closed ... super sorry! ><

[eden .]

|◀◀-------|►-----►►|

WARNING! Some content may not be suitable for children. Contains some gore [but not overly explicit].

Glass cracked under my feet as I sidestepped a rotting limb. Buzzards picked at the blood-encrusted skin, the stench unbearable. Curling my lip and holding my breath, I wasted no time getting to a window and throwing open the warped and yellowing glass, the hinges squeaking in protest. The muggy, sticky and sluggish breeze did little to air out the room, but it was the thought that counted. Or at least, that's what I told myself. It paid to have some optimism, these days. I stared up at the black smog hovering in the sky, not quite managing to cover the disgusting, mockingly industrialized city skyline. Even with the poison literally floating above our heads they insisted in creating more--more pollution, more death, more anarchy, all in the name of glorious capitalism. Sneering, I shut the windows again with a sharp snap. I would take the smell of decaying corpses over this any day, and I was glad of the dirtied window pane. I wouldn't have to see the clouds. A long time ago I would've been disappointed that I wouldn't be able to see the sky every morning. Now there was nothing worth seeing.

Impatiently waving away a fly, I shuffled off to a long and dimly lit closet a few feet away, padding by a few rooms as I went, no longer saddened by the abandoned gurneys. I squeezed between a few shelves into the back of the closet--or rather room, it was so large. Here the lights had nearly failed completely, one lonely bulb bravely flickering on and off in feeble bursts. I wasn't particularly bothered. I could see perfectly in the dark. It was just that having light was more convenient.

I began to cough, and I quickened my search, my fingers running along the many glass bottles with well-learned familiarity. The bottles were small enough to be comfortably held between my thumb and pointer finger, only a few dozen milligrams of varying liquids encased inside--endorphins, electrolytes, adrenaline, anesthesia--and I had to pause for a moment as a stronger wrack of coughs shuddered through my body. With great whooping gasps my body expanded, retracted, expanded again, trying to make up for what it lacked. Still wheezing and a mounting panic rising through me, I shouldered my way through the shelves, the medications clinking and crashing onto the floor behind me. I was not concerned. None of them were things I needed. Shoulders heaving, I reached the back of the room and nearly crumpled to my knees. As it was, I grabbed the supporting beam of the shelf in some desperation, my body crashing into the pole heavily as I was unable to hold myself up anymore. The vials on this wall shuddered with the impact, and I held out an arm along it to make sure they didn't fall. Trying to calm myself, I raised a trembling hand to grab one of the delicate bottles. I was worried that I'd break one without even picking one up. My fingers moved stiffly, the joints clicking with protest as I bent them. I forced my arm forward, even more distressed, now. Nearly crying out in both fear and frustration, I found myself unable to summon the motor ability to pick up a bottle between two fingers, so I brutally forced a fist into the bottles that were once in orderly succession, some sliding back towards the wall while others plummeted to the concrete floor, their contents beginning to puddle at my feet. The only reason I could tell, I realized with shock, was because I could see it. The nerves in my feet were no longer responding. Clenching my jaw to stop myself from screaming, I grasped a random, despairingly slippery glass bottle before looking for a needle. Unable to find one, I instead wrenched off the gray cap and drank the entire bottle--all of it, not bothering to measure out the exact amount I needed. It was an inaccurate, inefficient way to get the substance into my bloodstream, but if it meant living, another day of waiting, just one more, it was worth it.

I hadn't gotten to it fast enough, clearly. With a gut wrenching jolt I saw the floor coming closer until I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes staring at the ceiling, the flickering light bulb going somewhere just above the crown of my head. I could no longer feel the cold concrete on my skin, nor the pain that must've been registered as I hit the ground. My chest shuddered, stopped, started and shuddered again like a failing engine, my breaths spattered and sporadic. I tried to move, to jerk, to twitch, but my limbs refused to respond, my fingers remaining stubbornly wrapped around the vial that I could no longer feel. My vision began to fog, the edges giving away to darkness, to infinity as I heard the light bulb give a final pop. Had it gone out? I couldn't tell. I was blind. A chilling sense of dread came over me as all my senses were cut off save for hearing, the mechanical clicks echoing ominously through the room. I lied there helplessly, unable to put off the slowing of gears, the final stop of the pistons, the freezing of levers. All I could do was listen to my own death.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

A gasp. Sharp, chilling, piercing. That's all it took for me to wake up. Coughing, fighting the urge to vomit, I rolled onto my side, my limbs and joints clacking and their gears rolling slowly. How long had I been out? Moaning in pain and gratitude that I was still able to feel pain, I find myself able to get on my hands and knees before using the legs of the shelves to heave myself up, sliding away bits of glass impatiently. With some concern I notice that there is no longer any liquid on the ground. Had they evaporated? And, I realized with some delayed surprise, the light had gone out. I glanced up at the ceiling at the bulb, clearly able to make it out even in the gloom. Well, it had to happen some time.

A crash from down the hall called my attention. My energy rushed back to me in my moment of shock. Was someone else here?

Was it--? Excited, I forgot my fatigue and streaked towards the door, pushing aside shelves recklessly, the metal constructs toppling and crashing into others, falling in a domino effect as I sprinted through their aisles. I could not help the rising grin upon my face. In my haste I nearly ran into the room across the hall, I was going so fast. I stopped myself at the gurney, accidentally raining the needles and surgical instruments that I could not name onto the floor. Pivoting hurriedly I forced myself to take a measured pace out of the room and began my run anew down the hall to the entrance of the building, leaping over limbs, fingers, a head, swatting away flies from my vision as I approached the doors.

As I rounded the corner my smile faded as I did not recognize the newcomers. Bitter disappointment welled up within me, and I very nearly killed them right then and there. But it was not their crime that they walked in. Assuming a face of welcome, I approached the tight group of nearly half a dozen adults dressed in black. It looked extremely uncomfortable, especially considering that it was quite hot, especially with the smog keeping heat from escaping the atmosphere. They seemed tense, uncomfortable, weary, but as they heard my approach and my unnatural clicking noises they assumed a fighting position, a certain fluidity surrounding them. Clearly they had been trained to do this. Mentally frowning, the cogs in my brain working, I asked genially, "How do you do?"

