Children of Monsters

Beginning of a story. I think my mother worries about what she finds in her Google search sometimes. When my laptop was out of commission, I was looking up prisons and all sorts of things a young female typically doesn't look up.

This concept comes from the idea of what would happen when the children of two famous murders meet after one moves into a small town. That's probably the worst description ever but hey. I'll figure it out eventually. Story is entitled "Children of Monsters."

Prologue

                People always ask kids like us how could we not know. It always makes me want to smack the person who asked me that. Why on earth would what my father did in his spare time have anything to do with me? That stupid question can also be reversed. Look at all the kids who became killers. They snap and shoot up a school or the stab their ex-boyfriend or girlfriend.

                How could those kids’ parents not realize how tightly they were wound and that it was only a matter of time before they snapped? And it isn’t like my father would come home covered blood. He conducted his “business” elsewhere and made sure to clean himself up. He was a charmer, a sweet-talking Southern gentleman with an appealing accent and a bright smile. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking. He wasn’t stupid and he knew how to make everything work for him. A successful businessman with charisma, a tragic past, and good looks. It was like honey attracting ants. It made women flock to him.

                He was a large, tanned man with floppy sandy blonde hair, piercing eyes as blue as the summer sky, straight white teeth, and a crooked smile that brought out his dimples. It was the dimples that got them every time. Women loved my father’s dimples, just like boys couldn’t resist mine. I look a lot like my father, but had my mother’s petite build. My looks were really the only thing that worked in my favor, unlike my father’s brilliant charm.

                I only once ever saw what he did, when I was very little. An unfortunate fact that came out during his trial, making boys seek me out even more so than my reputation. After my mother had died, he had tried to play both mom and dad without much luck. I was never really truly scared of him, but he had a fierce and nasty temper that always kept me on my toes. I tried to never cross that line that made him angry. It was that pent up anger that made his crimes so brutal.

                The media gave my father the name that the whole world knows him by. They called him the Alabama Butcher because of the way he would cut up his victims, as if he had no regard for human life, which he didn’t. It was always bloody and vicious and violent, blood splashed on walls, throats slashed, and severed limbs arranged in gruesome patterns. His hunting grounds and kill zones spanned the country and it was suspected that he had murdered several women abroad when he would travel on business. The police and FBI had shown me crime scene photos when my dad was on the run, trying to get me to talk. Even if I had known where he was, I wouldn’t have told them anyway. Besides my inherent mistrust of the police and the fact that my dad may have been a colossal jerkwad a lot of the time, I still loved him and he was my dad after all.

                My life became a media spectacle after his picture was splashed across every major news network all over the world. All my life I had been just me.  A normal, run of the mill, Southern, sometimes daddy’s girl. Overnight, I became Mitchell “The Alabama Butcher” Anderson’s daughter. The daughter of a serial killer. Being identified as the Butcher’s daughter sucked. I would hear whispers follow me as I would walk down the hall in school, completely ostracized by ninety-nine point nine percent of the school. The other point zero one percent were my two best friends, Kimber and Mac, the weird kid in my forensics class who knew I had seen the crime scene photos, and the school freak who was obsessed with my father’s “artistry” as he called it. Which he harassed me about until he was admitted into rehab for drugs. That officially launched me firmly into my status as the school’s biggest freak. I should have just dropped out.

                I hated being the Butcher’s daughter. It wasn’t exactly flattering. And I hated living with my father’s older, chain-smoking sister who refused to believe that her baby brother was a murderer, let alone the Alabama Butcher. I never even bothered to tell her that her precious baby brother had been the one to break my arm the year before. I later found out that was the night Larissa Miller had gotten away from my dad, leaving him with no one to take his rage out on. I mistakenly had chosen that night to sneak into my house at three in the morning, a common practice that he normally didn’t care about. He was waiting for me with a backhand and a firm shove down my loft bedroom’s spiral staircase. I told everyone else and the overly curious emergency room nurses that I had tripped over my cat and fell down the stairs. It was mostly true, except that I had help falling. And we didn’t own a cat. He felt terrible after, bought me my 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS, and promised to never hurt me again, but our relationship was never the same after that line had been crossed.

                All I wanted was to be anonymous. I just wanted to start over but even if I moved, it would be impossible to hide who I was. My face had been shown all over the news when the FBI shuttled me from the tinted window SUV into the police station to be questioned. It was my blank face they showed constantly for the duration of the trial. Everyone wanted to talk to me. CNN, Fox News, Nancy Grace. My cellphone number had to be changed several times as newspaper reporters called me, wanting to know the sordid details of my life with the Butcher. I eventually got rid of my phone. My only interview had been with Anderson Cooper after the trial and I only said yes to that because I had a crush on him and I thought he was classy. He didn’t even seem to mind that I didn’t have too much to say. My aunt, on the other hand, had been appalled when I said I was happy my dad was found guilty. We never really talked to begin with, but my comments on Anderson Cooper 360 effectively killed all conversation. I also received a lot of threatening mail and phone calls from victims’ family members and a generally angry and outraged public.

I was the new school freak show thanks to good old Dad, followed by rumors about how I had helped my father kill all those women and bets were placed on when I would snap. I became very good at ignoring everyone, which gave me time to think about the other children whose parents were killers. Did they have to deal with the problems I did? Boys wanted to sleep with me because they thought I was dangerous and that turned them on. And I slept with them just so I could have some sort of connection to anyone other than my father and aunt, which also gave me the reputation of a slut. Kimber and Mac had become so wrapped up in each other that I was too much of a third wheel and stopped spending a lot of time with them. I also made sure to give the boys their dose of dangerous. I learned a lot of things about myself that I wasn’t sure I liked too much but it didn’t stop me.

