad.
I was never taken home.
I was told to go back to the room early, stay there until I learned my lesson, and then come back if I wanted any dinner.
I never ate.
I sat on the neat sheets. The mattress was of a foamy, plastic quality. The head and foot of the bed were silver, metal bars. But they were not silver. When knocked on, they rang. They were music. I did not like music. Music was for drinking. Music was something my parents enjoyed. I laid opposite a sky of windows. These windows were as tall as trees. I did not like these windows. Windows were glass. Glass made blood. I had caused my mother to bleed.
Down through the heavenly mirrors came a clash of thunder. I understood. God was angry that I had to be born twice a sinner. Everyone got angry. But I was born a sinner, so I must never get angry. Through the storm clouds came rays of gray and blue light. These strange lights drew square patterns on my skin. At this, I was confused, but I tried to understand. Squares were neat. Squares were orderly. Squares were symmetrical. If I was to be human, I must never be anything but neat, orderly, and symmetrical. The leather bound book from the library was looked down upon. I was told to put it down. I was told to speak. I was told to be social and 'live' with the other children. I must never speak or be social. I must never stop learning. I must do whatever first born humans do not, so that I may, one day, die a human.
Not eating made me see and think strange things.
Like my mother. My hands turned into fists against the sheets. I did not want to be my mother. I must never be-
I heard a drawn out squeek on the floorboards. I turned my head. A man had followed me back to the room where the children slept. This man had black hair. He was tall. He had dark skin. His eyes were green. He did not look like me. He did not look like anyone I had seen.
He smiled. "I like your dress." The dress was green satin-the same as the sheets in the shelter. "Can I sit?"
I nodded. If he was not like me, and was not like anyone else I had seen, what did I have to fear? He sat on the metal chair next to my bed, as though I was a patient. "What are you reading?" I showed him. "Ah." He seemed shocked. No-enlightened. He got a dazed look in his eye. "I have read it. How far are you?"
My eyes got wide. I cowered, shaking. G-G-Go a-w-way.
He looked confused. "Did I say something wrong?"
I shook my head. You do not want me near you. I am not holy.
"Neither am I." I looked at him, still shaking. He sat on the bed and held out his hand. "May I?"
I was confused. He wants to touch me...? I bit my lip. I created blood. I was unholy. He was unholy. There could be no contamination. I nodded. He placed a hand on my forehead, so that I could get used to his touch. Then, his hand guided into my hair. It ran through dirty fibers. He either didn't care or didn't notice. I did not know what he was doing; I did not know what his actions meant. But his hand was strong and warm, though thin. It felt safe. His other hand traveled to my lips and wiped away the blood. The bleeding had not stopped, but it had slowed. He smiled.
He left that day like a thief in the night. He had stolen my heart. But it was odd. He had returned at daybreak, as though he wanted to get caught.
He talked to the secretary, who brought me books, and asked where I was and if I could be seen. The young woman looked shocked, but she showed him. "Sherlie, this is Heath. He said he wants to take you home."
I blinked at the woman because I was as shocked as her. I looked at Heath. He smiled. I blinked again because it was dimmer in the moon of yesterday. Why?
The secretary did not know sign language. Heath did. He chuckled. I like you. Is that a good reason? You also remind me of my mate.
Mate?
You will like him. He is neat-like you. I stared at him. He wants to take me home to his mate. He wants me. Would you like to live with us? It is your choice.
It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. Yes. I nodded.
"Well-" The secretary looked shocked, relieved and happy. She was the only person in the orphanage who I liked. "I'll get the papers."
When it was time for me to leave the orphanage, I handed the secretary my bible. She looked confused. "Sweety, I told you this was yours. You can keep it."
I shook my head. If I was leaving the orphanage, I was leaving everything I knew about it there. Forgive and forget. I placed one hand on the book and another on her forehead, like Heath had done. This is yours. Gift.
She took the book and kissed my forehead. "Alright. I'll keep it. May peace be with you."
And also with you.
~0~
It was raining again. I could hear it banging against the window in the human sized washracks. Since the adoption was on short notice, construction in Hound and Mirage's quarters had not been completed until last week. I was surprised that no one had set up a watch for me while I was in here. I could easily drown myself in the tub or crack the mirror and use it as a knife. Although, I suppose Smokescreen assumed that I wouldn't try suicide again after the Hound comment. He assumed right.
