The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Harpies Chaser 3
Song: You Light Up My Life - Debby Boone
Prompts:
9. (emotion) fear/ 12. (restriction) No characters name/15. (image) prompt
Around the World: Guatemala - [AU] Gang
Word count: 2,324
Follow the Light
So many dreams I kept inside me
The cold floor sent shivers up your spine, tracing the black and blue bruises which cover your body. How nice it would be if you could lay here all day and let your body heal itself. If you could let the old bruises fade away and let your skin return to its milky, white complexion; it's nice to dream, but the voice above you snaps to get your weak, pathetic body off the floor.
Your eyes open slowly, and rage and disappointment are evident on your father's face. Get up. Bones and muscles scream their pain, but you lift your body off the floor with the softest of grunts. Holding your pain and tongue is nothing but child's play. With your chin held high and your back straight, you taunt him.
Go on. Hit me more. I can take it. Do it, Father.
But all he does is purse his lips, glancing over your bruised body, before sighing heavily.
"I think not," he says eventually, tapping his cane on the floor. "Why you can't handle basic training is beyond me. You are my son, aren't you?"
The expression on your face remains the epitome of calm.
(You once showed anger and sadness, but you'd rather not go through the intense physical training again.
As if what your father did to you then was anything but torture.)
"Yes."
"Then act like it," he snaps, heels clicking on the floor as he makes his way out. His long, blond hair swishes behind him; it's the last thing you see before the door slams shut.
The telling lurch in your stomach has you running towards the bucket in the corner of the training room. Your knees buckle underneath you and crawling is all you can do to reach the bucket in time. Yesterday's contents come swirling up and out of your mouth, burning your throat as it so, leaving you empty in more ways than one.
The bucket stays cradled in your arms, a steady line of saliva dripping in every so often.
Your father is right.
You're pathetic.
(Fingernails dig into your arms as if you're trying to scratch out talent or skill buried underneath your skin.)
You're not fit to be the next head of the family gang.
(To have the lives of many resting in your palms, hearts pouring their hope and support onto you.)
But god you want to be stronger; you want to be the perfect heir; you want to make your father proud that you're his son.
(Want to make him smile in your direction and ruffle your hair like when you were a child. Most of all, you want to feel loved by him.)
So you place the bucket aside and wipe the remnants of vomit and spit on your lips with the back of your sleeve, and you begin to train again.
But now you've come along
You meet her by accident.
(Brown eyes meet gray across the ballroom. She's leaning against a column, surveying the crowd before her with something akin to disgust on her face. Her brown, curly locks frame her face beautifully, and her red lipstick matches the red of her dress. Her mouth opens in a small gasp when you walk across the room, eyes deep and intense, but it quickly morphs into a cautious smile.
She recognizes you; there's no way she wouldn't. One look at your father and another at you is all she needs to put two and two together.
"Can I have this dance?" you ask, voice smooth and deep. You enjoy the shade of pink which covers her cheek.
"Oh, I don't know. Can you?" she replies teasingly, voice strong despite the nervousness in her eyes. "May I have this dance?" she asks instead. You blink and she casts a quick glance to the side. When she looks back a strange determinedness has washed over her and she doesn't even wait for you to answer.
She takes the lead and drags you to the dance floor. As you twirl and glide, you catch a glimpse of your father's face. He's in a crowd of powerful people—the people around him are all on top of the food chain, controlling their section with an iron fist. He raises a brow at the girl and turns away.
"Just call me Otter!" she laughingly says after you ask her for name and gang. "I'll keep my gang's name to myself for now. A girl has to have her secrets after all."
You nod and press your lips together in an effort to keep from bursting into laughter. It'd be unbefitting of you to appear like a low-rank member. "Then call me Dragon."
Otter blinks and nods. "Dragon," she repeats, her lips quirking. "It's nice to meet you."
You wonder, not for the first time and not for the last, who she's affiliated with.)
You fall in love with her by accident.
(She inches into your life slowly.
In truth, you don't expect to see her after the dance. She looks far too nice to be in this sort of underground life. But she appears again and again in the oddest of places: in the coffee shop you frequent, in the bookstore near your home, and in the torture jobs. Everything about her pulls you further in.
The way she talks and walks with confidence.
How she orders straight black coffee and teases your sugary drink choice.
The way she goes on and on about the smallest things.
How she seems to know everything about everything and how her curly hair must be storing all the vast information she spouts.
The way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, a pearly laughter spilling from her lips.
How she immerses herself in reading and pays no mind to those around her, making the silliest faces as she gets sucked into different worlds.
The way she recites a prayer just before she takes a knife to her victim's skin.
How she whispers gentle words and pets the victim's hair while their blood stains her clothes; how she shows the people mercy.
Suddenly you're feeling emotions other than regret and anger. Happiness sneaks past your walls and engulfs you.)
You're no fool. You know she's playing with you like an instrument. You know there's more to her than kind words and smiles. But, still, you smile and let her take all the secrets you keep.
You let her take the blueprints of your organization, take files from your father's office, take information on how to crumble your father's empire, and you let her take your heart.
See, you know she's too good to belong to any gang. She's pureness and goodness wrapped in one person.
She's your light.
And you want it to keep burning bright.
So you let the otter trap the dragon on purpose.