And then it all changed when he moved to our town. He was as infamous as I was and for the same reasons. I recognized the darkness in him because it was the same darkness I saw in myself every time I looked in the mirror. We were the children of monsters. We were kindred spirits, broken and battered by our burdens and our pasts and the crimes of our fathers. I couldn’t believe another monster’s offspring had come here. It comforted me. And that’s what scared me the most.

Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the most gruesome zombie of all?

Just a sampling of something I'm working on. I haven't truly gone over and edited it. Just minor error correction. There could be plot points that don't make sense, blah blah writer talk, writer talk. I got the idea from watching "High School of the Dead." There was one part of the opening that really stuck with me and that was the missing person's flyer that you see for all of a half second. I thought about the aftermath and what the people who were left behind and the loved ones they were searching for. I guess this is the start. Enjoy.

 

Prologue

                I think it was all the missing persons flyers posted over every surface that scared me the most. Not the blood, not the screams, not the panic. Blood and gore were something I could deal with and I was fortuitous enough to be born with the ability to keep my head in any situation, courtesy of panic drills given by my father. I had been raised on a healthy diet of zombie and other miscellaneous horror flicks and literature.

                 But the fact that so many people were missed by those who had survived, who were still trying to survive, left me  speechless and shaking. It was the faces of the missing, not the dead, that had me screaming myself awake at night. The sound of endlessly flapping paper echoing inside my head.

                I was one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived. Most of my family survived, thanks to my overly paranoid father and a well-timed family reunion. Even after everything I had done and seen, I had maintained my humanity, unlike many others. You bear witness to humanity at its worst in times of panic and chaos.

                But I guess it’s understandable that people lose themselves when those that should be dead, don’t stay dead.

Chapter 1

                “Bea? Bea, wake up.”

                I moan angrily and roll over to glare at my older brother.

                “What?” I growl and take pleasure that my brother flinches at my tone.

                “Emergency meeting,” he says, hooking his thumbs in his faded jeans’ belt loops.

                “Seriously?” I ask, sitting up to stare at my wristwatch. “It’s 3:30 in the morning, Tucker!”

                Tuck shrugs.

                “Dad’s orders.”

                “Dammit,” I mutter, moving to haul myself out of bed. “I have watch at five.”

                He grimaces.

                “Me too, but I think it’s important.”

                I studied my brother for a minute. His sandy brown hair, so different from my curly black hair, was messy, dirty, and too long and his hazel-green eyes were bloodshot with bruise colored circles under them. He looked exhausted. But then again, I’m sure we all did.

                “Come on, Bea. Dad’ll be pissed if you don’t move it.”

                “I’m up,” I say, throwing a sweatshirt over the tank top I wore to bed and pulling on a pair of jeans since I had been sleeping in just the tank and my panties. Tucker flushed and looked away.

“Jeez, Beatrice!” he steams. “I’m right here.”

                I give him an exasperated look as I follow him down the hallway.

                “Don’t be so prude,” I snap. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

                “You’re my sister!” he says heatedly, his neck and ears turning red with embarrassment and annoyance. “It’s not the same! You could at least sleep with some shorts on.”

                “Oh, please,” I scoff. “At least I don’t sleep naked.”

                Tuck turns even redder, much to my amusement.

                “That was once! And you shouldn’t have just walked into my room!”

                “Is that why you lock your door now?” I ask with a smirk, antagonizing him to the fullest extent.

                “At least Mama and Dad didn’t walk in on me half-naked, straddling a boy!” he cries, whirling around to face me, anger sparking in his eyes.

                “Asshole!” I snap, pushing hard him into the wall. “You’re a jerk and I hate you!”

                “What is going on?” comes a thundering voice from down the hall.

                “Uh oh.”

                Tuck and I freeze. Crap. A large, muscular man with a crew cut rounds the corner to glare at us, his eyes bright with annoyance.

                “Uh, hey, Dad,” I manage to squeak, subtly reaching for Tuck’s hand. Our father isn’t mean, just intimidating with his size, military haircut, deep, booming voice, and what seems like one hundred pounds of muscle. My brother squeezes my hand gently, like we hadn’t just fought.

                Our father stares us down with stern green eyes, the only part besides stubbornness that I inherited from him. I am almost a carbon copy of my mother.

                “Disagreement, sir,” Tucker says, hands going sweaty against my palms.

                “Now is not the time for petty arguments, Tucker. Save your anger for Them, not each other. You’re not children anymore. You’re 26 and 22, act like it. Do you understand me, Beatrice? Tucker?”

                “Yes, Dad,” we murmur, chastised and sorry for our actions.

                His gaze softens.

                “I know this is hard, guys, and I know you have watch at five, but just bear with me.”

                My brother and I nod. We follow him into the dining room, where the rest of, or at least most of the family is gathered. My mother’s youngest brother, Luis, smirks at my brother and I. He obviously heard Tuck’s and my argument. I glare at him and quickly flip him the middle finger, which, of course, my mother catches. She frowns and shakes her head at me, her short, curly black hair falling into her face. After much negotiating, I settle myself between Tuck and my younger cousin, Annalise, on our faded loveseat and focus my attention on my father.

                “What do you think is going on?” whispers Annalise in my ear, her red hair tickling my cheek.

                I shrug as my father clears his throat. Whatever conversations that had been going on stop immediately.

                “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I called an emergency meeting this early,” Dad says, glancing around the room at what was left of our family.

“Dios mio, Mac, it’s almost four in the morning,” Luis grumbles. “You bet we want to know why you woke us up.”

                My mother gives her brother a withering look as she moves to stand next to my father. She looks even more petite standing next to his bulk.

                “Callate,” she says sharply in her slightly accented voice. “You know Francis wouldn’t wake you up for no reason.”

