Faith Eliza Cord
Four Thousand Club
Katarina DeSanto is always aware of the cold when she wakes up in the morning, even before she opens her eyes. There is no electricity and no running water in the shutdown, nearly decrepit motel in which she and her three siblings have taken residence, and it goes to follow that there is also no air conditioning in the summer or heat in the winter. It isn’t even November, and already Katarina awakens numb with cold most mornings, able to blow her breath. She dreads thinking about what might happen when it gets to be December or January…maybe by then, Kyle, her youngest brother, will have enough control over his firestarting powers to be able to set controlled fires for them to keep them warm. There was a fireplace in the lobby of the motel, though it was intended for electric fires…maybe they could spend nights there on the floor when it got really bad, camped out in front of the fireplace.
She really, seriously doubted that…right now, Kyle was the least controlled of her siblings as far as the use of his powers went. Maybe because he was the youngest, now, anyway, maybe because his was the most dangerous…whatever the case, Katarina didn’t want to ever chance him risking it again, and in fact, would be very happy if he never used them again. How could she feel otherwise, after what had happened to their home…after what had happened to Alice?
She quickly pushed this thought aside even as it came to her, shoving it deep down inside her, where all the rest of her worst feelings and memories she tried to keep contained dwelled…that is, until they forced themselves up to surface, as they so periodically insisted on. To think of Alice was to go back to a place and time that Katarina could barely function in…to think of Alice was to revisit the worst night of her life, her worst failure not just as a sister, but as a human being. The night she had failed to protect her…the night she had failed to save Alice’s life.
Better to think only of Kyle and his powers, to worry about his lack of control…better to think of the abilities of her other siblings, the danger and blessings they managed to pose simultaneously for them all. Better to wonder how the hell she ended up the only one so-called “normal”- and Katarina could never quite decide if she was luckier, or not, jealous, or not, to be so completely ordinary.
She is wrapped up in the thin blanket and sheet of her twin-sized motel bed, as well as one of the extras they had managed to find, but it is hardly enough to be a proper protection against the cold. As Katarina sits up, she is reluctant to step out of bed and release her hold on the blankets. Stumbling across the room, she slits the blinds of the window open, allowing the weak strains of morning light to filter into the room. She doesn’t worry about this waking up her sister, Christina, in the other bed; Christina is blind now, and will usually not be bothered if Katarina chooses to save the batteries of their flashlights until they’re needed.
Katarina bites her lip unconsciously as she passes by her sister’s bed on her way to the tiny bathroom of their shared room, averting her eyes from Christina’s face. She knows that Christina will not see the way she hates to look at her now, sometimes, to see that her eyes cannot quite open, the scars from the fire and the way they have disfigured her face…but still, it is only when she is asleep that Katarina can let herself truly avoid looking at her. If her brothers are around, and they see, Kyle will feel guilty, and Xander might want to talk to her, and even Christina might sense and react defensively. But the truth is, that Katarina truly hates to look her in the face.
She had once been jealous of Christina, that she was so pretty, prettier than Katarina judged herself to be. And now, no one would say that Chris was more attractive. It was hard not to feel like this was some sort of punishment.
Katarina is shivering as she stands in front of the mirror, the bathroom door open so she can see herself from the light from the window. She can make out dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is limp, in need of washing. She’ll have to buy more gallons of water tonight, enough for them to have baths…god, she dreads the prospect of pouring near-freezing water over her head in this temperature, but short of breaking into someone’s house, what else can they do?
She gingerly touches the bruises forming on her upper arms, bruises in the shapes of fingers, and then the discoloration at her wrist, similar in color, different in shape and origin. She’ll just have to hope that no one asks about it, or at least keeps their mouth shut if they notice. Reaching for her jacket in the tiny closet, within an arms’ length of the bathroom door, Katarina slips it on, zipping it up to her chin, before heading out the front door towards the first room to the far left of the motel. This is where they store their food and most of their other shared supplies; the second room, beside it, is empty, deliberately set aside for if any of them ever have need for a…”guest.” The third room is shared by her brothers, and the last is hers and Christina’s. She doesn’t know if her brothers are awake yet, but they aren’t by the time she’s gotten breakfast, they will be soon enough.