I watched as many eyes widened with shock, some even with revulsion, although one dark skinned woman kept her face carefully blank. She did, however, frown a bit before saying, "Hello."

"It's good to meet you. May I help you? I don't get many visitors, you see," I responded politely, addressing her directly now. At least she had some semblance of manners. However, this time she did not respond, instead hesitating as if she was unsure of how she was able to respond. Behind her, a man with a rather formidable scar that seemed to originate from his scalp and continued on past his collar bone hissed into her ear, "She already told us it wouldn't be any use talking to it. Not like you can understand him."

At the word "she" my heart leaped, and I took a quick step forward. In reaction the group stiffened and with automatic instinct, it seemed, a few pulled out rifles. My momentary euphoria was stifled as I paused in bewilderment. Why were these people armed? Why did they feel I was a threat?

"I'm sorry, who is it that sent you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling. The group gave no response, although they kept their serious and rather somber expressions. Apprehensive now, I took another step forward whilst raising a hand, meaning to hold it up so high to demonstrate a height as I continued, "Was it doctor--"

"Open fire!" the dark skinned woman barked, and suddenly my sight was blinded by sparks and my eardrums were barraged with pounding gunfire. Yelling out in more shock than pain, I backed away and around the corner, feeling my delicate instruments straining as my skin began to dent. Stumbling and trying to regain my balance, I leaned against the wall and breathed heavily. My chest fought against the command, the damages done to it making expanding difficult. Grimacing, I listened around the corner to the group but did not dare put myself in their sights once more. They seemed to have paused as a warbled voice came to them.

"Yes, ma'am, we've found him. I believe he tried communicating to us, first." It was the dark skinned woman. I recognized her voice. A pause. More crackled noises.

"No, I couldn't. It was just like you said, ma'am, spoke in something like Morse code." Morse code? I wracked my brain for what that was. Wasn't that an archaic language using tones of varying length? Surely I didn't speak that way? But perhaps that would explain why the woman didn't respond appropriately. No, ridiculous! She would always know what he was saying. She always knew what to say.

"Wasn't any Morse code I knew," some new voice sniffed, their tone condescending and rather whimsical. A woman?

"Regardless. We'll be giving chase," the dark skinned woman continued as if there had been no interruption. "Afterwards we'll be having a long talk, Doctor. I can smell the murder in here."

I nervously glanced at the rotting limb that I had sneered so disdainfully at earlier. The flies had abandoned it, apparently having sensed the danger. Gritting my teeth, I slowly crept away from the corner, keeping my eyes glued to it in anticipation. Hopefully they would lose sight of me and waste time trying to find their way through the halls. It was, after all, the most expansive part of the entire facility. I could not help, however, the small, usually tolerable clinks of my gears. Sometimes they were irritating to me. Today they seemed as loud as any one of the group's guns. Thankfully they were not quiet either, stumbling over body parts and shuffling nervously across the floor.

"Damn it, where are the lights?" one hissed in annoyance. I wasted no time trying to see who it was, instead slipping off as silently as I could.

"Hush," the dark skinned woman snapped back, her voice muted and farther away. I must've made some distance between them. "

"It went this way. Can't you hear it?" In panic I paused, but apparently it was not fast enough. The others must have heard some of the residual echoes of my movements down the hall. I could hear them approaching, albeit slowly and cautiously.

Suddenly, a bright white light flashed into my eyes, and I skidded to a stop and was unable to keep a yelp escaping my lips.

"Going somewhere?" a voice hissed, and as my vision adjusted I recognized the rough looking man that had the scar. I cringed from the light and glanced at his gun. It wouldn't do anything to me, but it was somewhat troublesome. It was hard to run with a dented leg. I backed away slowly until he growled, "Uh, uh, Pinocchio. You're staying right here."

Pinocchio? What was that? Confused, I paused, recognizing the threat. Behind me the group approached.

"Good work, Allen," the dark skinned woman congratulated him. Allen grunted as he adjusted his rifle, the flashlight attached to its top swinging madly.

"Pea-Are Twenty Three," the dark skinned woman ordered, raising her own gun, and the remaining group doing the same behind me. "Stand down."

I didn't even bother to think. I spun on my heel and swung at the group, a few in the front flying backwards, the wind knocked out of them. I couldn't stand the thought of leaving this place. I promised I would wait. In a silent snarl I lunged for one of the few whose gun was trained at me, tackling them and toppling them backwards. The force knocked them into the wall with such force that they seemed to have been knocked out. Not wasting a chance, I grasped their head in my arms before jerking it to the side, a sickening crack resounding from them. I paused to make sure they were dead. It was a mistake. A small pinch in the small of my back called my attention, and I whirled to face the dark skinned woman in a fit of rage. Her eyes were wide with fear but the empty syringe in her hand told me the deed was done--whatever it was. I took a menacing step towards her, putting a hand around her neck and easily lifting her up. I could feel the bullets hitting me freely now, but I paid them no heed.

"What did you do to me?" I demanded, forgetting that she could not understand me, and even if she did she would not be able to speak for the strangle hold I held her in. Still, the effects were clear after a few moments, as my vision became a familiar black. Panicked, I unceremoniously dropped the woman on the ground where I dimly heard her gasp and cough for air. I stumbled in the hall, the bullets still grazing my skin but not of little importance. I ran into walls, stumbled on a body, and I crumpled to the floor, my joints stiffening, my gears straining--

"Looks like the chemical worked," a voice I recognized as Allen's intoned as I slid onto the floor face flat, unable to hold myself up, anymore. My sense of touch was fading fast. My heart was pounding. I needed more. I needed more of the elixir that she gave me. She said it would keep me safe. She said if I kept drinking it she'd come back...

"If the Doctor said it would, then it will," the dark skinned woman responded impatiently. Her voice was echoing, and at this point I could no longer see a thing. I strained to hold on. I had to know. I had to tell them. They couldn't take me away...

"You trust her?" Allen snorted.

"She's bartering for her life. Of course I trust her."