                Luis shuts up, especially after my ancient abuelita smacks him on the head. He sinks down in his chair, sulking at the reprimand. I fought the urge to cackle at his well-deserved battery.

                “And here I thought we were the brats,” I mutter to Tucker, making him snort.

                “The sooner I tell you what I need to tell you, the sooner you can get back to sleep,” my father reminds everyone. “Now, there hasn’t been a breach, but one of Them is hanging around the perimeter. It’s beginning to attract others.”

                A collective shudder ran through the room.

                “Normally, I’d say leave it, it’ll wander away on its own, but for some reason, that’s not the case. The barrier is strong, but if too many pile up, they’ll put too much pressure on the fence and it could collapse in some sections.”

                “So what’s the issue?” I ask, wondering what he’s really skirting around.

                My father hesitates. Well that wasn’t a good sign.

                “It’s someone we know,” he says softly, taking my mother’s hand. His gaze finds mine.

                “It’s someone I know,” I whisper, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. I can see it in the way he looks at me.

                Tucker squeezes my knee gently while Annalise gives me a half hug. The rest of the family stares at me with a mixture of pity and sympathy.

                “We think they were on their way here when they got bitten, and for some reason, continued on to a familiar place,” Dad explains. “It’s unusual, but not unheard of.”

                “Who is it?” I ask, shaking off my cousin and brother’s touch, and stand.

                “Miha, let your father take care of–“ my mother begins, but I cut her off.

                “No. If I know them, I’m finishing it,” I say forcefully. “Now, who is it?”

                Instead of answering my question, my father beckons me forward and places a large hand on my shoulder.

                “I’ll show you,” he says softly, and Tuck stands up.

                “I’m going too,” he snaps at our father, and gives me a look that dares me to argue.

                “Fine,” Dad huffs. “The rest of you are dismissed. Keep an eye out along the fence. We can’t have Them pressing against it, weakening it. If they approach, shoot Them, if you have the shot. Head shots only, don’t waste my bullets. Silencers on. We’ll burn Them later today.

When patrolling, make sure the fence doesn’t have any holes cut in it and keep an eye out for squatters and refugees. They may have been bitten and are in the middle of changing. Take no chances. If you aren’t sure, shoot them.”

With our fearless leader’s final words, everyone disperses, Annalise giving me a worried look. I shake my head at her and she bites her lip, but heads back to the bedroom she shares with her little sister.

My father looks down at me with steady green eyes.

“Go get your pistol,” he says and glances at my brother. “You too, Tucker. Might as well go on watch early.”

Tuck and I move up the stairs, swiftly returning to our rooms to grab the guns our father gave us for our tenth birthdays, respectively. I stroke of .45 caliber pistol lovingly before holstering it at my waist and grabbing an extra box of ammunition.

I had been excited when my father handed me the gun when I turned ten. I was so jealous of Tucker when he had gotten his. Mine was nickel plated and hand etched by my father. Even though it wasn’t the most practical gun to use now, it was the one gun I kept on me at all times.

I rejoin my parents downstairs, a determined look on my face, or at least I hope it was. My brother was already down there, his rifle slung across his back and the shotgun he used for emergencies at his side. His Berretta was already in a shoulder holster, and his Colt pistol on his hip.

“That’s all you’re taking?” Tuck asks, an annoyed look on his face.

I placed a hand over the pistol defensively.

“Unlike you, I don’t keep an armory in my bedroom,” I sneer gracelessly. “My rifle and other handgun are in the closet.”

My brother opens his mouth to reply, but my mother gets there first.

“Aye, dios mio! Don’t you two ever stop? You are driving Papa and me crazy!” she cries.

“Lociento, Mama,” I say, a blush pinking my tan complexion.

“Maria, they’ve been like this since this morning,” Dad grumbles. “I thought I told you two to knock it off?”

“Sorry, sir,” Tucker says, looking down at his feet. “We’re just cranky.”

“Well get uncranky, especially you, Beatrice,” my mother snaps while shoving warm buns into our hands. “You have a job to do.”

“Are you ready to go?” Dad asks, shouldering his own sniper rifle.

“Let’s get it over with,” I grouse after retrieving my other guns. I take a big bite out of my mother’s homemade sausage buns to try and settle my stomach.

Tucker and I follow my father out of the house and down our extremely long driveway, Dad carrying a large flashlight to light the way. We have a fairly large farm with at least fifteen acres of land, all of it surrounded by a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire.

My father, a fairly successful journalist and novelist, was extremely paranoid at times and had the fence installed a few weeks after we had moved in. I think becoming a New York Times best-selling author unexpectedly and suddenly gaining overly obsessed fans had freaked him out a little. Tucker and I also believe that much of his paranoia stems from our grandda. He had been heavily involved in the Irish Republican Army in his early twenties and several attempts had been made on his life before he fled to America. As far as I knew, Grandda slept with a gun under his pillow until the day he died, just in case he was attacked again. But he died alone, liver ravaged by years of alcohol abuse.

Tucker and I were used to Dad’s panic drills because he had been schooling us in them since we could walk. He also taught us to hunt using both guns and bows, to survive in the wilderness, garden, and other life-saving skills. For many years, we thought this was normal until our friends at school had informed us otherwise. They all thought my father was crazy. The two of us are grateful now for everything he taught us because it helped us survive when many of the people who mocked him didn’t.

For once, Dad’s paranoia and years of stockpiling weapons, food, and hundreds of other necessities paid off. After all hell had broken loose, Dad had been beyond calm and prepared as he padlocked the front gate and turned on the electricity (which he had added without telling anyone) to prevent any panicked people from climbing or cutting the fence to get in.