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The tension hung so heavily in the air that Julian found it difficult to draw breath. The others were quiet, still with the anticipation of what was to come, what it was that they would do…what it was they must do.
The others' breath came as unevenly as his own, their shoulders stiff, their postures unnaturally rigid and alert. Julian swallowed repeatedly, his eyes darting about without catching the others' gazes for more than a split second at a time. He did not look at the figure they circled in a tight cluster; none of them did. To do so would break their will down even farther, and then…then, they might be unable to go through with it. They might be unable to obey.
No one knew what might happen then. No one wanted to consider.
Julian tried not to look too closely at the others, to see the way Emily was unconsciously chewing her lower lip, the way Melody's cheek muscles twitched every few moments, the way Ben had broken out in a cold sweat, so heavily that bitter-smelling stains emerged on the front and back of his shirt and in his underarms. And Abbie…Abbie was shaking, shaking so much that her teeth clicked together, her face so drained of color that Julian was distantly surprised that she was still able to stand up.
One child alone remained calm, composed, confident. One child alone did not fidget, clear her throat, or avoid meeting the others' eyes, but rather looked at each directly, the clear blue of her gaze open and friendly at a glance, even as a savage amusement twisted her smile and excited eagerness glittered in her eyes. She alone held no reservations, harbored no fear. But then, she never did.
Julian had found this to be exhilarating at first, fun…he had seen her lack of fear as an excellent characteristic to make an exciting new friend, a friend who opened him up to possibilities he had never imagined. But silly games and pranks had become more intense, more destructive, more alarming in nature, and now…now here he was, and he could not back out. He could not say no.
No matter how much he wanted to.
She spoke to them as a group, but her eyes landed on each of them in turn, holding their gaze long enough so each reacted with a shudder, small twitch, or swallow, unable to tear their eyes away from even the briefest of glances of the small blonde who stood at their head.
"It's time. Remember, don't go too fast. You don't want it over with too fast…it's hardly worth it when there isn't much time to watch."
She could see that, he knew…her lips curved upward again, and suddenly the knife was in his hands, Madison's own hands on his shoulder, pushing him forward, thrusting him down…forcing him to face the figure before him, on its own level.
"I think, Julian, that you should go first."
He was vaguely aware of the other's eyes on him, wide with dread, unable to look away; he knew that when it was their turns, he would stand in an identical position. With Madison standing over him, her voice dropping to a hiss, seeming so close to his ear even as she stood a slight distance back, a shudder rolled through his spine, and he had to hold back the bile that rose up.
"Do it, Julian. Do it now. NOW."
Until now Julian had looked at the figure they encircled as little as possible, trying not to see, not to have to fully take in what Madison had brought them to, what she had prepared as their next step…but now he looked, and from only inches away, and his mind roared with the protest of what his hand already itched to accomplish.
A small boy lay before him, no more than two or three years old. He had been taped with silver duct tape, thick pieces pinning down his small arms and legs, covering his mouth. Steady tears streamed down his bulging brown eyes. Julian did not know where Madison had gotten him, or how she had managed to subdue him alone, before bringing them all to him. But then, he did not want to know. And it was not important.
He had to do this. There was no other option…there never was, when it came to Madison and what she wanted.
Julian awakened with a gasp, already scrambling to his feet even before his eyes were entirely open. His thin chest heaving, his eyes darting from side to side, he shivers not just from the icy temperature surrounding him, but from shock…from fear.
Even now, after all these years, despite the physical distance between, even thoughts of Madison, of what she had made them do, were enough to terrify him. Even now, four years later, Julian was convinced that were she ever to see him, she would kill him…or worse, she would find a way to regain the control and influence over him she had once had. Even now, he was terrified that one glance, one conversation with Madison, and he would fall back into her circle. More than the police, more than prison, more than his parents or his brothers or the people he had once called his friends, more than the grieving family of that little boy, Julian feared Madison, a now-fourteen-year-old girl.
There was no telling what she would do, if she ever found him again.
