22- Two is Better Than One
Fresh start. You don't have to read anything before here. If you want a summary of the preceeding event, the final scene in 21 should suffice.
An epic shrill echoes throughout the house, deafening herself in the process. Her bare feet thump and slide across the boarded hallway, rushing to get to the restroom as quickly as possible. She slams into the door, arms shaking, looking back down the hall. After restlessly fidgeting to open the knob, the door creaks open and she quickly closes it shut. The lock firmly clicks into place, designating her safety.
She covers her mouth from her whining, grabs a pearl colored towel off the rack, and steps into the bathtub, only being lit by a dim night light. She coughs, trying to regain her nerves and senses, almost choking on her own flem from her constant flow of tears. She closes the clear nylon curtain, then proceeds to curl into a ball, sitting at the head of the tub, while covering herself with the towel. This is her last form of protection
The room is silent, except for her heavy whines within the confines of the towel. Her chest beat like a drum, progressively marching faster and faster with each passing moment of silence. And as she hides, she becomes nauseated by her own emotions from her weak ability to remain calm. Her eyes, stressed from her tears, become bloodshot and painful. Her mind wraps around her heart, trying to calm it down, but only results in a throbbing headache. Her nerves have a will of their own, wanting to shut down and give up.
But somehow, she had to protect herself.
Through her shuddering breaths, a creaky step is heard outside. And another, longer creak. A new, irregular creak is heard after that. Someone, no, a pair of someone is coming up the stairs. With each creak, her body sends a stiff response of fear and hesitation, and the realization that she canít get away.
Thunk. A loud boot knocks the wood flooring, followed by another. One pair sounds closer than the other, but that didnít ease her mind. Thunk.
She didnít even think about running away, or finding a phone to call the police. Fear instilled her to hide from her enemy, to stay safe and hope the bad things go away.
Dad always tells her he would protect the family when the time came. That he would do anything for his princess. Part of her wants to scream out for him.
Thunk. The knob twists back and forth, agitated by a grimy hand on the opposite side. She pops her head out from under the towel, staring through the blurry curtain, seeing the dimly lit handle shake. Her heart races around her body, and she holds her breath, forgetting that she needs to refuel. But the stubborn click prevents the door from opening. This calms her breathing a bit, but she grips the towel around herself tighter than previously.
A mumbled voice calls from behind the door. The handle fiercely screeches and wobbles, trying to force their way in. She wants to scream, hoping someone would hear her. But her lungs lock up, saving oxygen for her rapidly beating heart.
Wham! A small family picture tilts crooked as the walls shake. The someone is trying to break in. A second wham hits, cracking the top metal hinges and around the handle. A third kick splinters the lock from the thick wall, slamming and indenting the door handle into the side wall as it opened. And all hell breaks loose.
Even at the youngest age of six, a kidsí survival instinct is a dangerous habit. The little girlsí lungs unlock, letting her sense of survival in play. She screams in a heavy pant, calling out for Daddy. As the last syllable leaves her lips, she begins to cry thick tears. Her mouth fills with extra saliva, slurring her screams in a bubbly tone. She curls up even further, as if trying to squeeze herself enough to escape down the drain.
A blurred guy clamors to the tub with a stiff look to his hazy face. His grubby arms grab the curtain, pulling the seems off the chain, and throws it off to the side. At this point, her screams stop as her crying subsides to stifled sniffles. Her big eyes get a shadowed glimpse of the burly man as he reaches down. He grabs the towel, trying to take it away, only struggling a little when the girl refused to give it up.
With her three defenses lost, and the inevitable end in sight, a moxy fixation escapes her eyes. The man forcibly grabs her left arm, crushing so hard that she canít escape. She winces horribly, too injured to even muffle a shriek. Like slamming your hand in the door, she reacts violently with her teeth, grabbing a fair chuck of skin in her small bite. Even enough to force some blood to show.
The man growls, releasing grip, and shakes his arm. She slides back to her corner of the tub with her hands up front to defend from another grab. Her eyes fixate on the door, where the other person stands. There is no escape, only to fight back. But her young senses canít keep up with such adrenaline, and have since shut down to allow her muscles to the front line.