But he did let people into our ‘complex,’ as he sometimes called it, until someone tried to sneak in a family member that had been bitten and infected, which resulted in one of my mother’s cousins being bitten. After my father killed both my mother’s cousin and the infected ‘guest,’ he apologetically escorted anyone who wasn’t family off the property, giving each family a gun and a box of ammo. We don’t keep the electricity constantly running, so we routinely find the fence cut in sections and sometimes find refugees hiding in our woods or one of Them lumbering around our fields and pastures.

Sometimes I think that my father would be completely cracked if it weren’t for my mother, a first generation Columbian-American from Florida and fledgling interior designer. She was the one that kept him the most grounded. She always needed to take care of someone, so she and my father were a perfect match. Plus, they were unbelievably crazy about each other. My abuelo was not happy that my mother wanted to marry an occasionally mentally unstable man. What made it worse was that my father was Irish, not Columbian. Abuelita reminded her husband that her father hadn’t liked him either and that he should trust his daughter. But she also warned my mother how difficult life could be with someone who was highly paranoid at times. My mother hadn’t cared and my parents had been married for almost thirty years.

“Hey, Bea,” Tucker whispered as we continue to tromp down the driveway.

“What?” I ask, startled out of my thoughts, keeping my eyes on the bouncing light that was my father’s flashlight, leading the way.

“Who do you think it is?” he asks and I can hear the uncertainty in his voice. He’s not sure if this is a good question to ask me.

I sigh, somewhat annoyed with my brother’s question.

“I don’t know, Tucker,” I say, slowing my pace to walk next to him. “I know a lot of different people that survived.”

“Well, it had to be someone who really wanted to see you if they risked coming out on a bad day,” Tuck pointed out.

“To be honest, I really don’t want to know who it is.”

“Then why did you tell Mama and Dad that you’d take care of it?” he asks incredulously.

“Because I don’t need to be babied my entire life,” I snap, my grip tightening on my rifle. “Everyone seems to forget that I was out there right after everything happened! I watched friends die!”

Tuck is silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I had forgotten. It seems like we’ve been living like this for years.  I can’t believe it’s been almost two years.”

“Yeah,” I echo quietly, before noticing that the flashlight has stopped bobbing up and down in front of us.

I can hear the gates rattling and shaking as the shell of someone I knew walks repeatedly into the gate, I’m sure plucking at it with withered hands. The loud moans send a shiver down my spine, and I instinctively step closer to Tucker.

I can barely make out my father’s face in the slowly approaching dawn light, but I can tell his expression is serious.

“Beatrice, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” he asks, tone indicating he heard what I said to my brother.

I’m grateful that the darkness covers my blush of embarrassment. I shouldn’t be so weak.

“If you can’t do this, tell me now and Tucker and I will take care of it.”

“No, I want to do it,” I say, mouth dry and voice low, but determined.

“Okay,” my father says, handing me his handgun, silencer already screwed on. “I’m going to turn on the flood light.”

I hear a click and artificial light illuminates everything. I see It standing at the front gate and my heart breaks. I step closer until I’m only a foot away, staring into the familiar broken face.

“Bea,” Tuck warns.

I ignore him.

“Finn,” I whisper to the creature trying to stick its hands through the chain-link fence to grab me.

The fence’s sharp edges slice into Finn’s puckered flesh and thick, blackish blood oozes out. His white leather motorcycle jacket is splashed with gore and I see the bite mark on his shoulder through the torn cloth, festering and pus-filled. His once beautiful blue eyes are clouded over with death and he makes horrible, rasping moans, desperate to get at me.

“Oh my God, it’s Finn,” I hear my brother say. “Bea, let me do it.”

“No!” I say forcefully, causing the former Finn to struggle against the fence harder, moans cutting through the early morning air.

I raise the gun and place the barrel directly against the thing’s bruised and battered forehead.

“No, I’m doing it.”

I swallow hard as my finger tightens on the gun, Finn reaching for me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.

Finn’s head snaps back with the force of the blast and the back of his head explodes in a mess of shattered bone, congealed, brackish blood, and dark gray brain matter. His body falls to the ground in a heap, blood slowly leaking onto the driveway pavement. I exhale shakily, wondering how I was going to make it through watch without this weighing heavily on my mind. I jump when I feel Tucker’s hand rest on my shoulder.

“Hey, Bea, are you okay?” he asks, prying Dad’s gun from my death grip, and touching my cheek. “You’re crying.”

“What?” I ask, voice wavering slightly. I put a trembling hand up to my cheek and feel wetness.

“You’re crying,” he repeats.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I clear my throat and hitch my shoulders, trying to regain my composure. “I’m fine. Let’s go relieve Patti and Andy from watch duty.”

I turn away from the grisly sight at the foot of the gate and start towards the one of guard towers my father built when the world went insane, which is a few hundred yards away. Tucker grabs my arm.

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” he asks, glancing at my father and giving him an imploring look.

My father stays silent and just watches me. I’m assuming he’s making sure I don’t snap. I stare back at him defiantly and wipe away the remnants of my tears. Yanking my arm from Tuck’s grip, I glare at my brother.

“I said I was fine. I just want to go on watch duty and be done with it.”

“Beatrice,” my father says voice low and concerned.

I turn my gaze back to my father’s reluctantly. He’s giving me a calculating look that informs me he’s considering pulling me from watch.

“Don’t,” I say, knowing that he would get my meaning.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod.

“I’ll talk to Aunt Pamela when I get off of watch,” I promise.

He just grunts, and then turns to trudge the long way back up the driveway. Tucker observes me with suspicion. I sneer at him and he makes a face.

“You shouldn’t go on watch after what just happened,” he says, walking me to the guard tower. “You know you shouldn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say brusquely. “It’ll keep me from thinking about it.”