I laid my head on the faucet and stared at the clean, white cealing. Despite thinking that Hound's holoform was a real human at the time of the adoption, I had thought...that it wouldn't have been so had...if it was for real. I remembered thinking how kind Hound had been and how he smiled that goofy grin of his everytime he saw me looking at him. Then, there was the way that he made food not be an issue for me. Even when he took me out to eat for lunch once, I hadn't minded. At the time, I hadn't known of the horrors of fast food industry, so I couldn't complain. I didn't think to...I didn't think at all-that was the beauty of it. I was always dwelling on things I considered problems until I became so tired I couldn't anymore.
This was one of those times.
I held my breath and put my head under the water.
Even after the autobots took me in, I still had nightmares about my mother. Hound was the one who delt with the nightmares. Hound was the one who pretended to give me a puppy for Christmas (you will never guess who created a second holoform just for that shocked look on my face). Hound was the one who was willing to give me space when everyone else was suffocating me.
A pained expression crossed my face. Despite how nice Hound was, I couldn't help but notice the dirt that always seemed to be on his plating. It made me happy when Hound would ruffle my hair and grin at me like a puppy who means no harm and only wants to play...But, at the same time, I couldn't get to sleep until I washed afterward. I used to make up excuses if I had already taken a shower that day, such as going out to 'play' in the rain or going for a run for 'exercise.' Those excuses, however, had slowly gotten old. I was so 'out' about my OCD now that there was no point in going to the trouble of thinking up an excuse. I don't know why it bothered me. Hound was kind. Dirt or no dirt, his presense shouldn't bother me. But it did. It did and I hated myself for it.
Hound's grinning holoform surrounded in sunlight flashed in my mind like the lightning outside.
I sat up in the tub, taking deep breaths. I coughed. The water was getting cold. I drained the water, dried my hair, and put on my green and white camper pajamas. Formal attire was left at the orphanage. I never felt like buying any anyway.
No one was in the main room when I entered. I left the quarters to look for Hound, thinking he might be in the rec room. The Ark was deserted. Rain did that to the troops. Everyone would rather be in their quarters then outside in the rain playing...What was it called again? Football? Soccer?
Anyway, I never found Hound. I did find Sam and Miles...doing...something...strange.
"Rain, rain, go away," Sam sang.
"Please come back-Never! Never ever for sure evvvvaaaa!"
"Never ever should ever could never ever never!"
"Never ever could ever should never ever would nevaaaaa!"
"Miles, its not working!"
"We'll have to go to plan c, then."
They looked at each other before nodding collectively and dancing the most ridiculous dance I have ever seen. From what I read on native american rituals, they did dance around a fire for some purpose that I could not recall...Truthfully, even reading it, it sounded so ridiculous I had resolved that it could not be true. Telling the rain to stay in the clouds was pointless.
"No rain! Bad rain! Stay in the clouds! No, you-Dammit!"
...I don't think Miles and Sam understood that concept.
I lifted one hand up to my mouth and laughed silently for a few moments. I lowered my hand when I had calmed down somewhat. My lips twitched even though they were pretty much stuck in what felt like a permanent smile. I snapped once and placed my hands behind my back when Sam turned. "Oh, hey Lisa. Your, uh...probably wondering what we're doing, huh?"
I nodded. I knew that Sam and Miles could be silly sometimes, but their rain dance took it to another level. Miles grinned. "We're rain dancing. Want to try?"
I shook my hands...and then paused to think. "Y-You k-know t-t-that your d-doing the d-dance..." I twirled my finger around, smile widening. "B-B-Backw-wards, r-right...?"
It took a couple seconds for the information to register, but once it did- "Miles you moron! You told me you researched this and that we had the right dance down!"
"It's not my fault! My souce said it was a reliable site!"
"Oh, sure, because Sideswipe is so reliable."
I shook my head. Even though Sideswipe was better than Sunstreaker, he still had what Ratchet referred to as 'loose screws in his cranium.' "S-Sidesw-swipe is the wors-st-st."
"Your telling me." Sam snorted. Miles rubbed the back of his head. "Thanks for telling us, anyway."