She leans back, kicking her bare feet upward at any advances the man has on her. A foot almost kicks far enough in to hit his face. Not fearing a knock out, the man uses his body to hover in closely, taking the tiny footwork to his chest and stomach. Her eyes catch a beady look in his face, giving her a look of empowerment. Then, pain strikes up her legs and spinal cord, when he grabs both her legs with one of his hands. She struggles to kick free, but his grip only forces out a gasp of torture. Satisfied, the man drags her out.
Her body goes limp, as if telling her to give up. She twists herself around, moving her chest to the floor and back to the man. She claws at the wall but there is nothing to grab. As her body slides out of the tub, she tries to grab the top of the enameled marble, but her little hands cannot grip the slippy surface. Squirming forces her long hair over her head, making it harder to see anything to grab. She tries the toilet porcelain, but that too is difficult to grab a hold. Without an option, a blood curling scream reverberates in the all tile bathroom.
The man mumbles to shut up, momentarily pausing due to tension. He looks back to see she had grabbed the end of the cupboards, which held the sink and bathroom miscellaneous within. She tries kicking free of the temporary loose grip, but only instills more pain. Her tears scream out. Daddy, protect me! Her arm tendons stretch as the man tries to pry her clasped hands.
Frustrated, he throws her limp legs against the tile, quickly grabbing her arms tightly, pulling her away from the cupboards. She gasps, outstretched and exhausted. The man forces her arms to her belly, brushing her distraught hair to the side, opening her red, tear soaked face into the dim night light. She wants to scream again, but her body canít take the stress any longer. Her lungs are depleted with resources. Her mind idealizes the thought of giving up. Her well of tears has dried up. Her muscles fall back after heavy casualties. And her nerves are shot into disarray.
ďStop struggling,Ē the man firmly grumbles. He lifts his free hand back, and slaps her unconscious to the floor.
The teen girl jumps in her bed, throwing the covers off her top half. She breathes irregularly and heavy, sweating profusely all over her body. She clasps her hands over her chest, trying to slow down her heart rate. Quickly, the teen grabs a flashlight from the night stand, immediately turning it on. Her eyes carefully and suspiciously scan the silent corners of the bedroom. But knowing the room is clear isnít enough to still her thoughts. She grabs her thrown covers, curls into a ball next to her pillow, and wraps it warmly around herself.
While it may have been a dream, the reality of what happened is true. And anytime she imagines it, or someone mentions something relating, she locks up in a ball of fear. Fear that cannot be easily forgotten.
The place: Blackthorn City. The time: 8:00 in the morning. Much of the city has settled down from the events a few days ago. The city and its residence have gone back to their daily routines. The newspaper has a new headline. Trainers go back to battling and training. Only one department is still in a pickle from the event, and that would obviously be the Police. Every day is something new for them to deal with, but the big capture is keeping everyone busy and on their toes.
A sixteen year old girl, medium height and proportions, closes the door to her small one room apartment. A patchwork gray beret sits on top of her long, sandy blonde hair. Her hair joyfully resists being straight, naturally curling at the ends. A pair of copper lens aviator glasses hides her eyes from view. She wears a worn forest green v-neck shirt and light brown Capri pants. Her most important articles of clothing are her fingerless leather riding gloves; an accessory she almost never takes off, especially in the public. An army light green courier bag hangs over her shoulder. To finish off, white skate shoes with night blue laces.
Her lips form a motionless line across her face, neither frowning nor smiling. She lives in a one room apartment, all to herself, which is a pleasure, as well as a curse to her. It gives her a place to be herself and hide from the world she has steadily grown to scrutinize. She canít seem to trust her neighbors, her good and friendly neighbors, through their daily actions and their hidden pasts. But trying to hide herself is her own undoing, because no one can help her when she needs it the most.
After leaving the apartment building, she unfolds her red razor scooter, and rides down the sidewalk. The momentum gently breezes across her face and through her flowing hair. The sun floats openly in the sky, not hiding its warm rays of sunshine. Pidgey coo while flying about, searching for early morning worms to feed their family. She pauses by a flower shop, gazing through the window at the gorgeous colorful petals. A waft of mixed pollens tickles her nose, enticing her to stop for a moment. Lilies, buttercups, roses, daisies.