Rollin' at sea, adrift on the water
His heels and cane click against the stone floor as he paces around the room. You daren't look at your father. There's a light squeeze on your upper arm and you're reminded of your mother's support and presence.
"Is there anything you'd like to say?" he speaks, low and dangerous. It makes you flinch. He knows. Of course, he knows. You've seen the bloody bodies of the lower rank members come rushing through the manor door; seen them screaming their lungs out about betrayal.
"No, Father."
Your father pauses in his step and stalks towards you. His usually well-combed hair is a mess and there are clear bags under his eyes. His gray eyes flash menacingly as he grabs your collar and pulls you forward. He inhales heavily, minty breath filling your nostrils with a tinge of ash. Swallowing the lump in your throat is difficult when he moves his hand to wrap around your throat. With a flick of his right wrist, his cane opens to reveal a gun.
"Wrong answer," he whispers, pressing the tip of the gun to your stomach.
It's hard and so very real.
Your heart wants to escape its ribcage. You could die right now. Tears fall freely down your face. "I don't know."
"Please, dragon," your mother whispers in your ear, desperation making her voice crack. He tightens his hold and you gasp for breath. Still, you won't say a word about her. "Stop, stop! He's your son. He's my son," she yells, pushing your father backward. "He's done nothing wrong!"
Your father snarls. "You can't do anything right. You're useless. Pathetic. Why can you ever make me proud?"
You hang your head down in shame, hands clutching to the fabric of your jeans.
"Find that damn bitch and kill her," he declares, running a hand through his hair. "I want her dead! She's ruined everything. Kill her or I kill you."
You light up my days
She brings you to the Order of the Phoenix herself; says she trust you with her life and her secret. Your heart pounds and your palms get sweaty. Guilt courses through your body when you text your father coordinates of their hideout.
Your father is right.
You're useless. You're a coward. You'll let her die because you're too scared to die yourself. Because you still have a twisted mentality that this will finally make your father like you.
(You also know this will never happen, but you hold onto foolish thoughts.)
Their hideout is a beaten down house with broken and boarded up windows. There's graffiti covering the front side of the house, and you were willing to bet that there's more on the other walls. It looks uninhabitable and even more so with the setting of the sun. There's an ominous feeling deep in your gut as she leads you inside.
The place is empty and trashed. There's nobody here. Has she figured you out? Does she know? But your anxiety eases out when she removes the ratty old couch from its place and there's a hatch hidden underneath.
"After you, dragon," she says, light and airy. All you can see is a black hole. Before you insist she go first, she pushes you.
It's a free fall of sorts. Not a terribly long fall, but the air does leave your lungs when your back hits the ground. You pick yourself up in no time. You've had lots of practice with that anyway. This is hardly anything.
Glancing up, you can make out the light. A black figure covers it and then it's gone. You jump when a hand grabs your arm and pull up your phone's flashlight.
"Scared?" She smiles crookedly, her two front teeth seeming larger in the dim light. "You shouldn't be. Follow me."
"You wish."
Eventually, you stop and you assume she pulls a door handle because light invades your vision. You have to blink a few times to get accustomed to it.
You let out a small gasp when you find about a dozen other people sitting and standing around a table. They range from all ages and sizes. There's an old man with a long beard who you can name as the leader. You've heard stories of him. He's the only one the Dark Lord is terrified of. He's the Police Head Chief.
"Nice to meet you, dragon," the Head Chief says, his startling blue eyes seem to look right through you.
There are choruses of hello and welcome that your guilt increases tenfold.
You can't do this. No, these people want to stop the underground and gang violence. They want what you want, and you've just put all their lives in danger.
"S-Sorry," you gasp out, clutching your chest. Why does your heart hurt so much? "I'm so sorry."
It's too late.
There's pounding upstairs and loud yells. The agents around the room nod in understanding. Not a single one looks at you with hate. It's like they knew you were already going to call them.
Your eyes sting and you wipe them harshly with your sleeve. No, you can't cry. Even she nods and smiles like nothing's wrong. That's when you see the agents all ready with their guns, pointing it towards the door.
The next moments are a flurry of movements.
The door is busted open, the safety of the guns are off, and you see your father enter the room with a maniacal smile, just behind the other gang members.
In his hand, there's a gun and it's pointed straight at her.
"You did this. The Dark Lord no longer trusts me to rule over the east of town! All because you made my son love you," he snarls. He turns his gaze on you and laughs. "You were always so goddamn weak. It's no different now."
He pulls the trigger.
Two things happen in successive motion: first, you push her out of the way and take the bullet, and the second, your father is shot down.
His death is instant.
Yours is not.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die, but that's a lie.
Everything is too loud and too vivid.
You feel everything and nothing at once.
But her voice is clear when she holds your body and cradles you back and forth.
"Please, hold on a little longer. Stay with me."
Overwhelming fear grips at your heart because there's no avoiding it.
You're going to die.
You scream; it's guttural and wild.
"Please, dragon."
"I don't want to die," you whisper, body growing weaker as you speak.
"Then don't!" she yells, her arms tightening around you. "Live, dragon. Fuck, you don't even know my name! My name's He-"
There's a startlingly bright light covering your eyes, and her face above yours, covered in tears and snot, becomes focused for one second.
And then it's alright.
As long as the otter's light is burning bright, the dragon can sleep peacefully.
And fill my nights with song