Hi lovelies!
Here I am, writing this at 3.30 am. Plotbunnies… And I had intended to get a good night's sleep for once. Oh well.
Right. So I decided to now do PL-LovesDAandSPNForever946's 'What if Birkhoff and Nikita grew up in the same foster home before Division?'. I'm not going to write a second chapter to the last one (about Alicia and Birkhoof), as it kept turning out wrong, so sorry if you're disappointed because of that. If you want to continue where I left off, though, feel free!
WARNING: this turned out a LOT sadder and more dramatic than I thought it would. I let a friend of mine read it and she said she nearly cried. I don't know if what's she's saying is true but… it is pretty sad and full of angst.
Don't say I didn't warn ya.
'Nikki! Wait up!'
Nikita turned around and watched as little Seymour, only four years old, ran after her as fast as his pudgy legs could carry him. "Don't leave me here all by myself!"
She gave her little brother the brightest smile she could muster. To be honest, he wasn't even that much smaller than her. Nikki had always been small for her age and although she was seven years older than him he was only about 10 centimeters shorter. And truth be told, he wasn't really her little brother. They only had the same parents. Not that they were their parents anyway. And the only ones who thought of Caroline and Gary as loving parents were Caroline, Gary, and the adoption agency.
Man, their lives were screwed up beyond repair.
Nikita had been left on the threshold of the agency when she was only two, huddled in a warm blanket. Her parents had obviously loved her, they just didn't have to money to raise her. Her adorably little face and the huge black eyes rimmed with dark lashes, had quickly gotten her a 'new home'. Or rather a prison. As soon as she was able to walk, Gary forced her to clean the house, help with preparing his meals and doing the dishes. Whenever she dropped something, she got a beating. Whenever she cried, she got a beating. Whenever she looked at him the wrong way, she got a beating. Caroline tried her best to protect the little girl, but she was always away for work and Gary was always home. And always drunk.
As soon as she turned nine, he had started to abuse her in other ways, too. Ways that hurt her to her core. Ways that made her want to cry and throw up and smash his skull with a stone, all at the same time. But Gary was big, and tall, and fat, and scary. He was ugly, and he smelled of alcohol. Nikita was scared of him. She was powerless.
She hated feeling powerless.
Little Seymour had arrived when Nikita was seven. He had only been one year old, and the most adorable little thing she had even seen. Imagine her surprise when she found out that he already spoke in full sentences! She finally had someone to talk to, someone to understand her. And as soon as she first laid eyes on him, she knew she would give her life to protect him from their foster monsters.
Not that his life wasn't hard. He had to do the same jobs she used to do when she was his age. Except he only had to do a small part of the work. She often did the rest, making sure Gary didn't notice. Nikita's life had been like that for three, four years now. Waking up, making breakfast for Gary, dressing Seymour, going to school. When she got home, she would get started on her homework, but after a few minutes, an hour at most, Gary would start to yell at them and either Seymour or Nikita would get him a new bottle of booze. She always tried to make sure Seymour didn't have to do that. Kids like him should have to see their father, or whatever Gary was supposed to be, like that. It didn't even occur to Nikita that she was still a kid herself. As soon as Gary was out like a light, she set to making dinner. If the timing was right, Caroline would come home from work just after that. Nikita's foster mother would shake her head at Gary, trudge upstairs and take a nap, and afterwards they'd all have dinner together.
Like a loving family.
When dinner was over, Seymour and Nikita would do the dishes and they'd go to bed straight after. Nikita would kiss her little brother goodnight and lock his door. Whenever Gary threw one of his drunk tantrums, he tended to get aggressive and she wanted to shield her brother from that monster's wrath. Then she'd crawl into her own bed and pray that tonight, Gary would not come to 'visit' her, like he'd done too many times to count already. She'd pray for the day he would die of alcohol abuse. Or for the day she'd finally have the strength to go to school and never return.
When that day came, she grabbed Seymour and told him to be a good boy and come with her. He didn't understand. He was only four years old, what child his age would have understood?
Nikita stole a bit of sedative from a store, maybe two days after they had run away. It wasn't that she didn't want her brother's company. It was just that he deserved a better life than being on the run, on the road, with nothing to look forward to and nothing to go back to.
Without her brother noticing, she put the sedatives in a bit of water she had managed to heat over a small fire and offered it to him.
"Drink this. It'll help you."
"Nikki, you need to have some too! You look exhausted!"
"No, Seymour. Please. Drink it." Her brother looked at her warily. Nikita got the feeling he knew exactly what was in that drink and didn't like it one bit.
"Okay, sis. Whatever you say." Her little brother pinched his nose and drained the cup, which they'd found a few hours ago, with one huge gulp. Nikita barely reacted, she just continued to stare numbly into the flames. If her plan succeeded, she'd be all alone in a few hours.
"Nikki?" Seymour yawned. "I'm a little tired…"
"Go to sleep, sweetie. I'm here." She let him crawl against her, using her lap as a pillow. A tear traced a path through the dirt on her face as she began to sing a soft lullaby to get him to sleep faster. Her brother yawned one last time, and half asleep already, he mumbled something she couldn't hear. She bent forward, her long, dark hair brushing his forehead.
"What was that sweetie?"
"Goodnight Nikki. I love you." Tears welled up in her eyes. That was the first time anyone had ever said they loved her in forever. To be exact she couldn't recall ever hearing someone saying those three little words to her before. With a voice thick with tears, she told him that she loved him more.
Nikita left her little brother at an orphanage that same night. She ran, as she had always done, and wiped the tears away angrily. I'll see him again one day, she promised herself. He won't remember me. He's too young to remember me. But I will remember him. Always.
She cast one last, long look over her shoulder. He seemed so small, slumped against the steps that led up to the orphanage's door. Resisting the urge to run back and hug him, she disappeared into the woods.
Farewell, Seymour. I love you.
Okay. Wow. That was a LOT more angsty than I had anticipated.
Here I was, trying to write a fic about Nikita trying to shield her little brother from their foster father's anger. Some stories I write just carry me away, and even I don't know where in the world they're gonna end up… I guess this is one of them.
I gotta say, I've never written anything this angsty before, and I'm both proud and unsure. So…
Loved it? Hated it? Leave me your thoughts! Reviews are love!
Xx Ilse
