Disclaimer: I own the stuff you don't
recognize. Which will be most of the main characters and Roslindale, Connecticut
and I'm not sure about the rest yet. But I'll keep you posted, promise.
Gabriella's POV
I stalked into my house and threw my bag on the floor, I'd get in later, after I got myself nice and relaxed, and after I pigged out on ice cream and hidden the evidence. Walking into the kitchen, I beeline to the fridge and opened the freezer side, ah we had Bunny Tracks, it was an odd assortment of vanilla, cookie dough, chocolate syrup, and caramel. Totally bad for me, but good all the same.
Grabbing a spoon, I sat myself in front of the television and flicked it to MTV, only to catch the last bit of Britney Spear's new video. "Skanky bitch," I muttered before shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth.
I was too busy shoveling the sweet, sugary substance that was right up there with tea, coffee, and air to hear my father come in.
"Pet, you do realize you'll ruin your dinner with all that ice cream, not to mention your teeth," he said.
"Well right now I don't 'effin care," I pouted slightly, too wrapped up in my own issues to even bother watching my language.
"Language poppet," my father reminded me gently, wanting to see what was bothering me.
"I told you, I don't 'effin care!" I shouted, standing up, the ice cream forgotten on the table.
I headed towards the door, intending to get away, go up to my room and brood. Or at least nurse my slightly wounded pride back to its healthy natural glow. But my father caught me by the arms and held me, tipping my head up. "What's wrong poppet?"
"People suck. They should burn in 'ell. I don't 'effin care what they did. Ils me blessent, et ils blessent Claude et Jean et Paul aussi. Les gens ne deservent pas de vivre. Ils devraient partir et me gardent tout seule," I began howling, in English, and beating on my father's chest and before long I had slipped back into French as well as sobbing into my father's chest.
My father looked down at me, his eyes filled with concern, "Poppet, mind repeating that in English? My French is a bit rusty."
I hiccuped, and ran a hand across my cheeks, trying to wipe away the tears. "They all hurt me, hurt Claude and Jean Paul. People don't deserve to live. They should go away and leave me alone," I repeated slowly, this time more clearly.
"Aww, poppet," my father pulled me close. "They're gone now, they're gone."
He murmured more things, more comforting words, but I didn't hear them, I was too lost in my own thoughts, my own memories.
"Be a good girl for mommy and go into the kitchen and set the table for two. Jean Paul won't be joining us for dinner," Angela Clay said to her 8-year-old daughter. She carried a black garbage bag that seemed to be really heavy.
The little girl nodded and ran to do as her mother asked. After all, she was a good girl. She set the table perfectly, she didn't even drop a thing, and even though she had to get a chair in order to get the plates. She stood back and admired her work; everything was in place, the perfect setting for a two-person meal.
She sighed; her mommy wasn't back up yet, so she had to wait in order to start helping dinner. But she could read! Scampering to the living room where she had previously left her book, she was met with a gruesome site. Blood painted the carpet a sickly red. And there in the middle of the floor was Claude, her brother's boyfriend and best friend.
"Claude?" she asked tentatively.
"Angelique," his voice was hoarse, but still held a tender quality. "A bad thing has happened little one. Can you call?"
"Call who?" the girl asked.
"Anyone, call anyone," Claude told her.
The girl scampered off, into the kitchen, her book forgotten, and to the telephone. She dialed the numbers they made every child memorize way back in pre-1st. Sobbing slightly she told the operator what had happened, what she had found, and she waited.
And waited for someone to show, be it her mother, or someone else. The knock came to the front door of the apartment. "Who is it?" the little girl asked, like she had been taught, because she was a good girl.
"The police, and paramedics," came the reply.
The little girl's eyes widened and she quickly let them in. They took to the scene and the little girl saw Claude being carted out, he was woozy, but able to give the little girl a smile. "Angelique, the apple of her brother's eye. Always reading, finding new words, never lose your intelligence, never," and he was gone, taken by the paramedics.
When the little girl's mother had come home, she wasn't happy. "What did you do?" she screamed at the little girl. "You were bad, weren't you? You're a bad girl, a bad girl," the woman repeated the last part like a mantra as the police took her away, and out of the little girl's life forever.
"I'm a good girl, right papa?" I asked as I sobbed the last of my tears. Dry hiccups and whimpers only came after that.
It was then I realized we were sitting on the couch, or most realistically, my father was sitting on the couch, and I was sitting in his lap.
"Erm, sorry," I muttered as I scrambled off, trying to wipe off any tears that lingered upon my face.