Don't take me.

My hearing began to fade, their footsteps like the sound of echoing pebbles in a long tunnel.

I promised her.

A rustling. A creaking. Was I being lifted?

I have to wait for her.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

"The bodies you saw were remains of whatever people we used for the skin of the automaton," the Doctor responded bluntly. There were some intakes of breath, some exclamations of indignation. The head police chief silenced them all.

"And what was the purpose of this automaton?" he asked patiently, giving away no indication that he was bothered by her remark.

"It was meant to be a weapon," the Doctor replied. "The government wanted things that could blend in with society but were more dependable than a human. could easily be commanded should need be. But they still had to be a convincing replica. We made that replica...a bit too well. The others were failed attempts."

"'Others'?" the chief repeated incredulously. "What others?"

"Before the one lying on your table right now, there were twenty-two before it. Thus, this one is called Pea-Are twenty three."

"I see. And you left because...?"

"At first it seemed like a success. He acted like a human, knew human connotations, but responded to direct orders perfectly."

"So what went wrong?" the chief pressed.

"The replication of the human brain...we tried to copy it completely, but along with that came with very...human responses to everything. Including..." The Doctor hesitated, as if seriously wondering if she should say such a thing that she was about to. The room held their breath, some leaning forward in anticipation. Finally, the chief, who apparently was impatient as the others, prodded her, "Go on."

"Love."

There was a ripple of amusement through the room. Somewhere in the corner an agent demanded, "Please, Doctor. Love? This is a robot you speak of. How could a robot--nothing more than a mechanical skeleton with skin--understand the complexities of love?"

"Tell me, sir, do you understand love?" the Doctor demanded defiantly, making the agent who spoke sulk into silence.

"Love. And then?" the chief asked after an appropriate length of silence. The Doctor turned back to him and glanced at the recording device apprehensively before continuing on, "He became irrational. Obsessive. Volatile. He was overriding all of our commands. In the end, we had to abandon him there."

"And how is it that he did not follow you out?"

"Two reasons, sir. One, because the fuel that runs his mechanical body is in the building. While he may be more or less skin and flesh, his bones are still made of metal, his internal functions robotic. He can't process air like we can. I believe there was an undercurrent of self-preservation."

"And the second reason?"

"...I told him to stay there."

"You told him to stay there? How would that ever keep him there?"

"Because I was the one he loved," the Doctor said simply, raising her chin somewhat. There was a snicker that echoed through the room. This time the chief allowed the noise to go on, continuing only when it settled. "I see. And...?"

"That is all," the Doctor finished tartly. It was clear that she had nothing else to say on the matter. Sighing, the chief rose from his seat. "Very well. As promised, Doctor Soloyvev, all charges against you have been dropped. You may leave."

"Thank you." The Doctor also rose and without so much as an acknowledgement to the agents in the room, instead rushing out to get ahead of them all.

Some feet down the hall, the Doctor heard a distinct whirring, a distinct clicking that could only be her automaton. Almost giddy with excitement, she followed the sounds, entering a room that was out of the way, shoved to the back of the building where no one would ever go willingly. The thought upset her for a moment, finding her precious automaton here, but she let it go, instead entering the room. There lied her creation, apparently asleep, although there was still a dull ticking of gears and knobs. It--he, she corrected herself harshly--was still alive. She stepped forward, her long pants whispering together as she approached.

"How I've missed you," she cooed, stroking the automaton's blonde head. The locks were still as natural and fine as ever. She traced the contours of his cheek bone before resting a finger on his lips. They were cold, somewhat malleable but not quite human--but human enough. The clicking seemed to hasten at her touch. A small sad smile on her face, the Doctor leaned in closer, whispering, "I'm sorry I didn't come. Did you wait long?" The smile still remaining, the Doctor straightened and began to run her hands down the automaton's chest as if looking for something. All the while the mechanical whirs increased in speed, as if he could feel her there. Perhaps he was afraid. The Doctor's smile widened a fraction at the thought. She soon found what she sought, a niche in the collar bone undetectable to everyone except those who knew about it, dismissed as a scar or a cut from something else. Perhaps a scratch from a bullet. He was dented enough. But it was more of a groove. A ticket to a chamber that held his heart. Never dropping her loving, motherly smile, the Doctor wrenched open the nook mercilessly, and for a moment the gears stopped, only to revive again in a panicked sort of spinning. She could see them all past the brass ribs. The glittering, still well polished gears and pistons where a man's lungs would go spun quickly and easily, as if they were new. And there, steadily clunking, its sound somewhat deeper, more robust than the others, was his mechanical heart, small gears turning along its surface, made up of thin brass wire wrapping around a still more complex construct within.

Without hesitation, the Doctor reached in and yanked it out. It came with a short popping like a light bulb bursting, a spark or two as the wires tore and rubbed against another. For a moment the automaton's eyes flew open, the glass marbles rolling towards the Doctor in shock, in betrayal, in sheer rage. Her heart leaped to her throat as she stood paralyzed with his heart in her hands raised in triumph--but as quickly as they opened they shut again, and slowly the cogs spun to a stop, the levers leveled to equilibrium, and the automaton reached death.

"Pea-Are Twenty Four," the Doctor whispered into the heart, which was still warm from its activity as the central gear in his body. Her lips were close to it, she was practically kissing it as she mumbled into its surface, "You'll be even better."

This was my first song request! Yaaaaaaay~
At first when I listened to the song I found the lyrics so straightforward that I could think of a million different plots that I could do with it, but in the end I knew I wanted to do something where the protagonist was waiting for someone. I thought it would be more dramatic if they had been waiting for a long time, that they hadn't died...well, at first I was thinking "vampire?" but I thought that was too MAINSTREAM [-dons hipster glasses-]. As I continued to listen to the song as I started the first paragraph I thought it would be fun to go more steampunk, which I've been craving for a while now, anyway. ^^
Anyways, this was fun. I was hoping to create a bit more innocence of the automaton, but I found that I couldn't figure out where to squeeze it in. But I decided to keep the history rather ambiguous for you creative minds to conjure up yourselves.
All in all, I thought that this was a pretty entertaining thing for me to type up. Lol, I was going to hold off until after my final exams, but the song grew on me that I couldn't help myself. XD

Requested by weegeestar5. Hope you enjoy. :3

[Rainy Days]

By now the boy was already under the desk ...