I nodded. Sam bumped Miles with his elbow. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Y-You c-c-can t-try the n-nex-x-t st-storm."
"Oh, we will-" Sam got Miles' head into a headlock. "The right way. Won't we, Miles?"
"Dude! Not cool!"
"What's that? I can't hear you over your lousy network service-!"
"I get it! Let go already!" Sam roughed up Miles' hair for good measure. "Dude!" Miles screamed. Sam let him go, laughing. "See ya, Lisa!"
I waved awkwardly as Miles gave chase.
I sighed when they left the room. Although my OCD self was just dandy keeping a distance and pushing others away, I still liked to sometimes...Even if it could get awkward very quickly. Miles and I couldn't carry out a conversation for our lives. Sam was good at it. So was Jazz.
I frowned. The hand I had used to wave was suddenly digging into my left arm as I blushed. I still can't believe I did that. Jazz hasn't talked to me in days...He must be feeling weird about it, too...since Prowl keeps giving me this look...and...
...and even though I was the healthiest I had been in quite some time, I felt sick to my stomach. I was sick of myself. Human or no human, OCD or not, I knew I had no excuse for acting like a jerk. I may have set out looking for Hound, but Jazz needed an apology now more than ever.
Jazz had always been so nice to me. Cracking jokes, dancing funny, grinning whenever I came into the room, checking up on me, washing my back since I can't reach it, taking my food quirk into consideration, giving the option for an open audio in private, jumping into social situations so Blurr wouldn't have to, getting cleaning supplies for me-
I hand dropped from my arm. I'm the most foolish human who ever lived. I could feel A glaring at me. One of them...I'm certainly up there.
No one had ever, in my entire life, done all that for me with nothing it return. I knew Jazz was the chief moral officer around base, but the fact that I hadn't thanked him-
I stood up. Demon or no demon, I was facing the music...after I drowned myself in the rain. Sam and Miles went to all the trouble of dancing for it. I may as well enjoy it while I can. I smiled slightly as I stepped outside, splayed my arms out to the heavens, and tilted my head back. At least now I don't have to take a shower.
~0~
"Liz, yer soaked! Hatchet's gonna kill ya if you get sick again!"
L-L-L-Lake j-j-j-jump.
Jazz sighed before chuckling. "Fair enough. But, Liz...?" I looked up. "Yer shirt's kinda invisible." My face erupted into a tomato. "Forgot you were wearin' white, huh?" I lowered my head to his chest. I chanted 'I deserve this' to avoid panic.
Can we go?
"Sure, Liz." Jazz brought me back to his quarters and set me down on his berth. "Hang tight, 'kay? Gonna get ya a shirt." I nodded and watched Jazz leave the room. I began shifting through the datapad-made-ipod on his nightstand. Jazz didn't freak out like I thought he would when he came back in. "Thought ya didn't like music."
I shrugged. You like it.
He smiled as he handed me the blue, button down shirt that drowned me in fabric when I put it on. "Nice and dry now, huh?" I nodded. His holoform came and laid down behind me. "Anything in particular ya wanna listen to?"
I held up my hand, eyes still on the screen. Wait for it. I looked for the volume, set it to human tolerance levels, and pressed play on the new playlist I had created.
:I had a lot to say
I was thinking on my time away
I missed you and things weren't the same
'Cause everything inside never comes out right
You get older and blame turns to shame
And when I see you cry it makes me want to die:
Jazz squeezed my hand. "Never die on us. We clear on that?"
:I'm sorry I'm bad
I'm sorry you're blue
I'm sorry about all the things I said to you
And I know I can't take it back
I just wanted to say I'm sorry:
Jazz kissed my hair. "I'm sorry, too, Liz. Fo' pushin' ya."
I shook my head. My turn. Not yours.
I could feel him smile. "Anything else?"
I took a deep breath.
:My eyes have adjusting to dark and so is my heart
The weight of the world has covered me
I'm in over my head
Can anyone hear me calling out?:
"I'm listening."
:Finally breaking so where are you now
It's been such a long time
But I've tried to live without
I'm suffocating
Pull me up before I'm buried beneath:
"I'm not going anywhere."
:I thought I was alone:
"No one else is, either."
