A/N: Man, I am sooooo tired. I had such a writer's block on this one. And then, in a flash of inspiration, it came to me and I wrote like crazy.
Thanks to of course, TheNextPoliticalDynasty (nope, it's not based on i know what you did last summer, because frankly, I've never really seen that movie, just bits and pieces...and yes you should update your own pieces because I can't very well read my own story updates, I wrote the thing!), xXxSarahxXx (hehe...you flatter me so...blush, blush), and to RavenForever whom I would have missed thanking if I didn't always check my reviews when I write my author notes (I'm always so flattered when people praise my work so highly, even as I don't feel that it's quite so great...I am my worst critic...bleh...thanks for coming back to my review board and I hope you do keep your vow, because I love reviews and you're so kind. I don't doubt that maybe you have figured out who "the" psycho is, but I hope this chapter throws you off a little. I say "the" because there might not be one, I don't know though, how would I know! hehe...and I always say, emotions are my forte, I love working with emotions, it's great to be able to feel, isn't it? I know, I may be the psycho...) I loves you guys much. Keep up with the reviews and I'll keep up with the updates.
One for the money, two for the show, three to get going...let's roll! Enjoy.
Chapter 16: As the Fire Rages On
Spinelli and Vince seemed to stumble through the rain. They could barely see an inch in front of their face, but they kept moving. Vince would squeeze Spinelli's hand every now and then to make sure she was still with him, but she remained silent. He felt it was best to not attempt speaking with her. She'd been expecting TJ to burst through that door and rescue her, not him. He sighed, wiping at his eyes, blinking away the drops of rain collecting in his lashes. He didn't know where they were headed. Kelso's seemed like a good place to go, but they would need a change of clothes. He considered home, but his parents would be there and they would ask questions. He didn't want to put Spinelli through that. There was nowhere to go. He felt a tug at his hand and realized Spinelli had stopped moving. He turned to her quizzically, but she was looking away from him, back towards the school. He couldn't read her features, but he knew that something was wrong.
"Spinelli..." Vince cried, "We have to keep moving..." Vince narrowed his eyes at her. Did she hear him? The wind was picking up, howling through the streets. What was she looking at? He looked in the direction her face was turned, attempted to shield his eyes from the pelting raindrops. There it was. Something was moving. A person maybe? Moving towards them, fast. He tugged at her arm, tried to get her moving again, but she seemed...entranced.
Spinelli and Vince could feel the wind rush past them, and tossed their arms in front of them to cover their faces, as dagger like shards flew past them, imbedding in their vulnerable flesh. Vince could hear Spinelli scream and was certain that he too was crying out in agony and fear. He saw something knock Spinelli to the ground, heard the splash of water and felt the bleak pain as a blunt object struck him hard in the chest. He struggled to stand on his feet, knocked back from the impact, breathe escaping his lungs. Save her, Vince, get her out of here...TJ's words. Vince grasped his chest, searched through the rain and wind for Spinelli, calling her name even though he himself couldn't hear his voice. Blood was dripping from his arms, legs and forehead, and the rain was striking like ice sickles against his torn skin. He saw motion a few feet from him, someone pulling them self up.
"Spinelli," Vince cried, pushing his way towards her. But their attacker was on the move again, he could see the dark figure swoop down on Spinelli's form, grab her, throw her down again. She slammed into the pavement, but recovered quickly, on her feet again, grasping her surroundings. The figure advanced on her again, but she was ready, dodging and lashing out where she could. Vince came in at a sprint, attempting to jump on the attacker, who was taking the advantage over Spinelli, knocking her back, striking a fist across her jaw, and knocking her back, off her guard. But Vince felt thin air as he leapt, slamming onto the pavement, scraping his chin and elbows, and shaking his already bruised body. Someone's foot connected with his side, and he felt the fading darkness start to overtake him. Save her, Vince...get her out of here...
