by SleepiRoqueStar » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:18 pm
Is it okay to submit more than one story?
WARNING MILD ABUSE
I basically apologize for any bad grammar I missed; this was written about...gott, it's been two years already. I tried to fix some of it...
Prologue
London, February 14, 1996
In the smooth black of the night, a single whimper sounded like a bell. The sound was followed by a soft cooing, and the rustle of threadbare clothes, being arranged into a make-ship blanket. As a cloud drifted away from the swollen moon, silver light bathed the street, revealing a single figure, wielding a large woven basket, where within an unnaturally small child squirmed against the cold.
Glancing warily from side to side, the figure’s steady pace quickened, her breath formed a small cloud above the bundle. Frost crunched underfoot as she stopped in front of a formidable store; the owner was an old friend of hers, and would treat the child fairly.
With a last look into the basket, the woman set it on the front stair, and turned away, breaking into a dead run in the opposite direction of which she came. As she ran, the growing winds blew her hood from her head, revealing a vast collection of scars and bruises, speckled with flakes of dirt and blood.
Her eyes were wild, her hair an unmanageable tangle. As she ran, a truck raced towards her, gaining ground all the time. Hearing the truck, she let out a shriek, cutting through the night like with a chilling, forbidding tone.
With a sickening snarl, the truck pulled in front of the woman, cutting off her path. With a giant leap, the a man hurtled from the driver-side door, tackling the woman to the ground, smiling when her head crashed into the pavement with a dull thud.
Though blood streamed steadily through the gash in her scalp, the man continued to beat her head against the blacktop, leaving a pool of blood on the road, and still he beat her.
With a suspicious look over his shoulder, the man proceeded to drag the mutilated body into the nearby sewer grate. His shoulders trembling with the effort, and with a final jerk, yanked the grate open. with a defiant thrust, he shoved the child’s mother down into the sewer.
London, February 15, 1996 (Arthur)
Arthur woke to the gentle tones of his alarm, which read 5:10; he loved to wake up early enough to see the sun rise over his city.
Yesterday, Valentines Day, he’d spent the day with Matthew and Alfred at the zoo, boring as he’d found it, the boys’d had a wonderful time; Matthew, in particular, enjoyed the polar bear exhibit. The boys were like sons to Arthur; he’d raised them since his sister had passed away, leaving them with only an apartment to live in and enough food to finish the week.
With a sigh, Arthur crawled out of bed, stretching his arms high above his head, and rolling his shoulders. After turning off his alarm clock, he started towards the stairs, only to trip over one of Alfred’s infernal tinker toys.
“Bloody hell-” he swore, then silenced himself, for fear of waking Matthew. Unlike his brother, Matthew would wake up if a single leaf fell from the maple tree outside his and Alfred’s room.
Creeping down to the kitchen, he put some water into a small pot and set it on the stove to boil while he went down to Steve’s shop; Steve always had good fruit on his front step, ready for Arthur to collect. Arthur’d paid him in advance for the month, because he couldn’t stand the crowds.
He pulled on his dark green overcoat and slipped out the door. The morning air was thick with dew, and birds were chirping in an incredibly cliché way. As he neared the store, he could hear a small wailing nose; it was so out of place, he almost mistook it for an animal call.
When he reached the store, he found not one basket but two. Unsure which was his, and not wanting to steal another’s, he removed the cloth from the top of the one nearest to him to and found it to be filled with... his fruit. He almost didn’t open the other one, but then he once again heard the tiny wailing, a little louder now.
Easing himself down until he was about level to the top of the basket, he noticed the worn but unique designs woven into the handle. With a growing curiosity, he swept the tattered cloth from the top to find within a small, gently crying child.
“Bloody...” he began, again cutting himself of for fear of being heard. As if afraid he would brake the kid, he shifted the blankets around, wincing when the disturbance caused the girl to let out a small cry.
Seeing the poor condition the child was in, he felt almost sure that she’d been abandoned. Looking around to see if anyone had noticed, he scooped up the small bundle, leaving the basket behind.
Her screams grew louder the farther he went; it made him very glad it was so early in the morning. No one would hear.
When he finally reached his house, he paused. What was he doing? He’d just found a crying child on the street and was bringing her to his house, were he already had Al and Mattie sleeping in the extra bedroom. There was no doubt the crying would wake Matt, and he would definitely wake up Alfred before he came down to investigate.
Taking a deep breath, he ran through the door, grabbed the keys to his sister’s old apartment, and sprinted back out. Closing the door softly behind him, he listened to see if either of the boys were coming down the stairs, five minutes, ten minutes... He should be fine to leave now.
Walking at a brisk pace, he crossed the street to the small apartment complex. Slipping through the front door, he climbed up the stairs to Katherine’s old apartment. Once again pausing in front of the door, he looked down at the child. It was sleeping now, curled into a tiny ball.
With a slight creak, the door swung open. A rush of cool air met him; of course, there’d been no need to heat an empty apartment. Memories flew through him, feeling colder than the breeze. He walked into the kitchen, and saw his sister, Katherine, fetching Mattie some juice from the fridge, while Al was scarfing down pancakes.