As his heartbeat slowly regains control, Julian looks about him with growing concern, hoping that no one else had seen. He had slept on one of the park benches of Central Park tonight, his current residence of choice, covering his head and body with his parka not only to guard against the cold, but to cover up as much evidence of his youth as possible. Being not only homeless and young, but also gay, leaving yourself too publically visible was asking for trouble. Julian knew it was not safe to spend so much time out in the open, let alone to sleep there at night. But what other option did he have? He couldn’t stay at a shelter, for fear of being recognized, of someone discovering his identity and reporting him to the police. He certainly couldn’t go home, not when his own parents had instructed him never to return…and that was without knowing the worst of what he had done, what Madison had made him become.
Julian never felt safe, no matter where he was. But in Central Park, he at least was familiar with his surroundings, and there were a few people he sort of knew…the closest he could come to having friends. Duck, and Violet, and even Liselle, though Violet and Liselle both sort of scared him. He could think of no other option, nowhere else to go that would be better.
Reaching for his backpack and guitar case beside him, letting out another slow breath, he slipped on his backpack, then opened up the guitar case, beginning to retune it. In this sort of weather it needed retuned nearly every hour, sometimes more, and it was difficult to get people to give him money if he sounded bad. As he tuned the guitar, he looked up frequently, half expect Duck, Violet, Liselle, or one of the other occupants of the park to come by.
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As Susannah rinsed off a particularly long and sharp knife at the kitchen sink, being careful not to cut herself, she felt her father's hand on her backside, the touch quick, nervous, but deliberate…and with this sensation, and the knife still held in her hand, she reacted without further thought.
Whipping around to face Harry, the knife still clinched tightly in her fist, Susannah brought its point to her father's throat, tightly seizing his shoulder with her other hand, and her dark eyes bore into his with deadly serious intent as she spoke tersely, ignoring the gasps of her other family members.
"Do not EVER touch me again."
"Whoa…Suzy, whoa, now see here, there's no call for that!" Harry sputtered, going very still as his eyes darted between the knife at his throat and the apparent intent of his daughter to use it. "You just-"
"Say it," Susannah repeated, her expression not softening, her voice hissing, fierce, and the knife at her father's throat did not budge. "Say you will never touch me again…or I will kill you."
Her father swallowed, eyes focused on the knife, muscles tensed, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Nearby Laurel and Isabella Pallis were watching in shock, mouths open, eyes wide, but Susannah paid them no attention. She had eyes only for her father's, and she did not let him pull away.
"Suzy, "he began again, his voice less steady than before. "Suzy, there's no need for this-"
"Say it," Susannah cut him off, hand tightening on his shoulder, the knife moving a fraction of an inch closer, nearly touching his throat. Behind her Laurel and Isabella finally found their voices.
"Susannah…Susannah, stop, no," her mother whispered, her hand drifting to cover her mouth, the baking goods forgotten. " Susannah, stop…"
"You're crazy, Suzy! Stop it!" Isabella yelled over her, her voice sharp and shrill. "Put that down, get away from him!"
"Say it," Susannah repeated, ignoring them all, disregarding any reply but that she was searching for as she continued to stare her father down. "Say it. Now."
"Suzy-" her father began, and it was the new cunning in this tone, his new attempt to turn around the situation, to manipulate her, that only heightened Susannah's anger. "Suzy, let's try to talk about this-"
She pricked him with the knife, just enough for the pain to be felt, for the first drop of blood to bead up on its blade, and her mother gasped, her sister screamed.
"Susannah, stop it, Susannah, you crazy *****!"
"Okay, okay, Suzy, just stop this, just calm down. ..we don't need to be like this. Just…just calm down…" Harry backed off hurriedly, his eyes shimmering with fear and what looked like submission…but still, something in his tone, in a quiet flicker of his eyes, did not lower her guard, and she did not move her knife away.
With good reason, it turned out. Less than a half minute after he spoke Harry roughly shot out his arm, attempting to strike Susannah in the solar plexus. But Susannah was ready, and even as he hit out at her, she slashed the knife across his throat, cutting deeply. Staring into her father's bulging, anguished eyes, almost relishing the feel of the hot, sticky blood dripping down her cheeks, soaking into her blouse and drying on her skin from the spray of the wound's opening, she ignored the guttural gurglings of his attempt to speak, stepping back from his grasping hand.
"My name, "she said softly, deliberately, "is not Suzy."