"TJ...?" Vince moaned. Don't let me down. "Let you down?" Vince mumbled cynically, "You let me down..." They weren't friends anymore. Vince hated TJ. TJ who was to blame for everything; Mary Anna, these assaults, Spinelli...yes, TJ was to blame. He had to be, right? There was the metallic taste of blood in Vince's mouth and his head was swimming. He'd been attacked three times in one day. TJ was gone. It didn't matter if he let TJ down or not. They weren't friends anymore. Then why did Vince promise Spinelli that he'd find TJ? Why did he promise himself he'd find TJ? Why was he so determined to make sure he kept those promises he'd made to TJ? Why was it killing him knowing he left TJ behind like that? Why was it that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he pretended, he never really hated TJ?
-0-0-0-0-
Gretchen sat waiting for Mikey to replace the rest of the microfiche films while she gathered up what she needed. She was going to print out the paper, unsure if it really meant anything, but knowing that that paper was pointing her in the direction of the old boathouse, though it's ties to the gang and their mysterious attacker was yet unknown to her.
Mikey returned by her side, looking down at her, tired and frowning.
"Ready?" he asked. She nodded, pulling herself up and following him from the microfiche room. The library was almost empty; it was going to close soon. Mikey and Gretchen had been silent, unable to find words to express the feelings rushing through them at the moment. They were halfway through the library when they heard a loud boom, and the lights went off. They were surrounded in dark.
"Mikey..." Gretchen whispered, her voice quavering.
"I'm still here, Gretchen," Mikey said reassuringly. "Is it hot in here?" He felt Gretchen move closer to him, sweat gathering at his brow. "The lights'll come back on soon, don't worry."
"Mikey...I don't think we're alone," Gretchen told him, her voice low.
"Well, of course," Mikey whispered in reply, "The librarian must be here somewhere."
"Shh..." Gretchen moved away from Mikey, straining to listen. She'd thought she'd heard something...the crackle of a flame? Or perhaps, the slight giggle of a child? Why was it so hot in there?
"Mikey, I think..." Gretchen started, then turned, looking about, "Mikey?" No answer.
-0-0-0-0-
"Gretchen?" Mikey called into the darkness. Where had she gone? He hated to be alone in that dark building. He stumbled about, blindly feeling about with his hands. He ran into a bookshelf, slammed his leg into a table and tripped over a chair. Where was the librarian? Why hadn't she turned on any lights or took proper procedure to ensure safety in this situation? He knocked into something...something hanging from the ceiling. There was a light source on the ground. He bent down, avoiding, well, whatever it was dangling above him and picked up the object. It was a flashlight. He looked about in front of himself knelt on the ground, getting his bearings. He was by the front desk. He stood up, knocking his head into the object above him once more. He turned, angrily wondering what the library would hang from the ceiling like that. A leg. He'd been hitting his head on a human leg. His breathing quickened, his eyes wide. Hesitantly, he raised the light up to get a full view of the woman hanging from the ceiling, a thin cord wrapped about her throat, her eyes bulged out, her face blue, hanging limply.
Mikey felt bile rise in his throat, but attempted to hold it down. The cord had ripped into the woman's throat, blood had trailed down, staining her pretty blouse, but she'd been dead for a while and wasn't bleeding anymore. Mikey closed his eyes, but the image stayed, imprinted in his mind. He regained composure, reopened his eyes and noticed the note attached to the cadaver's foot. Mikey shined the flashlight on the shaky childish handwriting, thin and careful. "Sorry," it read. Mikey turned away, seeing movement between the bookshelves. He shined the light where he'd thought he'd seen motion.
"Gretchen?" he called hesitantly into the darkness. Was that...was that smoke he saw? He went to move forward, but something caught his eye to the other side of him. Gretchen had been right; they weren't alone. Someone was there, lurking in the shadows. And it wasn't the librarian, Mikey looked up at the hanging body remorsefully, that was for certain. He swallowed down his fear and stepped forward, shining the light in front of him and flickering it to the sides of him to check for any hidden figures. He moved quietly, trying to remain aware of everything. But he must not have been aware enough because he sure didn't see that hard wooden object swipe him on the side of his head. He fell. It had only brushed his head, not really connecting in blunt impact, but the force was enough to stun him and blur his vision. The flashlight flew from his hand, slid across the floor. Mikey tried to shake himself back into focus, looking about the room for his attacker. No one. He couldn't see anyone. He was alone again. He brought his hand up to his injured head, holding it and attempting to stand.