His mother looked for a moment to want to tear the chair away and forcibly yank him out from under the couch, ...

I believe this bit from your story, Over My Head, needs to be edited. In case you haven't noticed, you replaced "desk" with "couch". The mistake is in paragraph eleven.
I saw nothing wrong with your story other then that. In fact, I really liked it, despite it's morbidness. It was very well written out, and I like the ending sentence.

Now all he could do was rise.

I'm pretty sure I want to continue reading what you have to write.

((Did I sound professional? Or professionalish? Or not? X3 Hope I did...))

[eden .]

woah, didn't even notice that. Good eye. Thanks. :3

And lol yeah, you sounded fine. XD

[Rainy Days]

YESH!!!! And no prob, I always find a weird joy in correcting people.... wait.
...
..
.
Is that bad, or good?
Cause I think it isn't good. *sheepish shrug and smile*

[eden .]

[ I think it's a good thing as long as it's not, like, overbearing. XD ]

[weegeestar5]

Oh mai. I loove it! 8D Although it is a bit sad at the end.

[eden .]

lol I guess depressing stories are kind of my thing. XD

For some reason I can never make overly cheery stories. I don't know what it is. .3.
...and almost none of my songs are very happy. Except for an odd random pop romance thing. >>

[eden .]

|◀◀-------|►-----►►|

WARNING! Some content may not be suitable for children. Contains censored language and mild themes of bullying.

"Go away!" I screamed through the door, letting myself uncurl just an inch to allow my voice to be heard. There were more poundings on the door, and I shouted, "Leave me alone!" My voice pitched higher, cracking and breaking with a hoarse gurgling. I swallowed hard, curling myself back into a ball and shuddering on my bed sheets in both cold and despair. My throat was burning, clearly inflamed, and I welcomed the pain. Fat salty tears streamed down my cheeks, tumbling down across my nose and pooling on the covers, soaking the side of my face. I didn't care. Wails escaped me as I called uncomprehendingly into the dark room. I wasn't sure what I was trying to say anymore. I just knew I was asking for something that couldn't be given. Still I pleaded. I begged. I sobbed to no one, taking cover under the sheets and wishing they would just swallow me whole.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

"If God exists He should just kill me now," I muttered thickly, picking at my bacon. My mom looked up, shocked, before chastising me. "Julia, you shouldn't say that." There was a moment of silence as I pouted at my breakfast while my mom sized me up before saying, "I know you're sad that your friend died--"

"'Your friend'?" I interrupt her, slamming the fork on the glass plate, the stainless steel making a resounding clang. My mom flinched, about to tell me off for nearly breaking a plate, but I plowed on before she could continue. "You can't even call her by her name anymore? Do you even know what her name is? I bet you don't!" Crap, tears were starting, now. Well good. That'll show my mom. That'll make her feel guilty, I savagely knew. Not bothering to wipe myself off, I screamed at her, "You never liked her as soon as you learned she was gay! You're so f***ing conservative you wouldn't even give her a chance! It's been three f***ing years and you still won't get over it!" As soon as the words flew from my mouth I realized that it was somewhat hypocritical since I was standing here crying about it all over again. Aggravated, I shot out of my chair before acting on impulse and violently kicking it over onto its back. It didn't make nearly as much crash as I wanted.

"Julia!" my mom snapped, both shocked and frustrated. "Stop that! I never thought that at all!"

"Don't lie to me!" I screeched, lurching forward until I was right in her face. I must've looked insane, my face red and completely disgusting, my teeth bared and tendons popping from my neck from how hard I was shrieking. My mom didn't respond, apparently too flabbergasted to retaliate. I allowed the surge of triumph to overtake me before abandoning her there and grabbing my backpack a few feet away before stalking through the rest of the kitchen to get to the side door.

"What are you doing?" my mom finally demanded as I wrenched open the door, allowing it to bang into the wall as it swung open.

"I'm going to school," I snapped back, making my response as rude and biting as I could. Before my mom could say anything more, I stormed out of the door and swung it closed behind me. Once more the loud bang it made did not satisfy me. Bitter and now in a very bad mood, I stomped off to my car and nearly tore off the door in my rage. I threw my backpack into the passenger's seat, disregarding the fact that my rather fragile laptop was inside, and clambered inside before slamming the door with all my force. Pulling out my keys from my pocket, I stabbed the car's into the ignition and jerked the engine to life. It roared, as if channeling all of my anger, and I pulled out of the driveway with perhaps more speed than was safe, but I was definitely beyond caring at this point. I slid out of the driveway without bothering to see if there were any cars approaching before I came out and zoomed off towards school, ignoring the angry tears welling up in my eyes. Was my mother so narrow minded that she would only accept people that were straight? It was stupid, it was sick. How was I related to someone like that? I rashly drove to school, not stopping at any of the intersections and receiving many angry honks. I ignored them all. I didn't even f**cking care.

It was clear that I was late. I took my time getting a parking spot, circling the lot at least three times before settling on the one available space left. I could hear the bell giving its shrill ring before I had even stepped through the front door. I roughly wiped the tears from my face and rose my face with dignity, but there was no way to hide my red face or my puffy eyes. I could hear some sniggers and whispers already, and a fresh wave of anger and tears threatened to overtake me again. Instead I gritted my teeth and stared determinedly at the board, the teacher either taking no notice or just ignoring the abuse. It was probably the latter. This was the most Tea Party place you could ever be in.

The class came and went, and I stalked out of the room before anyone could get the chance to challenge my patience, but of course someone did.

"Hey, Julia," someone called after me, a score of snickers following it. I swallowed hard, worked my jaw, and clenched my fists before continuing down the hallway, keeping my pace brisk and purposeful. Others going against my direction quickly parted, as it was clear that I was not interested in stopping for any reason. Eyes straight forward, I reached my locker without any problem, and I was hoping that the people had left me alone, but clearly they hadn't. Before I could say a word, there was a group of guys surrounding me, a few of their b**** girlfriends backing them up from a distance, their blond hair and bed-tanned skin nearly making me gag. Why did they even think that was attractive? Why did these guys think that was attractive?

