#a car turned on it's headlights and accidentally light painted these shots but

[rabbitinthemeadow]

This hallowed stillness // Part 18

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Headlights Girl

Genre: Urban fantasy + wlw romance

Words: approx. 8k

Summary: The story of a girl with headlamps for eyes and the moth-girl she meets along the way.

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Most humans carry the night with them. Even during daylight hours, they can shut out the sun, turn off the light, recede into themselves and into that soft secret place behind their eyes.

Did you know certain animals don’t have eyelids? Gecko’s have nothing between them and the violent sun which wishes to cook the colors of their world. They have to use their tongue. Dust and sand and rain, can you imagine? I was obsessed with lizards as a kid.

I stacked up books on snakes and lizards and skinks. I traced the way that sand snakes crested across the dunes, sideways and wrong. I put glue on the pads of my hand and tried to climb the walls of my room— I didn’t even get one handhold up. I went to the zoo and peered into their cages, up on my tiptoes, trying not to smudge the glass or breath too hard. I tried make out their triangle heads and slow tongue-flicks, but they each shrank away deep into nooks and crannies of their cages. Most things do when I look at them.

Most humans carry the night with them, right there behind their eyelids is an entire world of darkness. I have something else inside me, not quite, not soft, not secret. They called me “headlights girl” in the newspapers.

There were even stranger kids born in the Age of Spirits. I checked. Every morning of fifth grade, I scanned the papers for mentions of “oddities” growing into anomalies.

A boy who could breath fire. A girl with leaves sprouting from her head. A kid with antennae that could taste the wind. There are stranger things than me in the age of beasts and magic. My father called it the “Epoch of Bastards,” sons and daughters of flickering fire elementals and wind ghosts who seduced half-asleep ladies from their beds.

He didn’t look at me much growing up. And I knew what he meant. I knew what he was getting at by calling it the Epoch of Bastards. Growing up, I played in my little puddle of carpet on the floor as he blustered in and out of rooms like gale force winds. He’d be looking for his keys or a left shoe or wallet since he was going out, out, out. I think I missed him at first, in the way you miss strangers you’ve never met.

Later, still on my puddle of carpet, still on my island, I would glare at him with that sour, acid taste in the back of my throat. Acrid, smoky, I would barely blink as he passed; he’d jump when he turned too quickly and accidentally fell into my path. Later still, I would begin to wish they were both like that—blustery and calling people names, gone more often than not.

It sometimes felt better than hearing my mom weep to herself on the couch. I wish she’d do it in her room or outside or anywhere else than that theatrical sobbing in the middle of the house, a naked heartbeat to the place. She spoke to her friends on the phone in that same watery voice, handkerchief in hand and sniffling, she spoke to them more than me.

What else am I supposed to do? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d wail, just a bit, and then find a new thing to wail over. They could barely afford to send me to That School. They could barely afford the special doctor’s appointments for my eyes. They barely knew what to do with me.

Sometimes, I wanted to shout right back: It’s not like I didn’t want to be here either!

But she wasn’t talking to me. 

School wasn’t much better. We weren’t the same, not really. None of us were the same age or had the same affliction. Plus, most everyone else stayed in dorms where they bonded with secrets and whispers and hiding from matrons. It wasn’t the same.

They called me The Lighthouse and Car Face and Nightlight. Sometimes they’d give me a few bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face. I did it. They’d laugh and reassure me I was as ugly as you’d think. Or beautiful. Or perfectly average-looking or I had a pig-nose or unibrow. I’d never seen anything but the blinding light of my own eyes in the mirror so I could never contradict them.

A boy with antlers handed me a twenty for a kiss in the 6th grade. I closed my eyes for that too. It was chapped and dry and he ran away with a screaming laugh afterward. There are stranger kids than me, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so much stranger than the rest of them?

I was 16 when I heel-toed my way down the stairs toward the front door. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder stuffed with loose clothes, change, a bath towel, three books with broken spines, all the tampons in the house, and a Swiss-army knife.