“No it won’t,” Tucker argues. “You know this watch is the most uneventful. You’ll just think about it more.”

“Tuck,” I sigh, holding out an arm to slow him. “I understand that you’re concerned, but this isn’t the first time I’ve had to kill a friend.”

“I understand that,” he says softly. “But Finn was more than a friend. I know you didn’t like to let on that you guys were meeting secretly, but I’m not stupid. Mama and Dad may like to pretend it wasn’t happening, but you guys took huge risks to make something work. Those risks got Finn killed.”

I feel a tear slip down my cheek again, guilt flooding my body. I had gotten Finn killed.

“I know that,” I say thickly, pausing at the base of the ladder on the tower. “But we wanted something that was real. Something we could hold on to. Something that we could say, ‘Hey, we have something real in all of this shit.’ Something that mattered at the end of the day.”

“What about the family? That’s something that matters.”

“I wanted someone to call my own,” I snap. “Something other than a room and a gun. Something other than this broken world. I wanted someone who would love me, despite this craphole life we’re stuck with right now.”

I push away from Tuck and start climbing the ladder.

“I’m done talking about this,” I say with finality and disappear before my brother can say anything more.

Sample Writing 2

Also from the same story previously posted. I wrote this in hodge podge pieces.

Sample 2

 "I don't need a knight-in-shining armor, Phelan," she snapped, pushing me away roughly. Her cheeks glowed red with anger.

"Then what do you need, Rawnie?"I asked softly, looking down at my hands, calloused by years of self-sufficiency.

For once, the girl who had something to say about everything was silent. I glanced up at her and was surprised to see tears shining in her eyes.

"Rawnie-," I began. How could I even begin to tell her? I wasn't one to be particularly blunt with my feelings.</p>

"What I need," she said in a hoarse voice, "is for you to just leave me alone. Because, honestly, Phelan, I don’t need you being my babysitter. I haven't needed anybody ever and I certainly don't need anybody now!" She stopped, breathing heavily and brushing away tears of frustration.

"I'm not trying to be a babysitter," I said, feeling such pity for the girl standing in front of me. There was so much more to her than she let on and Boyd had told me so little. I reached forward and brushed a silver tear from her smooth cheek.

I could see the surprise and confusion register in those hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but I held up my hand to stop her.

"Rawnie," I rasped, running my thumb down the side of her face and below her lower lip.

The widening of her eyes in comprehension caused my heart to beat more erratically, if that was even possible, and my mouth got dry. The battle of her emotions was easily displayed on her normally closed face, and I knew it would be one of the few times I would ever get to see those raw emotions. Rawnie took a hesitant step away from her door, raising a slender hand to trace the outline of my cheekbone.

The line between patience and eagerness faded in that instant and I lowered my face to hers, kissing her with as much passion as I could convey. My heart soared as she responded to my fervor, deepening the kiss by wrapping her arms around my neck. The contours of her body fit perfectly against mine.

She slowly back up, dragging me gently along with her as she moved. She finally pulled away when she hit the door. She was flushed and her breathing was ragged and uneven. Almost hesitantly, Rawnie pulled keys from her coat pocket.

"Not mine, I hope," I said jokingly, voice weak.

"They're mine," she promised. There was a pregnant pause and then she said, "Did you want to come in? I don't have Galen tonight. Pyrene wanted to dog sit. I can't imagine why though. If it were me-"

I stifled a chuckle and her small hand flew to her perfect bow mouth. She had realized that she was babbling and turned pink slightly.

"I would like to come in," I said carefully. I didn't want her to all of a sudden backpedal and wonder what the hell she was doing. "But you have to be sure about it, Rawnie. I don't want you to regret anything later."

After taking a deep, shaking breath, she met my gaze. I heard the key slide into the door and the lock click open. Letting the heavy door swing inward, she stepped through the threshold of her small apartment. In the dim light that illuminated the first few feet of the living room, Rawnie looked small, innocent, and most of all... breakable.

Well,"she said in a tiny voice, spreading her arms. "This is it. My apartment."

I walked through the doorway, probably just as nervous as her. Since my parents had died, I had all but abandoned dating and I was somewhat awkward with the social scene. I prayed to God that doing this was the right thing and that neither of us was making a huge mistake.

From what I could see in the minimal light, the small space was scarcely furnished, but books of all kinds were crammed into every available space.

I grinned at her. "It's great."

I could tell she was embarrassed by the way she shuffled past me to shut the door. She flicked the light switch and nothing happened. She flicked it up and down again with the same result.

"Shit," she muttered, tossing her book bag into the nearest corner. "Fuckin' bill didn't go through."

The frustration in her voice was obvious as she cursed again, rummaging through a drawer that was next to the door. All of a sudden, a thin beam of light appeared.

I'm so sorry, Phelan," Rawnie said tearfully as she shined the flashlight at me. "You know how it is."

I heard her choke back a sob.

"Hey, don't worry about it," I said reassuringly. "It happens. Let's see if we can find some candles."

"I don't have any."

Shoving my hands deep into my leather bomber jacket's pockets, I looked at her and again saw the gleam of tears.

"Rawnie, don't worry about it." I hesitated before saying, "How about we go back to my place. It'll be warmer and less stressful. You'll be too worried about not having electricity and you won't be able to function at work tomorrow if we stay here."

"But-"

"Babe," I said. "You're gonna make yourself sick. So, please. Just take me up on my offer."

Her voice was grateful as she muttered a quick 'yes.'

'I'm just going to grab some clothes," she said, moving past me quickly and going into, what I assumed, was her bedroom.

A few minutes later, she re-emerged with a small bag at her side.

"Ready?" I asked, as she retrieved her book bag. She nodded. "Then let's go."