"What's wrong, Ju-ju," one of the guys smirked, leaning against the lockers with an arrogant air. I felt a nerve jump in my temple as he called me by the nickname she had given me. My hand tightened around the sharp edge of the locker, my knuckles turning white and a steady pounding keeping my sanity as my palm began to ache against the metal. Don't lose your temper. It isn't worth it. It isn't--

"You still crying about that f-g?" another snorted, ducking into my field of vision and making a mockingly simpering face. "Oh, Jackie, don't die! I still love you!"

Cackles. Shrieks of delight. High fives. Don't lose it. Don't lose it. I force myself to take deep, shuddering breaths. Just do what the therapist told you, Julia, that's it. Now get your books Julia.

Removing my hand from the locker door was a mistake. As soon as I released my grip, a third boy sneered, "Didn't even last a year. I was banking on three, at least, since I figured she was the guy of the relationship or some sh**. Lost fifty bucks on that." I couldn't deal with it. I turned straight around and punched the guy full in the face. With vicious satisfaction I felt something give in his nose. I must've broken it. Not even close to being done, I leaped forward, planning on pounding his face into the ground, but his lackeys had already grabbed my arms, were holding me back, the girls were scurrying off the find a teacher, shrieking something about abuse...what the hell was the sh** they pulled on my called, then?

"B****!" the guy snapped from the ground, his voice garbled and thick from the broken nose. He was cupping it with his hand, but I could still see some blood trickling down his hand.

"You're all wrong!" I shrieked, struggling against the two boys on my shoulders, who were shouting at me to calm down or they'd really get serious. What were they going to do? Punch me? Not good for the image. I yanked hard, and with a mighty heave and a startled yelp I was free to raise my foot and bring it down--

"Miss Cremlin!" someone called to me, their voice shrill and panicked. My foot came to an abrupt stop at the guy's stomach, and I stumbled a moment before regaining my footing. I looked up to see a severe looking woman that used to be my geometry teacher as, like, a freshman. She looked personally offended at my acts, her eyes glistening as if I had done all this to her. Clutching her chest, she said, "Miss Cremlin, please report to the principal's office. You two--" she gestured to the two that had been holding me back "--help your friend to the nurse's, the poor thing."

"Aren't you going to yell at them?" I demanded, tossing my hair out of my face. "They were totally ganging up on me."

"These two ladies said that you attacked him without warning," the woman simpered, sniffing a little as the pair of them behind her smirked in satisfaction. I could feel my blood begin to boil. "That's a total lie! They were antagonizing me, calling Jackie a f-g!"

"Miss Cremlin!" the teacher gasped, covering her mouth in such a comical way that I very nearly snorted. "I've never heard such vulgar language in my life! And to imply that your classmates would say such a thing about the deceased!"

"Are you--" I started before curling my hand into a fist, my fingernails digging into my palm. Glaring, I gathered my things from my locker, taking my time, before stepping past the teacher and giving the girls a murderous glare. I'd get them back. Promise.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

"And do you have anything to say to these boys before you go?" the principal asked seriously, putting his fingertips together. I glance up from my downward sulk at my shoes to the three boys smirking at me, one of them glowering somewhat around his ice pack.

"No," I say stoutly, and the principal knows better than to argue, although he does give a little sigh. "Very well. You may go."

Expelled. That's what they tell me. For multiple cases of unprovoked violence. Those guys? Those girls? A warning. How many times had they done something similar to Jackie? Enough to freaking kill herself, that's for sure. I ground my teeth together. I hated this town. I hated the school. I hated the home I lived in. Who was I supposed to trust here? My mother would most certainly take the principal's side. She probably won't even believe me when I tell her the story. Everyone else is capable of being the golden child, but not her own. God forbid I tell the truth once in a while.

Smoldering in rage, I jumped into my car. There was nothing else to do, now. What was I supposed to do, homework? Go home? My mom would be there. She probably got a phone call by now. Sure enough, my phone gave a stern buzz, and I checked the number just to confirm. Mother. What's up? I ignored the call, turning off the ringer before I rolled out of the parking lot, not sure where to go, now. It wasn't like I was planning on having a free afternoon, today. I allowed myself to drive aimlessly for a while, then, no longer caring where I went as long as it wasn't somewhere inhabited. I guess I should've seen what came next. I ended up right along the graveyard, and I felt a sudden tugging at my chest. Of course I would lead myself here. After all, where else was there to go? Holding back a small, chocked sob, I turned off the engine and stepped out, nearly getting run over by an approaching car. It gave me a sharp blare, and I leaped back against my car as it rushed past. I guess I should've been more careful.

[eden .]

|◀◀-------|►-----►►|

My hometown was small. Everyone knew everyone. We all were friends, and sometimes it was like you were living with an entire family than a place full of strangers. It was impossible to go a day without seeing another at least once. There was a diner that everyone went to, there was a high school that everyone attended, and there was a park that everyone spent time at. The park was a bit like a square. In the center was a large round patch of grass, and circling walkways traced along its edge and branched off to a small cafe or a bookstore, and there was a gracious playground for children to the west of this center. Directly facing this playground was a single statue perhaps six feet tall including its foot tall pedestal, the sculpture made of stone and beginning to be covered with greenish white mold from years of rain. Sometimes when I was younger I would look at it from the swing and think it was crying and wish that they had put the statue somewhere else. I didn't like how it looked. I didn't like how it looked like a child, like I was, and how it seemed like it was mourning. It was supposed to be soothing, I guess, but the only thing it ever did was make me afraid.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

The screen tilted and there was a short spat of crackling as the camera tipped and rolled in the cameraman's hands. He muttered something under his breath, but it was incomprehensible. It was likely, however, that it was something rather inappropriate.

"Caleb, hurry up!" someone off camera insisted, the voice giving away its gender as a girl.