I hoped to stuff as many cheddar-cheese sandwiches in my sack as possible before the midnight bus came, but he was at the kitchen table. I don’t think either of us expected it, like running into your teacher at the mart and you’re both buying the same brand of toilet cleaner. There was a beer in front of his idle hands and he still wore his rumpled work shirt. He glanced at the bag on my shoulder for a long minute.

Finally, he sighed like I cut him off in traffic.

“Gimme a moment.”

My father leafed through a wad of cash he kept in a safe. He handed me almost three hundred bucks and we nodded at each other. At the time, I thought there was a kind of satisfaction to that nod, an endnote.

I was out the door before the midnight bus arrived.

Only three people were at the terminal. None of them looked at me with my pack and my knife stuffed in one hand and my eyes glowing. They did look at the glow, but not for long.

Remote and empty like maybe the world had ended and the last bits of if were nothing but strangers not making eye contact.

Finally, I watched the headlights of the midnight bus approach through dense summer night. I was struck by the thought that it was like looking at like, the glow of my eyes against its eyes. Can a bus be your father? Can your father be a man after all this time? Will your mother come looking for you?

I got on the bus and kicked my feet up against the seat in front of me. Scrunched into a ball, crossed my arms over my chest, and watched the trees turn into flickering bodies of shadow with each passing mile. ------------- My feet moved like tides. They tossed me against nameless city streets and toward empty forested slices of land. I stumbled into the painted deserts toward the west. I dipped my toes into the neon districts of the east with lights brighter than my own. I slept on benches and in kid’s treehouses and hunched my shoulders against brick walls of back alleys.

No one touched me. Maybe they’d approach now and then, but I’d open my eyes and they’d see nothing but heaven or devils or an absent lightning-God father that would smite them. I was the daughter of spirits after all.

I found my way to the ocean; beaches where other stragglers gathered and it was easy to stretch out on empty pieces of warm sand. I didn’t talk much by then, I didn’t like to; people stared whether I was speaking or screaming and clamping down on my jaw so hard it ached. Sometimes I get yelled at: Turn that off! No phone lights in here. You’re blinding me, bitch!

I’d never seen a movie in any theatres, but I could imagine what it’s like.

It was crowded, but I liked that ocean city, despite myself. It had pale buildings built into cliffs, narrow winding sidewalks where cars couldn’t fit, reckless bikers, and crushed seashell parking lots. I liked the tang of salt in the air and the way my hair crinkled from the ocean water as it sun-dried. I camp out on beaches and bummed cigarettes and hotdogs off strangers. I was good at taking care of myself once I got into a rhythm.

I had a tent by then and even an enormous sun umbrella to keep any prying eyes away. I still liked to sleep under the stars most nights though.

I often dreamed of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I dreamed of descending on pointed ballerina-feet to the silted black bottom. I’d be weighted down through the cold and the silence to where no human being had ever been. I’d open my eyes there, open them all the way, lightning-bright, and unflinching. In my dreams, the salt didn’t even sting. I lit up the world, the whole untouched world of whales and fish and terror and maybe I’d do something good then. Maybe I’d do something good and bring the sun to places that had forgotten it. 

I hated those dreams.

I met Mags on the beach after one of those dreams. Mags had one eye and twelve teeth and carried around nothing but string and scissors everywhere. She smelled like seawater and burning kelp, dank and crusted over. Her clothes were neat despite her leather-cracked skin and arms and neck covered in tattoos of shipwrecks. We ran into each other at some bum gathering and she cackled and pulled me aside.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was old creaking wood. I didn’t answer. “I could give you one.” She offered with a grin that was more empty space than anything.

“Nana.” I gritted out. “You want something?”

“Not sure. What do you want, kid?”

I glared openly, my beam of light slanting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come here.”

I didn’t know why I was chosen.