:Hollywood whore
Passed out on the floor:
My hand shook violently...so violently that Jazz had to gently hold my wrist so I could sign correctly. M-M-M-M-Mother.
:Can't take it no more
She found out she's got no soul
Can't take it no more
The talk of the town
Is she's going down
Can't take it no more:
Jazz pet my hair. "S'kay, Liz. Tell me at yer own pace."
:Awake by noon, drunk by four
Plastic smile
She's going insane
Can't take it no more
Right behind my back you stabbed me
Lying cheating so deceiving
You broke me down
You screwed me over
You're gonna get what you deserve
I wanna watch you burn
You turn me inside out
My world is upside down
I know I'm gonna burn:
"Liz?"
:Dry lightning cracks across the skies
Those storm clouds gather in her eyes
Her mama was mean
Her daddy was whiskey in the ground
The weather man called for a twister
She prayed blow it down
There's not enough rain
To wash the sins out of that house
To rip the nails out of the past
Shatter every window, every brink, every board
'Til there's nothing left standing
Nothing left of yesterday
Every tear-soaked memory blown away
She heard those sirens screaming out
Her mama laid there passed out on the couch
She locked herself in the cellar
Listened to the screaming of the wind
Some people called it taking shelter
She called it revenge:
Jazz looked at the soaked clothes on the ground. Lisa flinched at the sound of thunder. It was still raining. It would never stop raining for her.
:I've been a wretched soul
From my heart down to my toes
I was lost in my disease screaming don't change when it's too late
One last shot is too far gone
I will not live before I die
I pushed you way too far
From the valley of the dead
I can't apologize
I'm digging myself a deeper hole
I can't find a home
I swear
This is my temporary home, it's not where I belong
Windows and rooms that I'm passing through
This is just a stop on the way to where I'm going
The valley of the dead
I'm afraid because I know
This is my temporary home
And I can not see God's face
I'm afraid:
For as much as my mother hated me...for as much as I didn't want her to come and take me away from Hound...for as much as I know that I deserved Hell...I was terrified. I was scared. I knew what was waiting for me at the end of the tunnel. I knew I was going to have to die at some point. I knew I was going to Hell. I knew I was going to see my mother in Hell. I knew I was going to be stuck with her for eternity in Hell. I was going to Hell. I was going to be tortured, marked, and be forced to choke down mud until I couldn't breath-Only to continue the process for...for...forever. Despite knowing all of that...I still loved her. Some sick, twisted part of me still loved my mother. We had a connection once. It may not have lasted long, but it still was alive. The connection was alive through Hell...I had tried to destroy that connection by killing her, destroying the house, and leaving everything I had at the orphanage behind. But I couldn't destroy any of it. It was as much a part of me as I was of it. I knew it and I hated it. I hated myself for not being able to let go. I was supposed to forgive and forget. But who could forgive me for such a crime? No one. I didn't deserve forgiveness. I didn't know fear was part of the process of retribution. I didn't know the truth was supposed to hurt this much. I knew Jazz would hate me. I knew I could never be accepted into a world where-
:There's a place that I know
It's not pretty there and few have ever gone
If I show it to you now
Will it make you run away
Or will you stay
Even if it hurts
Even if I try to push you out
Will you return?
And remind me who I really am
Please remind me who I really am
Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
It's hard to know what can become
If you give up
So don't give up on me
Everybody's got a dark side
Don't run away
Don't run away
Just tell me that you will stay
Promise me you will stay
I will love you
Even with your dark side:
...where nothing made sense.
Hate me.
:Love.:
H-H-Hate-
:Love.:
H-H-
:I'm not giving up on you!:
I couldn't accept that answer. I would never accept that answer. I needed to be punished for my actions. I deserved to be hated. Why was...? Was it possible that...? My shaking diminished. It didn't make sense. No.
Jazz sighed. "Go to sleep. We'll talk when you wake up."
~0~
Turns out, there was nothing to talk about. When one tells another that they left someone to die, there was no need to have a discussion. There does not need to be a punishment. Jazz understood, after a war that was older than Earth, that guilt was a valid punishment for death of any sort. A mental punishment continued whether a physical one was administered or not...but it would diminish it. A punishment would make the healing process proceed at a quicker pace. So he administered one...in his own way.