"Nothing to be sorry about poppet," my father told me, still keeping a firm arm around my shoulders. "Now what brought that on?"
I looked anywhere but his face, "Stuff," I said finally, trying to stay vague.
"Stuff?" he asked.
"Stuff," I repeated.
We sat like that for the next few minutes, as I went to go upstairs, my father stopped me and pulled me into a hug. "You're a good girl, don't let anyone tell you different, okay poppet?" he asked. I nodded and he grinned, "Now scat, I bet you have homework to do."
I grinned back and walked towards the stairs, making sure to pick up my bag. There was no reason my father should see what I picked up. He didn't believe in anything that wasn't proven by science. I had a suspicion that unless it was proved otherwise, he would think the earth is flat. Thank god for those photographs that astronauts took or else we'd probably have a nice long debate on who was right. So in the end, he really didn't need to see what I bought.
Hurrying up the stairs, I walked into my bedroom and promptly drew the book out of my bag before throwing it to the ground.
Opening the book, I started to scan the pages, trying to find the section that I had read in the store. "Animals, animals…ah here it is," I flipped to the correct page and started to read.
That night I sighed and read over the passage again. "I hope I'm doing this correctly," I muttered to myself as I sat on my bed, my legs crossed and my back straight. I started relaxing and breathing, trying to find that point where I could meditate. As I relaxed even more, working on my breathing and loosening my muscles, I let myself fall into where ever I was supposed to.
I found myself in a forest, walking. There were people around me, or rather; young woman around me, all dressed in white, with quivers on their backs and bows in their hands.
"Lovely day for the hunt, isn't it?" one ask.
I nodded, and brushed my blonde out of my face.
"I'll be a good night to spend with friends," another said.
I smiled, "A good night to spend with friends is right."
And I was back. "Whoa," I said to myself. That was a trip and a half. As I fell back into bed, I thought about the last line that was spoke…a good night to spend with friends. And I knew just what to do too.
Author's Note: Oh dear, the wrong plot bunny was used....oops? Heheh, well this is dedicated to my friend Neha who helped with the French up top, cause I can't speak it...hehe. Oh, and Melissa cause she helped me with the meditation scene. Oh and....next chapter will have all the funky movies in it *grin* Oh, there probably won't be an update tomorrow because I'm busy all day. But who knows, I could just stay up and spin one out!
Gabriella's POV
I stalked into my house and threw my bag on the floor, I'd get in later, after I got myself nice and relaxed, and after I pigged out on ice cream and hidden the evidence. Walking into the kitchen, I beeline to the fridge and opened the freezer side, ah we had Bunny Tracks, it was an odd assortment of vanilla, cookie dough, chocolate syrup, and caramel. Totally bad for me, but good all the same.
Grabbing a spoon, I sat myself in front of the television and flicked it to MTV, only to catch the last bit of Britney Spear's new video. "Skanky bitch," I muttered before shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth.
I was too busy shoveling the sweet, sugary substance that was right up there with tea, coffee, and air to hear my father come in.
"Pet, you do realize you'll ruin your dinner with all that ice cream, not to mention your teeth," he said.
"Well right now I don't 'effin care," I pouted slightly, too wrapped up in my own issues to even bother watching my language.
"Language poppet," my father reminded me gently, wanting to see what was bothering me.
"I told you, I don't 'effin care!" I shouted, standing up, the ice cream forgotten on the table.
I headed towards the door, intending to get away, go up to my room and brood. Or at least nurse my slightly wounded pride back to its healthy natural glow. But my father caught me by the arms and held me, tipping my head up. "What's wrong poppet?"
"People suck. They should burn in 'ell. I don't 'effin care what they did. Ils me blessent, et ils blessent Claude et Jean et Paul aussi. Les gens ne deservent pas de vivre. Ils devraient partir et me gardent tout seule," I began howling, in English, and beating on my father's chest and before long I had slipped back into French as well as sobbing into my father's chest.
My father looked down at me, his eyes filled with concern, "Poppet, mind repeating that in English? My French is a bit rusty."
I hiccuped, and ran a hand across my cheeks, trying to wipe away the tears. "They all hurt me, hurt Claude and Jean Paul. People don't deserve to live. They should go away and leave me alone," I repeated slowly, this time more clearly.
"Aww, poppet," my father pulled me close. "They're gone now, they're gone."
He murmured more things, more comforting words, but I didn't hear them, I was too lost in my own thoughts, my own memories.