Mags liked me more than I deserved. I pocketed her last pair of socks when she wasn’t looking. She never mentioned it and dragged me down to the community showers to get clean with soap and shampoo. She took me to the soup and salad restaurant for something that wasn’t burnt or freeze-dried or from a convenience store. She cackled, she spat when she talked, people shot her looks as well.

I thought she was normal, not touched by the spirits, but she liked me more than most people and I didn’t know why.

“You like art, kid?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Why not? You broken?” Yeah. Probably.

“How am I supposed to know?” I snapped back.

“Lippy squirt. Come on, I’ll show you something worth your forked tongue.”

She heated the needle before she used it, red hot and untouchable. She dipped it into deep black inks, only black and sometimes red, she called them the only colors that matter. She shows me how to prick the skin and clean it. She showed me how to slowly, painstakingly etch images. I wasn’t sure I liked it, there was something so permanent and intentional about the act.

I watched her lessons though: stick and poke to her right foot, all over those fine little bones that must hurt, in and out, a little bloody.

It took her six hours to make a tiny shipwreck right above her big toe. It was a narrow schooner going under and I was the only witness. She made the waves come to life and crash against its sides and sometimes I forgot to blink. She didn’t seem to mind.

She washed another needle. She heated it red-hot. She dipped it in ink and handed it to me.

I still wasn’t sure I liked the permanence of it, but I told myself I was bored and it was something to do. I decided quickly I did like the bite of it, I liked the focus it took, and the ability to pull something from nothing.

I practiced all over my thighs first, there was enough meat there and it was easy enough to reach: a lizard design that looked like nothing but squiggles, a TV set playing static, a tiny smudged skink with its tongue out. I practiced designs in the sand and then on paper when Mags splurged on pen and paper.

Mags took me to the museum on Sundays. They were always free on Sundays.

Something stirred in my chest, even as the guards yelled at us about how flash photography wasn’t allowed in the museum. Even as I was shooed out of exhibits for ruining the paint. Still, an ache so old it rotted roared to life in my chest.

I stabbed in and out, gentle, a collection of stars right above my right knee. A winding sand snake on my wrist, and then finally, something good, something that gave people pause and reason to stare. I made it in the mirror: a ghost on my collarbone. Shadowed and intricate and yet simple, I put a ghost right above my collarbone and it bleeds more than any of the others.

That was a good year or so; one of the best I could remember.

I didn’t want to leave the ocean city though and Mags said she had to keep moving. She had places to be. She gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're a gem, kid. You’ll knock ‘em all to the pavement.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’ll be back?”

She cackled. “Wouldn’t miss it. You know me.” She winked as she turns to the bus, my second father. “You think I’ll miss your great becoming, kid? I’ll be back.”

I wanted to make her pinky-promise like I was a kid again begging one of the others to tell me if I’m beautiful when I close my eyes. I couldn’t do that; I waved as she tottered up the steps of the bus and was taken away with the tides of her own feet.

A had a moment of thinking it was the end then; I was ready to get back to my real normal. I was ready to disappear again. But even shipwrecks with no witnesses leave things left to be found.

------------ I got an apprenticeship. Technically, Mags talked them into it and I just followed up when I had nothing better to do.

I didn’t think I’d like it much, but couch surfing and camping out was the pastime of the especially young. And I’d lost my giant umbrella.

It was a small shop that smelled like bleach and dried flowers. A tattoo parlor in one of the steep arts districts neighbored by food trucks and beaded necklace shops.

Penguin Davies and Bitch-Annie ran it together. Davies walked like he’d never encountered land before, and Bitch-Annie had a throw-pillow embroidered with “If you don’t have anything nice to say then come sit next to me.”

Davies was covered in nothing but birds and dizzying M. C. Escher house-designs up and down his chest and arms. Bitch-Annie had topless mermaids and pinup girls across her shoulders and legs. She’d been asked to leave a number of stores before the children started staring or thinking thoughts.