"I just need to tell Pyrene that she needs to keep Galen for tomorrow too," she said over her shoulder. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled, even if her parents aren't."

"Sure thing. I'll meet you downstairs," I told her as she locked the door behind me.

As I waited for the elevator, watching her disappear around the corner, I thought about how bad Rawnie's situation actually was. From the first moment I had met her, I had realized that she wasn't the richest person in the world, but coming to her apartment had confirmed just how much she was struggling. The no electricity, the scarcity of furniture, and the mere fact that it was colder in her apartment than it was outside made it obvious how much she needed help. I wondered why her family didn't help her out.

I knew from what her cousin-in-law had hinted that her family didn't consider her to be part of them and that he and his wife, Meara, tried to help her when they could, but he never elaborated on the situation. I gave a frustrated punch to the side of the elevator, denting the cheap wood paneling. I was more than willing to help Rawnie and I could tell that Boyd was too, but the situation with the family prevented him. But just what that situation was, I had yet to find out.

When I reached the lobby, I made my way to my truck as quickly as possible. I wanted to warm up the cab of the truck for her. As I slid into my seat, I made sure the heat was on full blast. I had no idea how she managed to survive when her apartment was that cold. Lost in my thinking, I didn't see Rawnie emerge from her apartment building. I heard a sharp tap on the passenger's side window and looked up in surprise. I could see her fight back a smile as I reached over to open the door. She pulled herself up into the truck and immediately put her purple hands by the heater. She winced at the sudden change of temperature, but she didn't move them.

"You ready?"I asked, shifting into gear.

She took a deep, nervous breath. "Yeah, I guess so. Onward, Mr. Phelan>"

"Of course, Miss Rawnie."

Sample Writing 1

I have about eight million things in the works. This is just a sampling of a novel idea that I came up with. I'm hoping that I will work on it soon. Critiques accepted. I haven't looked at this in a while, so I'm sure it needs some severe editing... Ugh. On the to-do list. The one that never seems to shrink.

 Sample 1

“Stop listening to Boyd, Miles, or whoever it is that’s telling you all this crap,” Rawnie said, balling her fists tightly at her side. “I am nearly twenty. I think I can handle my own life. So stop trying to be my father, my brother, my boyfriend. Whatever it is you think you are. Just stop.”

“Rawnie−”

She cut me off. “Try telling your advice to someone who cares and who’ll listen, but that someone isn’t me. So back off.”

“That relationship is unhealthy! You’re letting that plastic, blonde Barbie poison you and you don’t even realize it! Cavan isn’t good for you and that pariah that he’s dating is even worse.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” she snapped, trying to brush past me in the bar’s narrow hallway. I grabbed her wrist as she passed, noticing her wince as I tightened my grip. She whirled around, murder flashing in her eyes.

“Let. Go,” she said, voice velvety soft and deadly.

“You don’t have to listen,” I told her angrily, watching her wince again as I put more pressure on her wrist. “But I advise that you do. Cavan doesn’t love you the way you do him. It will never be that way and you know it. If you didn’t, there wouldn’t be these marks on your wrist.”

I shoved up her sweater sleeve, revealing the angry red slashes crisscrossing up and down her arm. Rawnie yanked her wrist from my grip and thrust down her sleeve.

“This is none of your damn business, Phelan,” she said, tightly folding her arms underneath her breasts. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d butt the hell out!”

“This is my business. Rawnie, I may not know you extremely well, but I’ve known you long enough to care about you as much as Boyd, Meara, and Miles do,” I said, trying to explain my feelings. To explain how compelled I was by her. “I can’t sit here while you practice self-mutilation and start down the path of self-destruction. I won’t.”

“Well, aren’t you a saint?” she sneered. She started down the hall, but stopped and turned to face me. “And you’re wrong, Saint Phelan. Cavan does love me. He’s just too nice to break up with Kaili right now because her grandmother just died. So just drop it because it’s none of your business.”

She stormed away, leaving me alone in the doorway of the storage room. I stood there, trying to understand her skewed rationale. The only reason I could think of was the fact that Rawnie was head over heels in love with that Abercrombie model look-a-like perched on the bar stool next to her and because of that, she didn’t see anything clearly. She didn’t realize that when Cavan looked at her, it wasn’t a look of love like her gave Kaili. It was a look of pity. And that look made me angry. Turning swiftly, I punched the wall hard. The pain that rushed through my arm felt good.

“Rawnie, watch the bar real quick,” I heard Miles say over the other bar patrons and televisions. “I’m gonna see if Phelan broke his neck getting those cases of beer.”

“If only we were so lucky,” she laughed and I bristled at the comment. “Last time I saw him, he was in the storage room.”

“Hey, Phelan,” Miles called, coming down the hall. Where the hell are you?”

“In here,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I was ridiculously close to snapping and staying away from the bar at that moment would prevent me from breaking Cavan’s neck.

Miles picked up on the edge of fury in my voice and poked his head into the room.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, taking in the dent in the wall and the vein in my neck pulsing angrily.

“It’s 5’2”, is the biggest pain in the ass,” I snapped. “And came in with Barbie and Ken.”

The large man chuckled infuriatingly. “What did she do to you this time?”

I glared at him irritably. “It’s not what she’s doing to me. It’s what she’s doing to herself. The fact that she’s convinced that asshole loves her is completely absurd.”

“Now, now,” Miles began.

“No. There is not ‘now, now.’ She’s hurting herself. And I don’t just mean emotionally.”

I saw my boss blanch for a second, and then focus in on my face. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

I swallowed hard. For some reason, there was a lump in my throat. “It was like someone was playing tic-tac-toe on her arm, Miles. With a razor. She knows deep down that Cavan doesn’t want her, that’s why she’s doing it. She’d rather feel physical pain than acknowledge the big gaping hole in her heart.”