Fire. Mikey could see it leap up from the corner of his eye. It was towards the back of the library, but his natural instinct of panic kicked in. He frantically scrambled to his feet, knowing that Gretchen was still somewhere in the library. What if she was back there, in the middle of the inferno?
Mikey fought the urge to run, heading towards the blaze, shielding his eyes, as he got closer.
"Gretchen!" he called, sweat dripping down his cheeks and forehead. He licked his lips, trying to move in closer still, though the heat was unbearable. He saw a dark figure through the flames on the other side of the library, appearing to be wielding a metal tube. "Gretchen?" he called to the strange figure. Then, thinking the worst, "Leave her alone! Who are you?" he demanded. The figure stopped moving, appearing to look in Mikey's direction.
"Who are you?" the figure called back to him. The voice was masculine, though a bit mousy, and seemed somewhat familiar.
"I'm looking for my friend!" Mikey told the stranger.
"A woman?"
"Yeah."
"I think I saw her go down in those flames," the stranger told him.
"Oh cruel god," Mikey cried, "Gretchen! I have to go get her!"
"No," the stranger told him, "I have the fire extinguisher and I'm closer. There's an exit to the left, get out of here. I'll get your friend and meet you out there. There should be a payphone out there also. You should call the police."
"I can't just leave Gretchen ...or you," Mikey protested.
"You have to trust me," the stranger told him. Mikey nodded. This person seemed so familiar.
"Alright, I'll go. Please, be careful," Mikey called, then turned to run towards the exit, glancing back over his shoulder one last time, "Sweet brave man, I wish you well. Please, do not fail me, return Gretchen and yourself to safety." Mikey left in search of the exit and payphone.
-0-0-0-0-
"La...la...la..."
"Hello?" Gretchen called, "Mikey? Miss...um...librarian?" The thick smell of ash filled Gretchen's nostrils, clawing at her nose and throat. "Hello? Anyone?" Gretchen called desperately, overcome with coughing, and slipping to the ground, hand covering her mouth. There had to be a fire somewhere in the library, but where? The air was hot all around her and smoke seemed to be coming in at all angles.
"So sorry..." Was that a quiet whisper Gretchen heard? Something slammed against the back of her head. "You're not the pretty dolly..." She closed her eyes tight, the smoke and heat making her drowsy, and her head pounding. "...But you'll do for now..." What was that sticky stuff in her hair? It was her turn, Gretchen realized, her turn to be tormented. But no one was around. There was no way of escape for her. So this was how it would end. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, she thought as she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness, at least she'd been able to make-up with Mikey before she...
"Hang on, Gretchen," someone called to her. It was a voice she recognized...but didn't at the same time. She felt small but sturdy hands slip beneath her arms, someone lifting her slightly, dragging her. Then she was in blackness.
-0-0-0-0-
Spinelli spit the taste of blood from her mouth, wiping her lips and eyeing her assailant. It wasn't a little girl, that much she could tell. In fact, from the way the figure held itself, Spinelli was beginning to think that she was fighting a short and sturdy man. She saw Vince go down, and lost sight of her attacker. She felt the force of someone throwing her across the pavement, and she stumbled into the middle of the road. She saw the figure advance on Vince's crumpled form. Fists clenched, Spinelli ran towards the figure, crying out in frustration and crouching swinging her leg in front of her along the ground, attempting to swipe the attacker's feet out from under him, but she missed and her foot connected with something soft and vulnerable. Vince's side. A strong hand wrapped in her hair, pulled her head back exposing her neck. She screamed in pain and anger. Her own blood was spilling down her face and arms, washed away by the rain.