Rikarah is awake before dawn, as usual, for she never sleeps for more than four or five hours a night. She has discovered that she has little use for sleep, and if she functions well enough with limited exposure to it, then what will it harm for her to be awake more often, and able to be more productive, have more time to observe and learn from her surroundings…and more importantly, make money as she is able to?
It has only been a few days since she was able to secure her job at the dinky coffee shop a few blocks away, using the fake ID she was able to “bargain,” or rather, blackmail, herself into receiving. Completely falsified records of address, social security, and ID now name her as her own chosen persona, Rikarah Eve Pallaton, and she has every intention of making certain she is not discovered to be otherwise. Of course, it is not as though anyone were likely looking for her, for who would suspect docile, 97 pound Susannah Pallis of the nature of crimes that she had committed? No, though Rikarah rarely watches television, she can speculate that it was assumed at the time that she too had been murdered, or perhaps kidnapped. It is quite possible that if there are any news reports on her at all, it would be Amber Alerts rather than warrants for her arrest.
For that reason, it is best regardless to keep a low profile, and that is exactly what Rikarah has been doing over the past few months. She has not frequented shelters or subways, instead choosing to sleep in the fire escapes of alleys, a knife in her hand, where she is less likely to be noticed or bothered. It is true that if someone were to confront her, to recognize her, she could attempt to use what she thinks of as her “ability” to manipulate them, to convince them that she was in fact not the person for whom they were searching. It is possible that she could convince them to leave her be…and if that fails, it is of course an option to kill them.
But then, the best route is always avoidance, and this is Rikarah’s goal.
It is growing colder now, however, and Rikarah, with her lack of body fat, is concerned for how much longer she will be able to withstand the weather throughout the night. It is now, only hours before her shift at the coffee house, that she walks along the backstreets of her last night’s dwelling, searching for a new possibility.
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It is only a few blocks away that she finds it…a shutdown theater house, away from the main roads and traffic. It is weathered and worn, with peeling paint, broken windows, and a padlock on the front door. Graffiti lines the walls, and yet, Rikarah is intrigued by the possibilities. No running water or electricity, but she has flashlights, and she can make this, she is sure, into whatever she needs. Any people taking shelter here whom she has no use for…well, she can, if necessary, dispose of them.
Making her way to the largest of the windows, Rikarah tosses first her backpack through the window, then carefully eases herself through. It looks like she has found herself a home.
@Macal Cord @Legendless @amdreams @AlwaysChaos @xJobozx @Reviour @.:Vassel:.
She really, seriously doubted that…right now, Kyle was the least controlled of her siblings as far as the use of his powers went. Maybe because he was the youngest, now, anyway, maybe because his was the most dangerous…whatever the case, Katarina didn’t want to ever chance him risking it again, and in fact, would be very happy if he never used them again. How could she feel otherwise, after what had happened to their home…after what had happened to Alice?
She quickly pushed this thought aside even as it came to her, shoving it deep down inside her, where all the rest of her worst feelings and memories she tried to keep contained dwelled…that is, until they forced themselves up to surface, as they so periodically insisted on. To think of Alice was to go back to a place and time that Katarina could barely function in…to think of Alice was to revisit the worst night of her life, her worst failure not just as a sister, but as a human being. The night she had failed to protect her…the night she had failed to save Alice’s life.
Better to think only of Kyle and his powers, to worry about his lack of control…better to think of the abilities of her other siblings, the danger and blessings they managed to pose simultaneously for them all. Better to wonder how the hell she ended up the only one so-called “normal”- and Katarina could never quite decide if she was luckier, or not, jealous, or not, to be so completely ordinary.
She is wrapped up in the thin blanket and sheet of her twin-sized motel bed, as well as one of the extras they had managed to find, but it is hardly enough to be a proper protection against the cold. As Katarina sits up, she is reluctant to step out of bed and release her hold on the blankets. Stumbling across the room, she slits the blinds of the window open, allowing the weak strains of morning light to filter into the room. She doesn’t worry about this waking up her sister, Christina, in the other bed; Christina is blind now, and will usually not be bothered if Katarina chooses to save the batteries of their flashlights until they’re needed.
