Here we go, next one. I was think 1M or 1F, but I decided 1M AND 1F! :P. How do you like it? Eh? Nice? Nice?!! Sue, I'm posting this to you, okies?
Part .05
Getting to Seattle took up five days in all. It would have taken us a lot less, but I was tired and made certain that we rested. It was odd, but I wasn't quite getting the energy back after my seizure. I didn't want a repeat experience on the seizure. It gave me a weird feeling. It was something new, but something I wasn't looking forward too.
Martin and I stuffed ourselves with chicken in this little restaurant on the outskirts of Seattle. Paid for by the owner, because I conveniently tweaked a few minds. What was I to do with my superhuman powers if not use them to my advantage?
I've never really understood the whole superhuman must use her powers to save humans. If you aren't human, why care about them? Its not as if they're the smartest things on the block, and they're real assholes, too. Why were Manticores created? Just to serve men. Well, I was one Manticore who was smarter. I was a maverick. I knew that men weren't worth saving.
Okay, so not all men are bad. Some of them are men trying to save men. Those are always worth a look. Like Dad. Dad is definitely of the latter category.
The problem with men is that there are so many different kinds of men. Who to trust? Who not to trust? I'm never sure.
"Martin," I said as we were leaving the restaurant, "let's turn a right here." Walking briskly, I lead him the way that I remember, the way of the streets.
[gray thoughts]
I'm walking home from school with Sue. Her red hair is bouncing on her back and I am admiring it.
"So," she says, "this is the first time they ever let you walk home by yourself?"
"Yep," I say, "they trust me to know the way, to remember it," and I am proud they do.
[/gray thoughts]
"You sure we're going the right way?" Martin asked me as we jogged down the street. I almost turned at the next corner; it was that way to Jam Pony. If I kept the course that I was going along, we would end up at Foggle Towers. The only question was: Would Mom still be working at Jam Pony.
"Yes," I told him for the third time, "I remember this city like the back of my hand. I remember this city like my bedroom."
"You had a bedroom?" Martin asked me. I glanced at him, thinking of living in the group homes. We'd always shared a room there; no doubt, Martin had never had his own room to be for his lone self.
"Yes, it was beautiful. The closet was almost a large as my bed; it was so cool. I remember, I remember the first night I ever really slept there. I was so happy to realize that it was my bed," I stared ahead rather absently. "I had been living there for maybe three days already, but I never thought about how this room was mine and mine alone. I was so proud, I kept it immaculate," I started smiling, thinking of my room. It had been great.
"It sounds so wonderful. What was it like having a family?" Martin's voice was desperate, searching; almost pleading. It was nearly dark, the sun totally out of my view at the moment, only its most vigilant rays stayed in the air.
"It was like waking up at Manticore and not having to get up all the time. It was like always getting enough to eat at dinnertime, not just the designated amount of food. It was like," I searched for the exact words, "it was like the first day out, over and over again."
Rudely, a woman pushed me aside and muttered, in a heavy French accent, "Excuse me."
[gray thoughts]
"What's your name?" the woman is large, with white, uneven teeth. I look up at her, I know she's expecting me to answer in English. I know she expects me to be a dunce. I know she expects me to say basic things in French. I'll surprise her.
"My name is Alison Marie," I say, looking her in the eye. My accent is perfect. I am perfect. She'll learn that soon enough. I'll be so perfect, she'll scream.
[/gray thoughts]
"You're inexcusable," I told her. The woman glanced back at me before hurrying on.
"You're accent is very good," Martin seemed surprised.
"Well, me, lived, France," I said as we went toward a large building. "Foggle Towers," I told him. It didn't look any different.
Suddenly, I didn't want to go the plain way of doors. I wanted to go into my bedroom and stretch out across the bed, wrap myself in my blue comforter, then wake up when Mom or Dad squealed. Grinning, I made a few deft hand motions. Let's go up the 'scape, Martin, my body language was saying.
Mutely, Martin and I made our way up the fire escape. It was old, but it didn't squeal and creak with us on it as it would have with a man. You have to hand it to men, they are the top at making noise. Take a walk in the woods with a man -- any normal boy or girl. He or she would scare off half of the wildlife before you got halfway in. Stupid men.
Then, on my urging, we walked the ledge to the window facing the alleyway. Quietly, I slipped into the dark room. I heard Martin softly land beside me.
A sob came to my throat, I held up a hand to stop Martin, then said, "This isn't my room." There were two beds. My eyes, quickly adjusting to the dim light, saw bookshelves where they should not have been; a large dollhouse that I had never had; two beds.
They were twin beds, with a dresser between them. On the one nearest to me, I could make out a small figure, entire body covered by the blankets. The headboard read Qeleigh-Bronwynn in large, curly letters. Kelly . . . Bronwin . . . Celtic spellings of popular American names. Original meanings had to do with beauty . . . On the bottom, facing outwards from the bed, was the word Zesiro . . . African . . . the first twin . . .
On a hunch, I looked at the footboard of the second bed, where another form was sleeping, much as the girl. Banji, it read, the second twin. The headboard had Roan-Sullivan in the same calligraphy as the Qeleigh-Bronwynn's bed. So this one was a boy. The meaning of this name had to do with beauty, too. Something about eyes, I couldn't remember. I wasn't as caught up on name meanings as I wanted to be; Mumma hadn't given me a lot of free time.
"These children are loved," I breathed out softly. I was almost envious of these two children, with my room and the life I would never have. "Come on, they've moved."
As I turned toward the window and Martin, something caught my eye. I saw several large, old books; well worn and frayed. Obviously older than the two small lumps in the bed, they caught my eye because I knew their form well.