Spinelli lashed out, grabbing the hand and digging her fingernails into the flesh. It had no apparent effect. Her captor simply reacted by grabbing her hands with one of his own. The other hand grasped her collar, lifting her with ease to her feet. She felt the man's hot breath against her ear, brush against her neck. She curled away in disgust. His hand lay against her side, and for a moment Spinelli thought he was going to say something or do something to her. Then, he recoiled, throwing her down to the ground and she heard the rapid thucking sound of someone running off. She turned, headlights barreling in at her. Her eyes widened and she felt her heartbeat speed up. She closed her eyes, but the impact she expected never came. The car was right by her, breathing warm air against her face. She heard a car door open and slam shut.
"Who's there?" Vince called weakly. He was trying to pull himself up and was staring at the car in uncertainty.
"Oh dear god...Ashley?" Spinelli's eyes snapped open and she felt a relieved smiled slip across her lips.
"Frankie," she called but her throat was dry and sore. It only came out as a soft whisper. Francis was by her side at once, knelt down and gently helping her up. He looked over to where Vince was sprawled, lamely holding himself up. After making sure that Spinelli was all right, Francis made his way over to Vince, squinting up at him in confusion and receiving a confused look of his own.
"Vincent LaSalle?" Francis questioned.
"Hustler kid?" Vince replied.
"You look like crap."
"And you look damn good for a wet rat." Vince laughed, thankful, clutching his side in pain and slapping an arm over Francis's shoulder in greeting.
"Where'd he go?" Spinelli demanded, limping over to Francis and grabbing a fist full of his collar, "Where'd he go?"
"Who?" Francis asked, baffled and unflinching, though obviously cowering.
"That bastard that attacked us! I'm gonna teach him a lesson he won't soon forget," Spinelli spat.
"I don't know who you're talking about. You're lucky I saw you, Ashley, otherwise..." Spinelli released him, feeling lightheaded. Francis moved quicker than Vince, but both shot forward to catch Spinelli as she fell limply. Francis held her gently in his arm, brushing the hair from her eyes and wiping her bloody lip.
"She fainted," he explained to Vince who nodded with a sigh of relief, "She's burning up and she looks really pale," Francis looked up at Vince, "And you look to be in bad shape as well. Get in the car, I think I can make it to the hospital." Vince helped Francis lift Spinelli and they set her gently in the backseat before entering the front seats themselves. Slowly, Francis made his way through the rain, glancing every now and then to his rearview mirror to check on Spinelli who Vince watched like a hawk from the passenger seat.
"Why are you here, hustler kid?" Vince asked.
"I was checking out merchandise, but my seller turned out to be a phony. Never showed up, and I'm guessing never really existed. And you can call me Francis, I don't go by hustler kid anymore," was the reply.
"It's lucky you came along."
"Lucky is an understatement, Vince. I was trying to get out of town. But all the roads are closed because of this damned storm. How come I don't recall it raining this much back when we were kids still living here?" Francis asked. Vince sighed. "But I guess I'm just scraping the edge of all the weird things that have been going on around here since I arrived back in town. Things you won't even..." he paused, looked between Vince and Spinelli then shrugged, "Well, maybe you would. You guys getting randomly attacked in the middle of a goddamned tsunami is weird."
"You don't know the half of it," Vince sighed, laying his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.
"I think you'd better tell me the rest of it," Francis said, "Then I'll tell you what's been happening with me."
"Sounds fair, but you're not gonna believe it," Vince told him, "It's a long story..."
"At the rate I'm driving, it's a long way to the hospital," Francis chuckled nervously.
"Alright...here goes..." Vince began.
-0-0-0-0-
Theresa sighed, sitting back in the plush seat of the silver Cadillac. She glanced out the window, the rain pouring down, and drops of water trailing down the glass pane.
"I'm sorry, miss, but we can't move. I've just been informed that the roads are flooding, we have to leave the vehicle," the driver, a stern man by the name of Bruce told Theresa. She nodded, "Is there anywhere we can go?" He asked, turning to look back at her. Theresa glanced out the window. If the streets were flooding, they'd have to get to higher ground. She glanced at the street names and was struck with a realization.
"The library is up that way," she told him, pointing to a street that turned to the left. Bruce nodded.