Katarina bites her lip unconsciously as she passes by her sister’s bed on her way to the tiny bathroom of their shared room, averting her eyes from Christina’s face. She knows that Christina will not see the way she hates to look at her now, sometimes, to see that her eyes cannot quite open, the scars from the fire and the way they have disfigured her face…but still, it is only when she is asleep that Katarina can let herself truly avoid looking at her. If her brothers are around, and they see, Kyle will feel guilty, and Xander might want to talk to her, and even Christina might sense and react defensively. But the truth is, that Katarina truly hates to look her in the face.
She had once been jealous of Christina, that she was so pretty, prettier than Katarina judged herself to be. And now, no one would say that Chris was more attractive. It was hard not to feel like this was some sort of punishment.
Katarina is shivering as she stands in front of the mirror, the bathroom door open so she can see herself from the light from the window. She can make out dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is limp, in need of washing. She’ll have to buy more gallons of water tonight, enough for them to have baths…god, she dreads the prospect of pouring near-freezing water over her head in this temperature, but short of breaking into someone’s house, what else can they do?
She gingerly touches the bruises forming on her upper arms, bruises in the shapes of fingers, and then the discoloration at her wrist, similar in color, different in shape and origin. She’ll just have to hope that no one asks about it, or at least keeps their mouth shut if they notice. Reaching for her jacket in the tiny closet, within an arms’ length of the bathroom door, Katarina slips it on, zipping it up to her chin, before heading out the front door towards the first room to the far left of the motel. This is where they store their food and most of their other shared supplies; the second room, beside it, is empty, deliberately set aside for if any of them ever have need for a…”guest.” The third room is shared by her brothers, and the last is hers and Christina’s. She doesn’t know if her brothers are awake yet, but they aren’t by the time she’s gotten breakfast, they will be soon enough.
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The tension hung so heavily in the air that Julian found it difficult to draw breath. The others were quiet, still with the anticipation of what was to come, what it was that they would do…what it was they must do.
The others' breath came as unevenly as his own, their shoulders stiff, their postures unnaturally rigid and alert. Julian swallowed repeatedly, his eyes darting about without catching the others' gazes for more than a split second at a time. He did not look at the figure they circled in a tight cluster; none of them did. To do so would break their will down even farther, and then…then, they might be unable to go through with it. They might be unable to obey.
No one knew what might happen then. No one wanted to consider.
Julian tried not to look too closely at the others, to see the way Emily was unconsciously chewing her lower lip, the way Melody's cheek muscles twitched every few moments, the way Ben had broken out in a cold sweat, so heavily that bitter-smelling stains emerged on the front and back of his shirt and in his underarms. And Abbie…Abbie was shaking, shaking so much that her teeth clicked together, her face so drained of color that Julian was distantly surprised that she was still able to stand up.
One child alone remained calm, composed, confident. One child alone did not fidget, clear her throat, or avoid meeting the others' eyes, but rather looked at each directly, the clear blue of her gaze open and friendly at a glance, even as a savage amusement twisted her smile and excited eagerness glittered in her eyes. She alone held no reservations, harbored no fear. But then, she never did.
Julian had found this to be exhilarating at first, fun…he had seen her lack of fear as an excellent characteristic to make an exciting new friend, a friend who opened him up to possibilities he had never imagined. But silly games and pranks had become more intense, more destructive, more alarming in nature, and now…now here he was, and he could not back out. He could not say no.
No matter how much he wanted to.
She spoke to them as a group, but her eyes landed on each of them in turn, holding their gaze long enough so each reacted with a shudder, small twitch, or swallow, unable to tear their eyes away from even the briefest of glances of the small blonde who stood at their head.
"It's time. Remember, don't go too fast. You don't want it over with too fast…it's hardly worth it when there isn't much time to watch."
She could see that, he knew…her lips curved upward again, and suddenly the knife was in his hands, Madison's own hands on his shoulder, pushing him forward, thrusting him down…forcing him to face the figure before him, on its own level.
"I think, Julian, that you should go first."
He was vaguely aware of the other's eyes on him, wide with dread, unable to look away; he knew that when it was their turns, he would stand in an identical position. With Madison standing over him, her voice dropping to a hiss, seeming so close to his ear even as she stood a slight distance back, a shudder rolled through his spine, and he had to hold back the bile that rose up.