"Yeah, shut up," the cameraman panted, the screen righting itself and stabilizing with a small bounce. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"Oh, come on," she laughed off screen, although the edge of her blue jeans flickered past the image for a moment. The scene rounded, spun to reveal trees, a playground, and finally settled on a statue of a praying girl, stone wings coming to a gentle, rounded tip, a simple gown fluttering to her ankles. Her head coming to her shoulder chest was a young woman with tumbling blonde hair, a simple red turtle neck accentuating her long neck, blue jeans just in sight before her legs disappeared off camera. A grin was on her face, and her small breaths condensed in the somewhat chill air.

"Can't you pretend to be a little excited?" she asked, smiling. "We get to learn the history of our town!"

"What history?" Caleb said dourly from behind the camera. "It was founded by some rednecks that wanted to get away from society for a while. Nothing happens here."

"Don't be a jerk."

"Rolling," Caleb prompted her, clearly not in the mood. Tossing her hair back, the girl said, "Hello. My name is Rosemary and I'm here reporting on local town news from channel ehych-es ninety-four."

There was a short snort as Caleb took in what she said. "Really? That's the best you can come up with?" The girl pouted, the smile disappearing from her face. "Oh, come on. It sounds cool, doesn't it?"

"'High school ninety-four? Yeah, real cool," Caleb snickered, the screen shuddering for a moment. Rolling her eyes, Rosemary snapped, "Just get back to rolling."

"Go."

A fresh, beaming smile on her face, Rosemary repeated her line. "Hi, my name is Rosemary and we're reporting on the local town history from channel ehych-es ninety-four." She gave a small but undetectable glare towards Caleb, who could tell what she was driving at and deigned not to make another smart comment.

"Here we have a statue that's been here for as long as I can remember," Rosemary was saying, holding up a demonstrating hand up towards the statue's knees. The camera screen panned upwards to include the statue's face, leaving only Rosemary's grinning head at the bottom. "According to some local history and the convenient plaque here, this statue was made in the year two-thousand in memory of Sofie Morgan--a mere ten years ago! How old were we, Caleb? Maybe eight?" Rosemary asked conversationally, making her voice as theatrical and interesting as possible.

"We were still in elementary school," he agreed from off screen, his low voice adding some extra variety to Rosemary's chipper one.

"Right," Rosemary nodded, the camera coming back down to its original position. "We've hardly ever heard of this statue's history, though. Who made it? Why was it made? Who was this 'Sofie Morgan'? Is it this child here? That's what we're going to find out. Stay tuned." Rosemary kept her sleuth-smile on for another few seconds before Caleb said, "Cut" and she let herself droop a little. "God, that's hard work."

"That's hard work?" Caleb demanded. "How about you take this camera for a while, then? I wouldn't mind switching." Rosemary shook her head in mock disdain, but it was clear the old friends were joking. Moving past the banter, Rosemary wondered aloud, "I wonder who we should start asking, first. If we're looking for history, should we check the library for newspaper archives?"

"They still have those?" Caleb asked with some distaste, following Rosemary though the eye of the lens. She raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you just saying that carrying it around like that was too much trouble?"

"Easier this way," he grunted, to which Rosemary rolled her eyes, again before sighing, "Come on, let's go to the library."

♣ ----♣---- ♣

No matter what Caleb said, Rosemary was glad that he was her partner for the class project and not some other idiot. They were best friends. They understood each other. And Caleb could get through a ton more information than Rosemary could. It wasn't that Caleb was smarter than Rosemary [actually, it was she that received the higher marks!], it was just that Rosemary was thorough. Caleb was not. He skimmed over everything and picked out key information that might help him later. Rosemary could never do that. She would always be afraid that she had missed something.

"Here's a news report on the statue being put up," Caleb interrupted Rosemary's musings. She glanced up at the preserved newspaper that Caleb had and craned her neck to read the upside down, bold faced letters. It took her a moment to find the snippet. Most of the page was taken up with the high school's recent athletic accomplishments. It featured the statue being erected, lengths of cable and many pairs of workers' hands supporting it as it began to settle on the pedestal.

"In Memory of Sofie Warsaw," Rosemary read aloud for the two of them to hear. Caleb was already skimming the short column on the page.

"It says she died," he told Rosemary, who read the snippet herself, anyway. "It looks like none too happily either."

"She did get a statue," Rosemary pointed out, finishing the feature. It wasn't continued on any other page and went on for maybe thirty or so lines, the lines being perhaps ten to fifteen words each. It was paltry, in other words. Rushed.

"Does it say how she died?" Rosemary continued. She glanced up at the camera perched on the table recording their every move. It had been there for a while, admittedly, and Rosemary had to fight the librarian to keep it there. She wanted to make the investigation look real as possible. Genuine.

"Parental abuse," Caleb responded almost immediately after another scan of the article. Frowning, Rosemary looked at the date of the newspaper.

"Dude, this was only like ten years ago. We were probably her age," Rosemary said, her eyebrows raising. "Why haven't we heard of her?"

"Sofie, Sofie..." Caleb repeated, turning the name over and over on his tongue, tapping his chin. "I mean, the name sounds familiar, but it's not exactly unique. Don't we have a Sophie in the grade below us?"

"Yeah, and she's alive," Rosemary snorted. Caleb glowered at her before returning to the article before saying, "There don't seem to by any details about the thing ... they don't even say her last name or who her parents were."

The pair of them sat in silence for a moment, frowning at each other as they tried to figure out what to do next.

"You think either of our parents would know about it?" Caleb wondered aloud. Rosemary felt her eyebrow crinkle as she responded, "That would be super awkward though, asking our parents about a parental abuse thing..."

"Speak for yourself," Caleb rolled his eyes. "You should've been there when my parents gave me 'The Talk'. I don't think they remembered that I was only just thirteen and heavily sheltered." Rosemary chuckled a little at that but didn't say anything more, instead rising from her seat. "Who should we ask first, then?"

"We'll probably have more luck with my parents," Caleb shrugged, also rising. With a small grunt he lifted the large camera from the table. It rattled a little, and Rosemary said sharply, "Careful! What are we going to do if that breaks?"