"Stay put miss, I'll be right there to help you out," he told her, grabbing an umbrella from beneath the seat and throwing open the car door. She sat waiting while he opened her door and took her hand, helping her out and holding her steady against the wind, shielding her from the rain with his body.
"It looks as though I won't be with Gus," she sighed, letting Bruce lead her down the streets she knew so well but could barely recognize through the storm.
"I'm sorry about that miss," Bruce told her, he attempted to tell her something more but the wind carried away his words. So they walked in silence, Theresa checking her watch. The library would be closed by the time they reached it, but in this storm no one was leaving the building. She could see it in the distance, poking its head up over the hill. Something was wrong. Why was the library so dark? And was that - smoke? Yes, she definitely saw smoke rising up into the damp air, dispersing due to the rain. There came a rush of wind, and Bruce put his arm up protectively in front of Theresa. She felt him thump back, heard him gasp. She turned, tried to hold in the scream as he fell, a large metal object protruding from his chest. He was dead.
"No..." she whispered, falling to her knees beside Bruce.
Theresa was a naval officer, awarded 6 honorable metals for her courage, valor, and strength in the navy. She'd been a commanding officer and, while not on active duty anymore, still held a great deal of respect from most all naval officers, most of whom were men. But the prospect of having to make it to the library alone in that storm seemed impossible to her, and grieving anguish washed over her face as she looked down at the dead driver. Tears poured down her cheeks mingling with rain. She felt a kick in her stomach, a reminder from her unborn child of where she needed to go and whom she held responsibilities to. She bent, picking up the umbrella with wet frozen hands and held her rain slicker tightly about her as she pushed down her fear and sadness towards the library. She had to keep moving.
-0-0-0-0-
Gretchen opened her eyes slightly, and then promptly shut them tightly again. Her head was stinging and opening her eyes only doubled the pain. She was being half carried, half dragged, that much she could tell. She attempted opening her eyes again, grimacing and looked up at the man holding her. He was looking over his shoulder, walking backwards. He had brown curls, cut close to his head, and a slightly hunched and thin build. He was wiry no doubt and had slight muscles as he was quite capably pulling Gretchen. She felt him set her down, breathing heavily. He turned to check on her and was surprised to find her awake. Though, not as surprised as she was to get a better look at his face.
"Uh...are you...I mean...Randall?" Gretchen stuttered, staring at the unmistakable features. Stubby nose, beady eyes, sharp cheeks and a pointed chin. The distinguished look of a weasel, but somewhat softened in areas by the sad frown and the concerned gaze.
"It's good you're awake, Gretchen," he told her, "Can you walk?"
"I...um...I-I-I think," Gretchen stammered, staring unbelievingly at the small young man. She'd once known him as a selfish snitch only out for his own personal gain. Had he really pulled her from that fire?
"Good, the rain is putting out the fire, but not fast enough," he explained, "And I can't get you to safety at the slow pace we're going. Not to mention, I think someone else is here and I don't think they're friendly."
"I don't understand...why...when...how?"
"Why am I here, and when, and how did I get here?" Randall finished for her, "I was already at the library, looking for a good book. I was on my way out when I saw you and Mikey leaving and then the lights shut off." He pointed to his belt where he'd twisted a tiny bendable flashlight securely, "I always carry one with me, just in case," he explained, "We better get moving." He extended a hand to help her up and she stared dumbly at it for a moment before finally taking it. They moved quickly through the library, Gretchen swooning and Randall supporting her. Gretchen glanced over her shoulder at the smoldering fire that had almost consumed her.
"Thanks," she said quietly, thinking for a moment that Randall hadn't heard her. But she distinctly saw from the corner of her eye that he winced, shaking his head, and frowning, seeming to concentrate harder on their destination. Odd, Gretchen thought, very odd.
Randall seemed to know the layout of the library fairly well leading them straight to an exit. He kicked the door open, using both his hands to completely support Gretchen who was growing dizzy and drowsier with each passing moment. He pulled her out the door, which led to the side of the library, a covered parking area.
"Gretchen!" Mikey cried, running over to the two worn out people coming through the door from where he'd been sitting waiting by the payphone. He helped set Gretchen down on the ground and stared in stun at Randall.