Shaking his head, Arthur turned and sat down on the couch in the small family room. Setting the girl on the chair, he grabbed some blankets and draped them over her until the child resembled a rather large marshmallow. Satisfied, he went to the boys’ old room to find some better clothes.
Finding only one of the boys’s old white nightgowns, he brought it out into the family room, where the child lay sleeping. He grabbed her, and unwrapped her from the cloud of blankets. The clothes she was wearing could hardly be called such; they were so riddled with holes and thread-bare patches that she could have been wearing rags. And she might have been.
Slipping the nightgown over her small head, he saw that it was still a good few sizes to large. Exactly how old was the girl? Deciding to wake her, he shook her gently.
Her eyes opened, revealing two crystal clear pools, a fresh blue. He sat back, allowing her to take int he situation. She only stared back at him, her face questioning.
“Can you talk?” He said softly, not wanting to startle her. She shook her head, her dark hair whipping from side to side. He couldn’t tell what color it was; it looked dark brown, but when the light caught it, it appeared to be a deep red.
Arthur sighed. That would make things a bit more difficult. He would have to teach her to talk, while at the same time teaching Alfred and Matthew to read and write.
While he was pondering this, the girl began to crawl from his lap, reaching at the floor. Before she hurt herself, Arthur set her down. She ran into the kitchen, stopping in front of the fridge. Arthur followed close behind.
“Are you hungry?” he inquired, not wanting to let her know the fridge was empty. She nodded her head.
“I can get you some fruit. It’s just across the street” He’d left the bucket in his house, in the front room. The girl shook her head and grabbed a pile of old receipts Katherine had left on the fridge. Then she looked around, and started to climb up the counter.
“What the devil...” Arthur muttered, and grabbed the child. She struggled, then was still. Holding the receipt out to him, she pointed at the small print on one side.
“Do you want to go shopping?” Arthur asked, getting frustrated. She shook her head again, a small frown distorting her face. She gestured at the paper, almost as if...
“Can you write?” Arthur asked, shocked. She nodded, and motioned again at the receipt. Now Arthur understood. She was looking for a pen. Seeing one on the counter, he handed it to her.
What day is it? she wrote, in handwriting that suggested she’d been writing for a few years, at the least. Arthur was puzzled; how old was the child? She was half the size of Alfred, but obviously farther in schooling.
“February 15,” he replied aloud, “How old are you? Where is your family?” The girl looked at him disbelievingly, then answered his second and third questions. I think I'm seven, and I don't have a family. Mommy hid me when daddy his her. I don't think I have a name. Why am I here?
Startled by her history, he could not think of a good answer right away. He pondered it for a while, then found the only answer he could think of.
“I suppose, if you don’t have anything to go home to, that I will, well, raise you.” Damn, it sounded so awkward out loud. Grabbing a new receipt, she wrote, Do you live here?
“No, I live across the street, in the blue house. I have two boys already.” he said, feeling overwhelmed.
“Actually,” he said, before she could reply, “We should probably go over there now, before they wake up.” Are they nice? She wrote swiftly, I don't want them to hit me like daddy did.
Eyes wide, Arthur replied with enthusiasm, “They are sweet, though Alfred can be rather loud at times.” She looked up at him, suspicion melting away into trust. “First though,” Arthur said, “You need a name.”
After some wild suggestions, the girl asked who’s home they were in. Arthur, who’d taken to writing his answers ( she could only understand spoken words to an extent) and suggestions on some other old receipts, replied, Katherine. Studying his answer, she replied, I want my name to be Kate. Kate Kirkland. Arthur looked at the name and started. You want my last name? he said, surprised. Yes, she replied, if I live with you, I should have the same name. Arthur leaned back in his chair.
“Very well then, you will be known as Kate Marie Kirkland. Now, let’s go home.” he pronounced, and started towards the door, Kate close behind.
Arthur lay down to bed for the night feeling satisfied. The boys had taken rather well to Kate; they had been insistent on teaching her to talk. She’d been quite shy at first, but by the day’s end, it was obvious the three would become good friends.
Arthur’d transformed the junk room into a suitable place to sleep; it wasn’t as if she had to live in there.
As he began to drift away to sleep, he heard tiny footsteps on the floor, and then his body jerked as someone jumped onto the bed.
“Bloody-” he began, sitting up to see Kate at the foot of his bed, tears streaming down her face. His angry melted into concern; he never wanted to make her cry, the poor girl had been through so much already.
“What’s the matter?” he asked softly, knowing that though she couldn’t answer with words, the answer would be apparent. “Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked, pretty sure that was the problem.
She shook her head vigorously. “Well... why are you in here?” Arthur asked, still new to the whole ‘parent’ thing. Al and Matt could fairly well take care of themselves; they were already eight, and trying to do everything on their own.
In response, Kate crawled up the bed until she was level with him, laid her head down on the pillow, and closed her eyes. So she could be a little forward. It was sweet, wasn’t it, that she wanted him to comfort her?
As he closed his eyes once again to go to sleep, he heard a tiny voice whisper, “I love you daddy.”
This is one of my more "serious" works" : P I usually write fluff or comedies
mIrAcLeS
Here's my entree:
!