"Use a Nikon." With that, Caleb led the way out of the library, and Rosemary had little choice but to trot after him.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

"Welcome back! I'm here with Mrs. Nora Greene, who has kindly agreed to answer some of our questions about our mysterious statue," Rosemary beamed into the screen. Next to her stood a brown haired woman that must've been at least three inches shorter than Rosemary. She was thinly built, almost a pixie, and her hair was twisted in such an elegant bun on the top of her head that it made her casual jeans and t-shirt get up look like a ball gown.

"Mrs. Greene," Rosemary was saying seriously, turning towards the woman, "as you know, my partner and I are digging up some of this small town's history. Could you tell us anything about the statue of the little girl in the park?"

Mrs. Greene didn't even blink. As if she had rehearsed it, she told Rosemary, "Well, I think it was put up when you both were about five years old. I think it was for a girl named ... Sarah? Shelby?"

"Sofie," Caleb corrected his mother from the other side of the camera. She glanced at him behind the black tool and smiled, "Yes, that's right. I see you already know something about her."

"Actually Mrs. Greene," Rosemary said briskly, "we know very little about the statue! Can you give us any detail as to why it was erected in the park?"

It was a blatant lie, of course. Rosemary--and Caleb--already knew why the statue was up. Rosemary was aiming for confirmation to the story. If it was in the news, then it was probably true. But if people denied it that just created more layers to the mystery. Thankfully, Mrs. Greene was not one to hold back, and she shrugged somewhat uncomfortably before answering, "It was because the girl died when she was young."

"Died?" Rosemary echoed, raising her eyebrows and acting surprised. "Do you know how she died."

Mrs. Greene paused for a fraction of a second as if she was regretting agreeing to this entire interview before saying, "I believe she was being abused by her parents, but don't quote me." Mrs. Greene smiled somewhat ruefully while Rosemary mouthed "wow" as if this was all new to her. She glanced at the screen before turning back to Caleb's mother. "So, how long did the community know about this? Were there any other events that lead up to the death?"

Caleb's mother looked quite uncomfortable now, and she too shot a furtive look at the camera as if hoping her son would save her. Still, she wasn't about to back out now, and she responded somewhat evasively, "No one really did anything about it. I think people didn't understand what was happening. Something like this never happened in a town like this, after all," she added on lamely. Her brow furrowed in thought, Rosemary nodded a few times before asking another question.

"Do you know Sofie's parents' names? Or perhaps other relatives? Maybe some friends, teachers?"

"We weren't very close to the family," Mrs. Greene said, "but she was in your grade. Perhaps she had your same grade school teacher?"

"Oh, that's a good point!" Rosemary encouraged her, willing for Mrs. Greene to continue. Instead the mother continued on hurriedly, "Yes, thank you. Now, I really need to get going. I didn't think the interview would take this long, but honestly I've got a ton of chores to do this afternoon and I can't get behind. Caleb, get home by nine," she tacked on, throwing her son an authoritative glare before disappearing off the screen.

As Mrs. Greene scurried away, Caleb put down his camera while Rosemary's smile slowly faded into a frown. "What was that all about?"

♣ ----♣---- ♣

Rosemary knocked confidently on the door frame of the classroom, announcing their presence before striding inside, assured that Ms. Seymour wouldn't mind. Ms. Seymour was probably the most mellow, easy going person Rosemary had ever met in this small town. She was always holed up in this classroom doing work, thinking up new ways to enrich the lives of the children she taught. Rosemary thought it was kind of unhealthy, since Ms. Seymour was pretty young for a teacher. When Rosemary was in second grade Ms. Seymour was probably just hitting thirty. Now, ten years later ... well, she wasn't getting any younger. But it wasn't Rosemary's place to tell her how to live her life, so aside from some teasing every once in a while Rosemary laid off.

The classroom was just like how she had remembered it, although the desks were shifted around a little and the world map had been moved to the back of the room. Rosemary thought that it'd have been nicer to keep it at the front. That way people would always be able to see it. But everything else seemed relatively the same. There was the dark navy patch that was faded but still visible in the carpeting where, before Rosemary's time, a student had exploded a blue ink pen that both burst in their mouth (they had a habit for chewing on pens, as Ms. Seymour told them) and spilled all over the floor. The bookshelf over there still had the same thick red dictionary, and Rosemary wondered if students had noticed the page she had accidentally ripped out in her year. She nearly bawled when she had. And that corner was where Rosemary knocked over Caleb's precarious building of blocks -- on purpose. It was her way of showing affection when she was eight. It was the first time they had ever interacted. Rosemary distinctly remembered she had a kid crush on him. Of course, that was before Danny Rush in middle school ...

"Rosemary!" Ms. Seymour exclaimed in both surprise and delight. She slipped off her reading glasses, her round cheeks raising into a smile. "And Caleb! What a nice surprise. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Ms. Seymour," Rosemary grinned, Ms. Seymour's contagious atmosphere impossible to resist. "We were doing a school history project. We were hoping you'd be willing to help?"

"A history project? You mean like a documentary?" Ms. Seymour tried to clarify, clearly spotting Caleb's weighty camera.

"Yes, something like that," Rosemary smiled. "Would you like to be part of it?"

"Why yes, of course!" Ms. Seymour said as if she were surprised Rosemary even had to ask. She pushed the stack of tests to the side and gave the pair of teenagers her undivided attention -- attention that was an adult to an adult. A colleague to a colleague. Not an adult to some child or unruly teenager. It was what Rosemary liked about Ms. Seymour.

"But are you sure that I'm your best choice?" she continued. "Wouldn't you history teacher be a better resource?"

One might've thought that Ms. Seymour was trying to get out of this silly little interview so she could get work done before her favorite soap opera came on television later, but Rosemary knew better. Ms. Seymour was genuinely wondering if she was up to the task at hand, really wanting the two of them to succeed. It was a rare trait that Rosemary admired and was envious of.

"No, it's fine," Rosemary assured her. "It's -- well, maybe we should start the interview. It should explain everything."