Miles started off into space for a second, rubbing his chin. “This is serious. We may have to talk to Boyd and Meara about it. See if you can convince her to stay here tonight or to stay with you.”

“What I want to do is kick the shit out of pretty boy. He’s the reason for it! He pisses me off.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Miles slipped in a sly grin. “Rawnie growing on you more than you thought, eh, Phelan?”

“Shut up! This is serious,” I snapped, grabbing the cases of beer and stalking away.

His laughter followed me down the hall.

As I slid back behind the bar, I saw Rawnie stiffen and glare at me over her usual glass of Sprite. I fought the childish urge to stick my tongue out at her.

“Hey, Phelan,” Cavan said, smiling his too perfect smile. “Could I get an order of onion rings?”

“Baby,” cooed the tan blonde sitting next to him. “You know I hate the smell of onion rings.”

“Aw, come on, Kaili,” he protested. “Rawnie and I love onion rings, especially on football nights.”

“Well, don’t blame me if I won’t come near you later,” she said, giving him what I could only label as ‘googly eyes.’

Cavan just laughed as he hopped off the barstool and headed to the bathroom.

“God, Rawnie,” Kaili said, giving the girl a nasty look. “Can’t you ever just not order those stupid onion rings? You know they make him throw up half the time.”

For someone who was tougher than nails, Rawnie flinched at the blonde’s tone and just stared down at her barely eaten hamburger, cowed by a Barbie.

“Well, I guess because you get what you want, it doesn’t matter if Cavan gets sick.”

“That’s not true,” Rawnie protested weakly.

“It is so and you know it!” Kaili shot back heatedly.

“I’m sorry,” the tiny girl whispered, taking a small sip of Sprite. She looked towards the bathrooms and relaxed visibly when she saw Cavan.

“Hey! My two favorite girls!” Cavan said when he sat back down. “Ready for some killer onion rings?”

Cavan missed the glare that his bitch of a girlfriend shot Rawnie. I saw her swallow quickly and turn red with shame. I would have to have a talk with her. She couldn’t back down like this.

“Um, actually,” Rawnie said. “I’m full. So I won’t eat any. Don’t bother.”

Cavan frowned. “But you’ve barely eaten, honey. Are you feeling okay?”

I saw Kaili bristle at the word ‘honey’ and almost laughed.

“I’m fine,” Rawnie assured him, a huge fake smile gracing her features. “Ella bought me a huge lunch today. So I’m good.”

I cleared my throat, causing the three of them to look at me. I know for a fact that what Rawnie said was a lie because when I passed Ella Leeds’s office today, the girl had been sitting outside just eating yogurt. Those hazel eyes met mine, pleading for me not to say anything. For some reason, I gave in.

“So, no onion rings then?” I asked, letting them know I heard the whole exchange. “I haven’t put the order in yet.”

“Guess so, my man,” Cavan said, shrugging.

I saw him stare at Rawnie for a minute before his attention returned back to the football game on the television. Some concerned friend he was. He didn’t even question anything Rawnie had said. Maybe Rawnie was just that good of a liar. I shook my head in disgust. Why Rawnie thought this kid loved her was beyond me. People say that love’s not rational, and to a degree, maybe they’re right. But I think there has to be some sense of rationality or else you would hurt all the time.

I glanced at the girl in front of me and saw her pushing her French fries around her plate miserably.

“Hey, Leoni,” I said softly, coming closer. “Do you want a container to take that home in?”

I saw her struggle with whether or not she was still pissed at me or grateful for me not saying anything to Cavan. I knew I had won when she let out a heavy sigh.

“Sure,” she said, meeting my gaze.

I turned away to get the Styrofoam container when I heard her say something else in a whisper.

“And thanks.”

Still facing away from her, I let a huge smile cross my face. This girl was scarred indefinitely, but was so pure-hearted. I couldn’t get over it. She was rude, bossy, irritating, and crude, but still one of the nicest people I had ever met.

“Here ya go, babe,” I said, handing her the container. She colored slightly and started putting her food in it. I was sure she’d kill me for saying that later.

Cavan heard my comment. He faced me, giving me a hard stare, but I also saw the curiosity behind the sudden hostility.

“Hey, I think we should go. It’s late and Kaili and I have a 7:00 class. And you,” he said to Rawnie. “You have to be at work for 6:30, missy.”

“You can go, Cavan. I’ll just walk home.”

“Absolutely not!” snapped Mr. Perfect. “Not this late and not in this area!”

The brunette made a face. “The fourth quarter just started!” she complained. “I can’t leave now! I always stay for the entire game!”

“Rawnie…” Cavan warned.

“Oh, fine. But you owe me big time. This is a great game.”

I cleared my throat for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight. The three younger kids looked at me. They probably were thinking that I had some weird thyroid problem.

“Miles actually wanted you to stay here tonight. I think he wanted help with something. He said that he would drive you to work in the morning as well.”

“Really?” she asked, excited to be able to finish watching the game.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Cavan said slowly.

“She’s almost twenty, baby,” Kaili said. “Let her do whatever she wants. If she wants to stay and ‘entertain’ Miles with her antics, let her. But I want to go home.”

I nearly punched the empty-headed bitch for what she had just implied. That Rawnie paid her way with sex and that Miles was sleazy enough to accept. I clenched my fists and I could feel the blood pounding in my ears dangerously. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rawnie take in how angry I was. She opened her mouth to speak and I was tempted to cover it with my hand and let the blonde have the brunt of my fury.

“Tell Miles thanks, but no thanks. Cavan’s right. I should get to bed.”