"Be a good girl for mommy and go into the kitchen and set the table for two. Jean Paul won't be joining us for dinner," Angela Clay said to her 8-year-old daughter. She carried a black garbage bag that seemed to be really heavy.
The little girl nodded and ran to do as her mother asked. After all, she was a good girl. She set the table perfectly, she didn't even drop a thing, and even though she had to get a chair in order to get the plates. She stood back and admired her work; everything was in place, the perfect setting for a two-person meal.
She sighed; her mommy wasn't back up yet, so she had to wait in order to start helping dinner. But she could read! Scampering to the living room where she had previously left her book, she was met with a gruesome site. Blood painted the carpet a sickly red. And there in the middle of the floor was Claude, her brother's boyfriend and best friend.
"Claude?" she asked tentatively.
"Angelique," his voice was hoarse, but still held a tender quality. "A bad thing has happened little one. Can you call?"
"Call who?" the girl asked.
"Anyone, call anyone," Claude told her.
The girl scampered off, into the kitchen, her book forgotten, and to the telephone. She dialed the numbers they made every child memorize way back in pre-1st. Sobbing slightly she told the operator what had happened, what she had found, and she waited.
And waited for someone to show, be it her mother, or someone else. The knock came to the front door of the apartment. "Who is it?" the little girl asked, like she had been taught, because she was a good girl.
"The police, and paramedics," came the reply.
The little girl's eyes widened and she quickly let them in. They took to the scene and the little girl saw Claude being carted out, he was woozy, but able to give the little girl a smile. "Angelique, the apple of her brother's eye. Always reading, finding new words, never lose your intelligence, never," and he was gone, taken by the paramedics.
When the little girl's mother had come home, she wasn't happy. "What did you do?" she screamed at the little girl. "You were bad, weren't you? You're a bad girl, a bad girl," the woman repeated the last part like a mantra as the police took her away, and out of the little girl's life forever.
"I'm a good girl, right papa?" I asked as I sobbed the last of my tears. Dry hiccups and whimpers only came after that.
It was then I realized we were sitting on the couch, or most realistically, my father was sitting on the couch, and I was sitting in his lap.
"Erm, sorry," I muttered as I scrambled off, trying to wipe off any tears that lingered upon my face.
"Nothing to be sorry about poppet," my father told me, still keeping a firm arm around my shoulders. "Now what brought that on?"
I looked anywhere but his face, "Stuff," I said finally, trying to stay vague.
"Stuff?" he asked.
"Stuff," I repeated.
We sat like that for the next few minutes, as I went to go upstairs, my father stopped me and pulled me into a hug. "You're a good girl, don't let anyone tell you different, okay poppet?" he asked. I nodded and he grinned, "Now scat, I bet you have homework to do."
I grinned back and walked towards the stairs, making sure to pick up my bag. There was no reason my father should see what I picked up. He didn't believe in anything that wasn't proven by science. I had a suspicion that unless it was proved otherwise, he would think the earth is flat. Thank god for those photographs that astronauts took or else we'd probably have a nice long debate on who was right. So in the end, he really didn't need to see what I bought.
Hurrying up the stairs, I walked into my bedroom and promptly drew the book out of my bag before throwing it to the ground.
Opening the book, I started to scan the pages, trying to find the section that I had read in the store. "Animals, animals…ah here it is," I flipped to the correct page and started to read.
That night I sighed and read over the passage again. "I hope I'm doing this correctly," I muttered to myself as I sat on my bed, my legs crossed and my back straight. I started relaxing and breathing, trying to find that point where I could meditate. As I relaxed even more, working on my breathing and loosening my muscles, I let myself fall into where ever I was supposed to.
I found myself in a forest, walking. There were people around me, or rather; young woman around me, all dressed in white, with quivers on their backs and bows in their hands.
"Lovely day for the hunt, isn't it?" one ask.
I nodded, and brushed my blonde out of my face.
"I'll be a good night to spend with friends," another said.
I smiled, "A good night to spend with friends is right."
And I was back. "Whoa," I said to myself. That was a trip and a half. As I fell back into bed, I thought about the last line that was spoke…a good night to spend with friends. And I knew just what to do too.
Author's Note: Oh dear, the wrong plot bunny was used....oops? Heheh, well this is dedicated to my friend Neha who helped with the French up top, cause I can't speak it...hehe. Oh, and Melissa cause she helped me with the meditation scene. Oh and....next chapter will have all the funky movies in it *grin* Oh, there probably won't be an update tomorrow because I'm busy all day. But who knows, I could just stay up and spin one out!