"Do it, Julian. Do it now. NOW."
Until now Julian had looked at the figure they encircled as little as possible, trying not to see, not to have to fully take in what Madison had brought them to, what she had prepared as their next step…but now he looked, and from only inches away, and his mind roared with the protest of what his hand already itched to accomplish.
A small boy lay before him, no more than two or three years old. He had been taped with silver duct tape, thick pieces pinning down his small arms and legs, covering his mouth. Steady tears streamed down his bulging brown eyes. Julian did not know where Madison had gotten him, or how she had managed to subdue him alone, before bringing them all to him. But then, he did not want to know. And it was not important.
He had to do this. There was no other option…there never was, when it came to Madison and what she wanted.
Julian awakened with a gasp, already scrambling to his feet even before his eyes were entirely open. His thin chest heaving, his eyes darting from side to side, he shivers not just from the icy temperature surrounding him, but from shock…from fear.
Even now, after all these years, despite the physical distance between, even thoughts of Madison, of what she had made them do, were enough to terrify him. Even now, four years later, Julian was convinced that were she ever to see him, she would kill him…or worse, she would find a way to regain the control and influence over him she had once had. Even now, he was terrified that one glance, one conversation with Madison, and he would fall back into her circle. More than the police, more than prison, more than his parents or his brothers or the people he had once called his friends, more than the grieving family of that little boy, Julian feared Madison, a now-fourteen-year-old girl.
There was no telling what she would do, if she ever found him again.
As his heartbeat slowly regains control, Julian looks about him with growing concern, hoping that no one else had seen. He had slept on one of the park benches of Central Park tonight, his current residence of choice, covering his head and body with his parka not only to guard against the cold, but to cover up as much evidence of his youth as possible. Being not only homeless and young, but also gay, leaving yourself too publically visible was asking for trouble. Julian knew it was not safe to spend so much time out in the open, let alone to sleep there at night. But what other option did he have? He couldn’t stay at a shelter, for fear of being recognized, of someone discovering his identity and reporting him to the police. He certainly couldn’t go home, not when his own parents had instructed him never to return…and that was without knowing the worst of what he had done, what Madison had made him become.
Julian never felt safe, no matter where he was. But in Central Park, he at least was familiar with his surroundings, and there were a few people he sort of knew…the closest he could come to having friends. Duck, and Violet, and even Liselle, though Violet and Liselle both sort of scared him. He could think of no other option, nowhere else to go that would be better.
Reaching for his backpack and guitar case beside him, letting out another slow breath, he slipped on his backpack, then opened up the guitar case, beginning to retune it. In this sort of weather it needed retuned nearly every hour, sometimes more, and it was difficult to get people to give him money if he sounded bad. As he tuned the guitar, he looked up frequently, half expect Duck, Violet, Liselle, or one of the other occupants of the park to come by.
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As Susannah rinsed off a particularly long and sharp knife at the kitchen sink, being careful not to cut herself, she felt her father's hand on her backside, the touch quick, nervous, but deliberate…and with this sensation, and the knife still held in her hand, she reacted without further thought.
Whipping around to face Harry, the knife still clinched tightly in her fist, Susannah brought its point to her father's throat, tightly seizing his shoulder with her other hand, and her dark eyes bore into his with deadly serious intent as she spoke tersely, ignoring the gasps of her other family members.
"Do not EVER touch me again."
"Whoa…Suzy, whoa, now see here, there's no call for that!" Harry sputtered, going very still as his eyes darted between the knife at his throat and the apparent intent of his daughter to use it. "You just-"
"Say it," Susannah repeated, her expression not softening, her voice hissing, fierce, and the knife at her father's throat did not budge. "Say you will never touch me again…or I will kill you."
Her father swallowed, eyes focused on the knife, muscles tensed, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Nearby Laurel and Isabella Pallis were watching in shock, mouths open, eyes wide, but Susannah paid them no attention. She had eyes only for her father's, and she did not let him pull away.
"Suzy, "he began again, his voice less steady than before. "Suzy, there's no need for this-"
"Say it," Susannah cut him off, hand tightening on his shoulder, the knife moving a fraction of an inch closer, nearly touching his throat. Behind her Laurel and Isabella finally found their voices.