"Hey, Mikey," he greeted forlornly.
"Randall?" Mikey cried incredulously. The man before Mikey was not the same little snitch from fourth grade. He was a bit short, thin and sharp featured. He was wearing all black, nice pants and a loose shirt both grayed in areas from the smoke and ash of the fire. He was also wearing a large black leather trench coat, and nice black shoes. He lifted back the jacket revealing a fair-sized black pack, flicking off the flashlight attached to his belt. He opened the pack and removed a plastic white box, opening it.
"You have a first-aid kit too?" Gretchen choked out, staring at Randall in disbelief.
"Just in case," he mumbled.
"What else do you have in there?" Mikey inquired, staring at the pack.
"Things," was the distant reply, "You know...just in case...". He shuffled through the kit, neatly organized, though not fully stocked. He helped Gretchen clean up the back of her head, where she'd been scared by whatever had hit her and Mikey with the bump on his own noggin. The sticky substance in Gretchen's hair was obviously blood. She declined Randall's help on putting on the band-aid, insisting she could do that herself.
"Here," Randall said, handing her another, "Take two."
"I only need one," Gretchen told him, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but it's better if you take two," Randall persisted, handing her the other band-aid. Mikey watched with curiosity and Gretchen simply stared, taking in Randall's actions with an observant eye. She looked at the first-aid kit, taking a quick inventory. Two bottles of disinfectant, which Randall appeared to be... - was he checking to make sure they were even? There was also a bag of cotton balls, smoothened so that it was flawlessly flat, a neatly rolled bandage, and carefully stacked gauzes. Everything seemed to be in perfect order. She counted the band-aids in the box quickly before he shut them up carefully. Eight, as opposed to the nine there would have been.
"Randall," Gretchen started, not sure how to phrase the question on the tip of her tongue as he neatly replaced the kit in his pack and pulled out a package of...were those baby wipes? - and began cleaning himself up.
"What?" Randall muttered, distractedly.
"Are you obsessive compulsive?"
"I have a mild case," he answered sheepishly, looking up at her, "I forgot how smart you were."
"Ah...classic OCD...you suffer from slight paranoia as well?"
"Yeah...how'd you know that?" Randall continued cleaning his hands and face, offering Gretchen and Mikey wipes which Gretchen accepted but Mikey wasn't in need of one.
"Your preparedness for anything that may, and tonight did, come up was a hint, though I'm far from being a psychologist, the human mind is quite fascinating...I dabble," Gretchen explained. Mikey shrugged.
"I tried to call the police, but the phone line is dead," he told them, not sure what the hell they were talking about.
"You don't happen to carry a cell phone, do you?" Gretchen asked. Randall shook his head.
"No. Not anymore. I had to check it every few seconds to make sure that it hadn't died on me, and then I learned that your exact location could be tracked through satellite through one of those," Randall told them, as though it were nothing big.
"You're a conspiracy theorist as well?" Gretchen questioned.
"No," Randall chuckled stiffly, "It's kind of hard to go about spouting that "they" are plotting evil things when you are "they", don't you think?"
"So it's true, you are a part of the CIA," Mikey spoke up, excited.
"Not exactly," Randall laughed, a little more good-heartedly, "I'm part of a more private...and let's just say secretive sector."
"What sector would that be?" Mikey pressed.
"I'm not at liberty to talk about that," Randall said matter-of-factly, lifting himself off of the ground, "The rain's going to keep us here for some time...hey, who's that?"
Mikey and Gretchen pulled themselves up, squinting their eyes to get a better look at the woman running to them in the distance. She held an umbrella in front of her as a makeshift windbreaker.
"Theresa," Mikey recognized and rushed past Randall and Gretchen into the rain towards her. He was at her side in a moment, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her the last few yards towards the garage. She was soaked and shivering. Randall threw his trench coat around her shoulders.
"Theresa, what are you doing here?" Gretchen demanded, examining the younger woman for any injuries.