Cavan smiled at me triumphantly and Kaili pouted, rolling her eyes.

“I get off in ten minutes,” I said as calmly as possible. “I’ll drive you. It’s on my way home anyway.”

Cavan jumped slightly at the statement.

“Do you know where she lives?” he challenged, trying to cover his shock with bravado.

“Actually, yes. I’ve driven her home plenty of times.”

This was a lie and Rawnie narrowed her eyes at me, when she heard me. I had only driven her that one time, when I first met her.

Mr. Perfect paled at the statement. He probably thought I had other intentions and I was like any other scumbag.

“Well−” he sputtered.

“Enough you two,” Rawnie said, stepping in. “It’s okay, Cavan. Phelan can drive me home. Kaili said she was tired and my apartment is really out of the way. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” he said reluctantly. He pulled out his wallet and handed me his gold card. “Put Rawnie’s dinner on the tab,” he instructed me, voice cold.

“I can pay!” she protested.

“If you won’t let me drive you home, it’s the least I can do,” he told her, putting the card in his wallet after signing the receipt. “See you later.”

After Cavan and Kaili left, Rawnie turned to me.

“Was that absolutely necessary?”

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence, knowing full well what she was talking about.

She gave me a look that could peel paint. “Don’t play dumb. You didn’t need to goad him like that. He worries enough as it is.”

“Not enough in my opinion,” I quipped. “Not enough to catch that lewd comment Airhead Barbie made about you and Miles. Not enough to press the fact that you barely ate anything. He seemed more worried that I knew where you lived than anything else.”

“That’s not fair!” said Rawnie furiously. “And FYI. You don’t look like Mr. Rogers. There’s a reason he was worried about you. You look like you could beat up a raging bull!”

I snorted.

“He cares about me. I don’t understand why you can’t see that!” she snapped.

“And I don’t understand how you can still think he loves you the way he does Kaili when anyone with half a brain can see that he doesn’t. He looks at you with pity, Rawnie, not love!”

Rawnie’s hazel eyes went steely. “Thank you for the ride offer, but I think I’d prefer to walk tonight. Maybe another time.”

She hopped off her barstool and made her way to grab her sweatshirt hanging on one of the pegs near the door. Miles caught my eye and gave me a look of disappointment and disapproval.

“What?” I asked shortly, pissed off.

“Go after her and drive her home,” he ordered me, with an authoritative ring to his voice. That was new. “You can leave early.”

“No. She’s being stubborn.”

“GO.”

“Fine. Bye.”

“And Phelan.” I turned. “Stop pushing her away. She needs you regardless of whether or not the both of you realize it. She’s been hurtin’ real bad for a long time. I think you’re the best person for her. So, give her a break.”

I just nodded, feeling the weight of what Miles had said settle on my shoulders. Miles had been trying to set us up since day one, but I sense a more serious tone to what he said. What I did know was that Rawnie drew me to her in a way no female had before. It was like a moth to a flame. She was a different being all together.

“Get moving!” Miles snapped. “She’ll be halfway down the street and she may be strong, but not strong enough to fight off a gang of horny men.”

That had me bolting out the door and looking widely around to find the girl who had wholly consumed my life. Instead of being assaulted, Rawnie was sitting on the low brick wall that lined the perimeter of the Brickskeller, kicking her heels against the red stone.

She didn’t look at me as I sat beside her and placed my jacket on her thin, shaking shoulders.

“I was deciding whether or not I was going to apologize.”

“Hey−”

“You’re right, you know,” she said cutting me off like she did so often.

“What?”

“He doesn’t love me the same way he does Kaili. I know that. I just want to keep pretending for a little while.”

“You can’t−”

“Can you just drive me home and not talk about it, please?” she asked. “I just want to go to sleep.”

“Sure,” I said, my voice soft. I ushered her to my truck, opening her door and helping her in.

The ride to her apartment building was silent, except for the sound of the heater blowing on high. I occasionally glanced over at her to see what she was feeling, but Rawnie’s face was blank and completely void of emotion. I couldn’t grasp how deeply her scars went, but I so desperately wanted to help her.

As we slowed to a stop in front of the tall brick building, the girl shrugged off my coat and hung it on the back of her seat.

“Thanks,” she muttered quickly, hand on the door latch.

“Rawnie, wait,” I murmured, looking at her. She paused, but didn’t meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like I’m trying to rule your life. I’m just concerned.”

“You don’t need to be,” she told me softly, still avoiding my eyes.

I gently took her hand and pushed up her sleeve again, exposing the mutilated flesh. Her cheeks burned red, while her face remained impassive.

“I think I do. Rawnie, you can’t keep pretending things are fine when they aren’t. You know that as well as I do.”

She pulled her hand out of mine and carefully traced the patterns of the angry marks, but slowly and deliberately hiding the cuts from sight.

“It’s to take away the pain,” she said, still refusing to look at me. “It’s the only way I know how.”

“You can’t deal with pain this way. Just like your relationship with Cavan, this is extremely unhealthy,” I said, leaning closer. I tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She flinched and for the first time since she got into the cab of my truck, she met my gaze. Those hazel eyes were haunting.

“Don’t be so nice,” she whispered, eyes becoming glassy with unshed tears.

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve it,” she said, shutting her eyes tightly.

“Rawnie, look at me.” She shook her head. A tear escaped from behind her closed lids and I caught it with my thumb. “Look at me.”

Her eyes flew open and her lips parted in surprise.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” I rasped.

She pulled away from my touch, more tears trickling down her cheeks. Opening the truck’s door, she looked back at me.

“Because I’m not worth it.”

I pulled back, shocked at the statement. She used the opportunity to escape, quickly gathering her stuff.

“Rawnie–“

She slammed the door and was gone.