"Susannah…Susannah, stop, no," her mother whispered, her hand drifting to cover her mouth, the baking goods forgotten. " Susannah, stop…"
"You're crazy, Suzy! Stop it!" Isabella yelled over her, her voice sharp and shrill. "Put that down, get away from him!"
"Say it," Susannah repeated, ignoring them all, disregarding any reply but that she was searching for as she continued to stare her father down. "Say it. Now."
"Suzy-" her father began, and it was the new cunning in this tone, his new attempt to turn around the situation, to manipulate her, that only heightened Susannah's anger. "Suzy, let's try to talk about this-"
She pricked him with the knife, just enough for the pain to be felt, for the first drop of blood to bead up on its blade, and her mother gasped, her sister screamed.
"Susannah, stop it, Susannah, you crazy *****!"
"Okay, okay, Suzy, just stop this, just calm down. ..we don't need to be like this. Just…just calm down…" Harry backed off hurriedly, his eyes shimmering with fear and what looked like submission…but still, something in his tone, in a quiet flicker of his eyes, did not lower her guard, and she did not move her knife away.
With good reason, it turned out. Less than a half minute after he spoke Harry roughly shot out his arm, attempting to strike Susannah in the solar plexus. But Susannah was ready, and even as he hit out at her, she slashed the knife across his throat, cutting deeply. Staring into her father's bulging, anguished eyes, almost relishing the feel of the hot, sticky blood dripping down her cheeks, soaking into her blouse and drying on her skin from the spray of the wound's opening, she ignored the guttural gurglings of his attempt to speak, stepping back from his grasping hand.
"My name, "she said softly, deliberately, "is not Suzy."
Rikarah is awake before dawn, as usual, for she never sleeps for more than four or five hours a night. She has discovered that she has little use for sleep, and if she functions well enough with limited exposure to it, then what will it harm for her to be awake more often, and able to be more productive, have more time to observe and learn from her surroundings…and more importantly, make money as she is able to?
It has only been a few days since she was able to secure her job at the dinky coffee shop a few blocks away, using the fake ID she was able to “bargain,” or rather, blackmail, herself into receiving. Completely falsified records of address, social security, and ID now name her as her own chosen persona, Rikarah Eve Pallaton, and she has every intention of making certain she is not discovered to be otherwise. Of course, it is not as though anyone were likely looking for her, for who would suspect docile, 97 pound Susannah Pallis of the nature of crimes that she had committed? No, though Rikarah rarely watches television, she can speculate that it was assumed at the time that she too had been murdered, or perhaps kidnapped. It is quite possible that if there are any news reports on her at all, it would be Amber Alerts rather than warrants for her arrest.
For that reason, it is best regardless to keep a low profile, and that is exactly what Rikarah has been doing over the past few months. She has not frequented shelters or subways, instead choosing to sleep in the fire escapes of alleys, a knife in her hand, where she is less likely to be noticed or bothered. It is true that if someone were to confront her, to recognize her, she could attempt to use what she thinks of as her “ability” to manipulate them, to convince them that she was in fact not the person for whom they were searching. It is possible that she could convince them to leave her be…and if that fails, it is of course an option to kill them.
But then, the best route is always avoidance, and this is Rikarah’s goal.
It is growing colder now, however, and Rikarah, with her lack of body fat, is concerned for how much longer she will be able to withstand the weather throughout the night. It is now, only hours before her shift at the coffee house, that she walks along the backstreets of her last night’s dwelling, searching for a new possibility.
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It is only a few blocks away that she finds it…a shutdown theater house, away from the main roads and traffic. It is weathered and worn, with peeling paint, broken windows, and a padlock on the front door. Graffiti lines the walls, and yet, Rikarah is intrigued by the possibilities. No running water or electricity, but she has flashlights, and she can make this, she is sure, into whatever she needs. Any people taking shelter here whom she has no use for…well, she can, if necessary, dispose of them.
Making her way to the largest of the windows, Rikarah tosses first her backpack through the window, then carefully eases herself through. It looks like she has found herself a home.
@Macal Cord @Legendless @amdreams @AlwaysChaos @xJobozx @Reviour @.:Vassel:.
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