"I was...Ashley A....Gus..." she attempted, her jaw chattering. Gretchen laid a hand on Theresa's belly.
"This can't be good for the baby," Gretchen told her.
"What about Ashley A. and Gus?" Mikey asked.
"Gus is at the hospital," Theresa was finally able to manage, "Ashley A. called to tell me. I was trying to get there but the rain..."
"Wait," Randall cried, "Who are you? What's going on? Gus and Ashley A., you're not talking about who I think you're talking about, are you?"
"That's right. Randall doesn't know what's been going on," Gretchen realized, "I guess we should tell you everything. Since, I assume it involves you."
"Why do I feel like I don't want to know this?" Randall moaned.
"Because you don't," Mikey told him, "But you need to. Gretchen, you know all the facts better than I..." Gretchen nodded.
"I think you'd better sit down," she started.
-0-0-0-0-
TJ awoke to find himself in that same room he'd awoken in that very morning. That morning. TJ groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. That morning seemed so long ago. Hell, just the week before he'd been sleeping beside the love of his life in their New York apartment, and that seemed like an eternity ago...more like an impossible dream considering everything that had happened. He looked about. He was alone. He tried to remember what happened the night before. He'd seen her; the one who'd been tormenting them. He knew who she was...he 't recall where he knew her from...why was she so familiar? Why couldn't he remember? He knew her. Well, duh, she's Mary Anna, TJ told himself, then scoffed. She couldn't possibly be Mary Anna. Mary Anna was dead. Then how come that woman looked so much like Mary Anna? Or was it that she looked like someone else that he couldn't put a name to so he just connected her with Mary Anna?
TJ made his way to the door, tried to open it.
"Locked..." he mumbled. He looked around, trying to take in his surroundings. There was the makeshift bed on the floor, a small dresser drawer table beside it. There was also a platter on top of it with a cup of water and a piece of molded bread. Was that supposed to be his dinner?
Then TJ noticed a curtain, hanging on the far wall. Hoping it covered a window; he ripped the curtain away and stumbled back in surprise. There was no window, just a wall, covered with photos of him. Him as a child, him in his room at home, him at school, him in New York, him in the shower getting ready for dinner with the Spinelli's just the other day. There was writing peeking out from behind the pictures on the wall. He started pulling the pictures off, ripping them down, throwing them to the ground. Words. Sentences scribbled on the wall. Things like "TJ is mine," and "TJ loves me," or just simply hearts inscribed with "TJ." What was most disturbing though were the largest words written in deep red ink. The only sentence that spoke of someone other than TJ himself.
"...must break that pretty doll...must break...doesn't deserve what's mine..."
END A/N: Yay, Frankie is back and Randall is...well...he's here now. Did you enjoy it? Ooioioi...man, the conclusion is coming soon, I can feel it...well, the climax more like it. It's right in the pit of my stomach, making it's way up...er...bad analogy.
REVIEW! I should probably make it known that I consider myself a creative genius (I really am modest...hehe...), but we creative types need to constantly be told that our work rocks, or at least have our work acknowledged in some manner. If no one REVIEWs my fic, then, for some odd reason, I draw up the conclusion that no one read it...or worse, no one liked it and no one likes where my story's going and they hate it. I am not self-concious (can't spell without spellcheck!). I am just needy. And do you know what I need? REVIEWs. A small blurb to demonstrate that you've read my story is all I need. And I do love and appreciate the REVIEWs that I recieve, but when I get so few sometimes for certain chapters...maybe it's because I update so quickly...maybe if I let there be more time between my updates...maybe people think I don't need the motivation. But I do. And how much I struggled with this chapter is self-evident of that. Hm...so go REVIEW. Not for me, but for yourself and your reading pleasure. That is all.
Oh, I also wanted to point out how in the last chapter Gretchen and Mikey made amends so easily because I decided that their characters seemed the most practical. Mikey could have made a whole dramatic scene out of it, but Gretchen probably wouldn't have appreciated that. Nope, not one bit, being the practical girly she is.
hm...I think that's all. THANKS for READING, and please excuse all grammatical and typing errors. Until we meet again.