Hey folks! Before you read this chappie, I want you to remind you that you may find that some things look like 'A Life Worth Living' . . . maybe.
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Chapter 13:
It was snowing. The sky was light gray and it was snowing in the middle of a wood. A two-inch layer of the cold white flurry covered the ground, but it couldn't be later than November, seeing all the orange, gold, red and yellow leaves still hanging on the surrounding trees, and all those hidden under the carpet of snow. A little girl probably around the age of seven was running, covered in warm winter clothes. She seemed happy, jumping over rocks and fallen branches, giving the impression of knowing exactly where she was going.
"Grandpa?" she asked, stopping dead in her tracks in front of a large maple tree that had already lost its colored leaves.
"I'm here, Shany," an old man's voice said from a pack of large bushes, a bit further away.
The young girl smiled and ran towards the now visible green hat poking out of the bushes, and crawled between the branches to sit in front of a well built man with gray hair, smoking a pipe. He was also wearing winter clothes, but his were of wool and fur and seemed to have been used for quite a while. He was wearing army boots and a rifle was at his side. A sugary smell of old tobacco hung around him.
"Did you find me quickly?" he asked in a whisper. "Did your parents let you leave alone?"
"Mommy doesn't want me to stay with you much," the girl said sorrowfully. "But daddy said that it was alright, because he knows that I know the way by heart."
"Yes, well your mother doesn't like me very much," the old man said. "She thinks I'm crazy and doesn't like military people like me and your dad."
"But she loves daddy!" the girl objected.
"Yes, but she hates the fact that he, like me, works for the government," the grandpa explained. "Now are you ready to go hunting?"
The girl nodded happily.
"Now, you remember how to use the gun?" he asked, showing her the rifle by his side, getting a nod for answer. "Well I'm going to show you how to make sure you hit your target . . ."
But the memory faded away, only to be replaced by another one.
The little girl was eight. She sat in the corner of the room, right after dinnertime, a mark on her face proving that she had been slapped more than once. She was crying, trying to make herself as small as possible, watching her parents' shadows through the French glass doors in the living room. They were yelling, porcelain was breaking, and finally, there was pain. He could hear them, her father was drunk, his wife was leaving him, going off to Miami with his young associate and wanted divorce papers.
Her mother opened the first glass door and walked towards her, grabbing her arm and pulling her away.
"No, mommy, please no," she sobbed. "I'm staying with daddy . . . he needs me . . ."
Her mother glared, screamed something at her father who appeared in the doorway, giving his daughter a little smile, walking to her and passing his hands on her shoulders while his ex-wife walked away noisily, slamming the door on her way out. Everything disappeared.
The young girl was now ten, standing in an ice cream parlor beaming with pride between her father and grandpa, both in military uniforms, decorated with medals. There was a former beauty queen with black hair on her father's side.
This time, it was much earlier in autumn, probably around the end of September, beginning of October.
The same girl was there, but the only difference was that she was older, maybe around the age of thirteen or fourteen. She looked much more mature, having her hair tied into a high ponytail and wearing a full black bodysuit complete with belt and gun. She was standing in the middle of a clearing. Behind her was a very large house in which people were talking loudly around a dinner table. Military people.
The girl degained her gun and pointed it towards a circular target about a hundred feet away. She shot five times at regular intervals and the bullet hit the center of the target each time. She did not smile, simply looking at her goal.
"That was nice," a boy's voice said from behind the target, walking to the side and showing himself. He was older than she, tall, good looking, well built and maybe a little thin, having fair skin, messy black hair and brown eyes. He was smirking and had his hands in his pockets. To his clothes, he was obviously the son of a military from inside the house, even if he did seem a little unruly with his tie undone and his jacket loose.
The girl sighed, lowering her weapon.
"Your name?" she half asked, half ordered, visibly annoyed.
"James," he said. "James Howlett."
But the boy disappeared, just like everything else. After a few moments of darkness, another scenery appeared. It was the same big home in which the military had dined. A man was in the living room, smoking and reading the papers. A woman, the man's second wife, was in the kitchen, washing dishes and there was a small dog running around in the hallway. Loud footsteps were heard jumping down the stairs and the ever-same girl appeared. Years had passed and she was now sixteen. Her hair was darker, cut above the shoulder, and there were some bangs dyed blue. She had a nose ring and her ears were completely pierced. She was wearing the bottom of a winter outfit and was holding a snowboard in one hand, a bag in the other.
"Bye Dad," she said. "Going snowboarding with Chris and Jimmy for the weekend."
Before he could object, she was out the door, jumping in the back of a red jeep with two boys. The first had silvery blond hair, was very, very tall and equally skinny. The second was the same boy from the previous memory, in older. He looked much stronger and wasn't skinny anymore. He had obviously started working out. His skin was a bit darker and his chin had some stubble, unlike the first boy.
"Lets get out of here!" the girl said.
The car drove off and James turned around from his seat and smiled at her. She rolled her eyes and looked away.
Everything went black again, until another image appeared.
Shania was at least eighteen this time. Her piercings were gone, her hair was longer and wasn't colored. She was wearing leather clothes and was in a small town, more precisely in a bar, with Chris. He was holding her by her waist and was kissing her every now and then, sometimes looking over her shoulder, and smiling.
After a while, she turned around to see at what he was looking at, and saw James, leaning on the back wall, looking very angry. He and Chris weren't on friendly terms anymore.
And the image vanished, like all the other memories, letting another materialize at its place.
She was nineteen and had her first motorcycle. She was ridding on the road, letting the cold air burn he face.
The imaged blurred out and a dark room appeared, in which Shania, James, Chris and other young people working for the government stood in line. A man in front of them was talking, but she couldn't remember what he was saying, except for one thing . . . the weapon-X project. Having finished his speech, the man in uniform looked around expectantly.
"I volunteer," a much too familiar voice said, making a step forward.
Shania turned and looked, shocked, as James stepped forward.
The picture turned into a lab in which she was, tied to a table, struggling. She could feel James' presence . . . Chris' presence . . . her father's presence . . . but no one would help her.
No other image came, as she only remembered feelings. Pain, hatred, fear . . . and the desire to harm.
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I wanted to notify that James Howlett was Logan's name before he lost his memory. AHAH!
Next chapter coming as soon as I get enough reviews! It's already written, so I'm just waiting for reviews . . .