Frowning a little but trusting Rosemary's judgement, Ms. Seymour nodded once and took a deep, preparing breath. Rosemary smiled internally but kept her face politely indifferent. Sometimes Ms. Seymour reminded Rosemary of a nervous child. And yet she was motherly at the same time. Like a big sister, maybe.

"Ready, you two?" Caleb asked. Rosemary jolted herself out of her reverie and snatched a low seated chair made for an eight year old instead of an eighteen year old woman. Rosemary sunk low into the seat but tried to make herself seem as dignified as possible. Caleb didn't try to stifle his snort.

"In three, two," Caleb raised one finger to indicate the last second before Rosemary slapped on her picture perfect reporter face and announced, "Welcome back! We're here now with Ariana Seymour, a local second grade teacher. Ms. Seymour," Rosemary continued briskly, turning to her ex-teacher, "You've been in this town teaching for about ten years now, is that correct?"

"Yes, it is," Ms. Seymour affirmed, a small, faintly amused smile toying at her lips. "In fact, it's nearly exactly ten years. Once this year is over it'll be my tenth anniversary here."

"Great," Rosemary grinned in satisfaction. "Then would it be correct to assume that you taught Sofie Morgan?"

The smile didn't just slip off Ms. Seymour's face. It dropped. Rosemary, ever professional, kept her face pleasant, but her eyes were nervous and searching. Once or twice her eyes flickered to something above the screen, and a small lift in the image indicated that Caleb had shrugged, also apparently baffled.

And then the tears started. Rosemary couldn't hold her composure when a grown woman began to sob. Without warning, round drops tumbled down Ms. Seymour's plump cheeks and onto her beige skirt. Sniffling desperately, she looked around for some tissues. With some jostling of the camera Caleb helpfully handed her the box that was near him. She took it gratefully, mopping up her eyes and blowing her nose noisily. Rosemary didn't have the heart to try and press Ms. Seymour, so she waited awkwardly in the seat.

"I'm sorry," Ms. Seymour finally stuttered out. "It -- I -- could you please repeat the question?"

"Did you teach Sofie Morgan?" Rosemary repeated slowly and patiently. She wasn't sure how she should react to Ms. Seymour's sudden emotional outburst.

"Y-yes," Ms. Seymour affirmed around the fist holding a crumpled tissue. "I did teach her."

"Did you notice anything when you did?" Rosemary pressed gently. "Anything that indicated that something might be off about her?"

"... Yes there was," Ms. Seymour confirmed. "It was subtle at first. She just ... didn't talk with anyone. She didn't like speaking with any of the other kids. I remember she nearly cried when one of the boys accidentally knocked her over."

"And you started noticing other things?"

"That's right. It really happened when I went to touch her -- just a pat on the head, you know. She flinched away like I was going to hit her. I didn't understand it. I just assumed she was shy." Ms. Seymour paused as she and Rosemary thought about the implications for a moment.

"I guess now I know better."

"We all do. But what really tipped you off that she was being abused at home?"

"I was probably because ... well, after she didn't let me touch her, I started to notice things. Like one day it was nearly eighty or ninety degrees outside and everyone's wearing a t-shirt, but Sofie would be wearing long sleeve shirts and jeans. And on the few times I met her parents I noticed it was always the father that was speaking, not the mom. I didn't really like the air they gave off. But I figured it was none of my business, you know?"

A fresh wave of sobs bubble out of Ms. Seymour, and Rosemary flickered her gaze to the floor respectfully.

"When I heard," Ms. Seymour chocked, "I was so -- why didn't I do something? All of the facts were right there in front of me, and I -- I -- "

"It's not your fault," Rosemary assured her quietly. "It's no one's fault, really."

Rosemary watched as her ex-teacher silently cried into her palms. If it had been her, would Rosemary have done something? She'd liked to have thought she would've, but in that kind of situation ... it was hard to say. It was like the blemish on the picture-perfect town, the crime that everyone preferred to forget. And it seemed like no one but this one woman -- a teacher, a single woman -- was the only one that cared anymore.

Realizing that she had to turn to the camera and deliver some final words, Rosemary turned to Caleb and somberly looked at him through the lens, trying to find what she could say. In the end she decided it would be best if it was heartfelt and not the classic "professional" reporter voice.

"And that is the unfortunate history of Sofie Morgan, a child that was trapped in a situation that she could not escape from. A situation that people ignored. A situation that our town has chosen to forget." Rosemary paused as a fresh gurgle of sobs sounded from Ms. Seymour. Blinking furiously, Rosemary continued determinedly, "But we'll remember. We'll remember the eight year old girl who liked mint ice cream, the eight year old girl that possibly had the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard ... " Rosemary wasn't sure where these memories were flooding from, but she was glad that she could recall them: the good things about Sofie. The things that made her real. A person. Human.

"Never forget."

oml guys I'm such a jerk. I want to apologize to goldh13 for leaving this for so long. I -- one thing seemed to come up after the other and all of a sudden iMuse and stories took a back seat. I'm so, so sorry.
That being said, I'm still going to work on your second story. So stay tuned. xD Hopefully I can get that up faster than this one ;-;
But omg guys, this is possibly the most depressing song I've ever heard in my life. I only listened to it, like, five times before I was like "NOPE. DONE." I couldn't take it. It was way too sad. I only listened more than the one time so I could get a feel for it. Dear Lord.
I feel like the ending was kind of rushed. Do you guys feel that way? I was unsure of how I wanted to wrap it up [plus the fact that I would not let myself put this off any longer!]. If you guys have suggestions that would be awesome. I thought the entire concept of a small town where things always seemed to be close-knit and perfect having a secret that they wanted to just bury and forget would've been interesting. As I recall, there was a line in the song "Concrete Angel" that referenced that people had forgotten the abuse had occurred.
But yaaaaaaay that's my second request ever that's finished ... albeit like a month afterwards. oh, my Lord, I'm such a jerk.

Requested by Goldh31. Yeah, I totally suck. I'm so, so sorry. ><

[eden .]

Lol, thanks. And I'll get to that soon...I need to finish Goldh31 requests first. Work and my novel are killing me. X.X