She takes a whiff from a nearby barrel of white Bindweed flowers. Moving closer, other aromas surround her. She knows she has to keep going, but flowers have this power of attraction over her. Every sniff puts clean thoughts into her head, masking over any terrible thoughts.
The florist gives a friendly wave to his favorite customer. She waves back, entering the store to absorb the noxious aromas. For her, flowers are like a drug that lets her forget bad memories. Because a flower can never be viewed as something terrible; they always cheer people up. Bright oranges, yellows, violets, whites, and reds. These are the colors of content.
But all the flowers in the world and marvelous scents they produce canít replace the one sheís wanted for ten years. The rare sapphire rose. Its petals are an ominous light blue with an unending evanescent property. It was this flower that pushed the gloomy clouds away and opened her eyes to a bright future.
Within this Pokemon world, along with her desire for flowers, she has grown to love flowering Pokemon. Vileplume. Bellossom. Cherrim. Roserade. All of them. Unfortunately, up in the mountains of Blackthorn City, these Pokemon are just as rare a sight. Grass type Pokemon love to live somewhere warmer, closer to ground level and near bodies of water. And with grass type Pokemon disliking the cold, these mountainous regions are not an ideal place. But there are two places she can find them. The florist owns a Bellossom of his own, whom usually sits by the register with a happy disposition. The other place is the Pokecenter, where Trainers hang out visiting from far off places. There is a third option, but she doesnít have authorization for it.
The first smile of her day cracks her face as she points to her usual bottle of perfume behind the counter. The florist nods, making friendly conversation in the meantime. This gets a laugh from the teen. She waves her goodbye, patting Bellossom over the head, and takes one last breath of sensual air.
Four miles later, she can still smell the faint nectar that clung to her body, as if a Skuntank sprayed her with toxins that would only go away with a long shower. Sensing her surroundings, her smile never left as she begins to appreciate the good morning the world is trying to show off.
The Blackthorn Police Station. For five years, she has been an apprentice at the station. Following, watching, participating... everything she could do to learn what it takes to become a cop. This is her one and only desire. One day, she wants to become a detective, going out and hunting for the bad guys; capturing them and throwing them in jail; making them suffer for all their wrongdoings. But mostly because she seeks justice for what happened ten years ago. Never identified. Never caught. She remains in pain at the very thought or mention of it. Revenge? No, that isnít why. Satisfaction.
Entering through the door, she folds her razor scooter and carries it under her arm. Itís after 9:00 in the morning, meaning the Noctowl shift was over, and the Pidgey shift just started. This is her favorite shift to show up at, for itís this shift when meetings are held for the daily rush. Who would go where, with whom? Pokemon theft updates and location hot spots to watch. And the rare swat meetings, which are fun to listen to.
Unfortunately, she only holds the rank of Junior Deputy. She was given simple and mediocre tasks that are less important or deemed too much a waste of time for senior officers to deal with. Sometimes she would be allowed in a ride-along for a whole day, which is the most exciting for her. Unfortunately, most days she would simply hang around the station, helping file and organize stuff and occasionally observing the processing system.
Behind the front desk is Attendant Miranda Bates. Sheís in charge of all desk work, marking attendance, organizing the operators and dispatch, and passing information along. She is friendly and works very hard to keep everyone busy. Her police hat tilts over her short hair wrapped in a bun. The usual blue uniform dresses her, including black boots. Even though she works behind desks, she still regularly trains with firearms and keeps in shape.
But the teen girl doesnít like her. She never lets her get away with anything. And trying to persuade her is about as impossible as a person landing on Mars. She prepares for the greeting, trying to get through the conversations as quickly as possible.
Miranda cocks her eyebrows upward in surprise that the teen is wearing sunglasses in doors. She smiles, realizing why. ďApril, good morning. Havenít seen you around for a while. How are you doing?Ē
ďIím fine, Attendant Bates. Are there any meetings still going on?Ē
ďHmm. I think Room 4 is about to finish their discussion about the Tan Gang incident. You can try there.Ē
April gives a fake smile, ďThanks! Bye.Ē She heads for Room 4, not paying attention to what Bates replied.
Last edited by Jack of Clovers; 04-06-2010 at 10:57 PM.