"Those are mine," I said quietly, reaching out to stroak the books. "Those are my books that I left behind."
Part .05
Getting to Seattle took up five days in all. It would have taken us a lot less, but I was tired and made certain that we rested. It was odd, but I wasn't quite getting the energy back after my seizure. I didn't want a repeat experience on the seizure. It gave me a weird feeling. It was something new, but something I wasn't looking forward too.
Martin and I stuffed ourselves with chicken in this little restaurant on the outskirts of Seattle. Paid for by the owner, because I conveniently tweaked a few minds. What was I to do with my superhuman powers if not use them to my advantage?
I've never really understood the whole superhuman must use her powers to save humans. If you aren't human, why care about them? Its not as if they're the smartest things on the block, and they're real assholes, too. Why were Manticores created? Just to serve men. Well, I was one Manticore who was smarter. I was a maverick. I knew that men weren't worth saving.
Okay, so not all men are bad. Some of them are men trying to save men. Those are always worth a look. Like Dad. Dad is definitely of the latter category.
The problem with men is that there are so many different kinds of men. Who to trust? Who not to trust? I'm never sure.
"Martin," I said as we were leaving the restaurant, "let's turn a right here." Walking briskly, I lead him the way that I remember, the way of the streets.
[gray thoughts]
I'm walking home from school with Sue. Her red hair is bouncing on her back and I am admiring it.
"So," she says, "this is the first time they ever let you walk home by yourself?"
"Yep," I say, "they trust me to know the way, to remember it," and I am proud they do.
[/gray thoughts]
"You sure we're going the right way?" Martin asked me as we jogged down the street. I almost turned at the next corner; it was that way to Jam Pony. If I kept the course that I was going along, we would end up at Foggle Towers. The only question was: Would Mom still be working at Jam Pony.
"Yes," I told him for the third time, "I remember this city like the back of my hand. I remember this city like my bedroom."
"You had a bedroom?" Martin asked me. I glanced at him, thinking of living in the group homes. We'd always shared a room there; no doubt, Martin had never had his own room to be for his lone self.
"Yes, it was beautiful. The closet was almost a large as my bed; it was so cool. I remember, I remember the first night I ever really slept there. I was so happy to realize that it was my bed," I stared ahead rather absently. "I had been living there for maybe three days already, but I never thought about how this room was mine and mine alone. I was so proud, I kept it immaculate," I started smiling, thinking of my room. It had been great.
"It sounds so wonderful. What was it like having a family?" Martin's voice was desperate, searching; almost pleading. It was nearly dark, the sun totally out of my view at the moment, only its most vigilant rays stayed in the air.
"It was like waking up at Manticore and not having to get up all the time. It was like always getting enough to eat at dinnertime, not just the designated amount of food. It was like," I searched for the exact words, "it was like the first day out, over and over again."
Rudely, a woman pushed me aside and muttered, in a heavy French accent, "Excuse me."
[gray thoughts]
"What's your name?" the woman is large, with white, uneven teeth. I look up at her, I know she's expecting me to answer in English. I know she expects me to be a dunce. I know she expects me to say basic things in French. I'll surprise her.
"My name is Alison Marie," I say, looking her in the eye. My accent is perfect. I am perfect. She'll learn that soon enough. I'll be so perfect, she'll scream.
[/gray thoughts]
"You're inexcusable," I told her. The woman glanced back at me before hurrying on.
"You're accent is very good," Martin seemed surprised.
"Well, me, lived, France," I said as we went toward a large building. "Foggle Towers," I told him. It didn't look any different.
Suddenly, I didn't want to go the plain way of doors. I wanted to go into my bedroom and stretch out across the bed, wrap myself in my blue comforter, then wake up when Mom or Dad squealed. Grinning, I made a few deft hand motions. Let's go up the 'scape, Martin, my body language was saying.
Mutely, Martin and I made our way up the fire escape. It was old, but it didn't squeal and creak with us on it as it would have with a man. You have to hand it to men, they are the top at making noise. Take a walk in the woods with a man -- any normal boy or girl. He or she would scare off half of the wildlife before you got halfway in. Stupid men.
Then, on my urging, we walked the ledge to the window facing the alleyway. Quietly, I slipped into the dark room. I heard Martin softly land beside me.
A sob came to my throat, I held up a hand to stop Martin, then said, "This isn't my room." There were two beds. My eyes, quickly adjusting to the dim light, saw bookshelves where they should not have been; a large dollhouse that I had never had; two beds.
They were twin beds, with a dresser between them. On the one nearest to me, I could make out a small figure, entire body covered by the blankets. The headboard read Qeleigh-Bronwynn in large, curly letters. Kelly . . . Bronwin . . . Celtic spellings of popular American names. Original meanings had to do with beauty . . . On the bottom, facing outwards from the bed, was the word Zesiro . . . African . . . the first twin . . .
On a hunch, I looked at the footboard of the second bed, where another form was sleeping, much as the girl. Banji, it read, the second twin. The headboard had Roan-Sullivan in the same calligraphy as the Qeleigh-Bronwynn's bed. So this one was a boy. The meaning of this name had to do with beauty, too. Something about eyes, I couldn't remember. I wasn't as caught up on name meanings as I wanted to be; Mumma hadn't given me a lot of free time.
"These children are loved," I breathed out softly. I was almost envious of these two children, with my room and the life I would never have. "Come on, they've moved."
As I turned toward the window and Martin, something caught my eye. I saw several large, old books; well worn and frayed. Obviously older than the two small lumps in the bed, they caught my eye because I knew their form well.
"Those are mine," I said quietly, reaching out to stroak the books. "Those are my books that I left behind."