Neither of them had ever met someone like me. It was not that type of town. I rankled at most their questions, a cat meeting a steel brush. Where are you from? What’s your family name? What kind of school did you go to? Is your sight better than other people you think?

I brushed off anything more personal than my favorite type of soda. Bitch-Annie called me “Shadow” probably as a joke, probably. Davies said I must be possessed by the ghost of some dead star: a blackhole that takes everything in and lets nothing out.

Neither of them let me touch a needle in those first six months. They had me practice on pig skin and trace designs and stand by their shoulders as they worked. I felt like a dental assistant except I was the hanging light shining into open mouths instead of anything with a pulse. I stood at their shoulder as they drew thick lines and thin dots and made hearts and wolves and names of dead lovers come to life.

They asked me to stand still and stop wiggling the light. I almost walked out several to find a new cliff to crash against, almost. 

No one had ever expected anything of me before. They never expected me to show up somewhere or do something well. No one really cared if I went to school or if I did my homework, if I dressed well or went to bed on time. And no one kept any tabs on me at all after I took that first bus. That’s how I liked it.

I should’ve left, tattooing didn’t mean anything to me, not really. But Bitch-Annie stomped up to my attic-apartment one morning and threw pants at me.

“Get up, Shadow,” she barked. She was sterner than Mags, no hint of humor in her eyes. “I told you 9am so I expect 9am.”

“The fuck!?” I was eloquent in the mornings.

“Pants, shirt, shoes, and bra if you don’t want that desk idiot staring at something other than your eyes all day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a root canal. Mags swore up and down about what you. Let’s see some of that, up, up!”

I grumbled. I put on everything but the bra. No one ever expected me to be anywhere before and 9am shouldn’t have even been a concept much less a real thing. I told myself I hated it. I’d leave the next week. Or maybe the week after that or in just one more month. I kept a bus ticket under my pillow but every time the date arrived I shrugged and made myself busy.

There’d be no harm in having a savings too and seeing what all the fuss was about with having a dishwasher and a kitchen.

I wasn’t an artist of course. I didn’t understand what everyone else was seeing when they looked at the “old masters” paintings of water or war or lovers pulled apart. I didn’t feel anything in front of stain-glass windows in churches or mosaics on walls. Maybe there really was something wrong with me, my eyes. I didn’t let up though. I put on pants for it after all.

Penguin Davies hovered by my shoulder when I made my first real design.

“Mm.” He rumbled deep in his chest. He’d gone grey at an early age, had tired eyes and quick hands. The desk kid said he’d been in medical school once, a surgeon. It was hard to tell. Davies muttered a lot, stared off into space too much, and laughed like it was always a painful surprise

“Perfectionist,” he muttered at me as I start over on a crappy unicorn design. “That line was barely off. You’re being a perfectionist, Nana.”

I scowled over my shoulder and let the full weight of my light hit him across the face. “Got a problem with it?” I challenged. He chuckled darkly. His grin was crooked like a broken door handle. I tried to hide my work from him with my shoulder. “It’s not done yet.”

“It’s late.” The rest of the street was dark. I knew that.

“I said I’m not done yet! You can go home.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his grey beard.

“What?”

“Look at you. You know who makes the best artists, Nana?” He was always a bit of a philosopher. Maybe he used to study that before medicine.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. I’m working on it.”

He gave my shoulder a light push. “The ones that don’t quit.”

They let me touch a needle gun after that. I told myself I’d only sign my new apartment lease as an experiment. I didn’t have to actually stay. I’d just run from the ink on paper and hope no one chased after girls with eyes that glow.

I didn’t break my lease. I drew suns and moons, trees and fireflies, hunks in speedos on tipsy college girls who swore they were sober and erotic vampires on the chests of men getting their first divorce. I had to give two refunds for a duck that turned out lopsided and a tattoo of someone’s dog which I swore really was that ugly to begin with.

There was one at the end of that next year though, another college girl with perfectly white piano-key teeth. She asked for a stick and poke, that was what I was best at anyway, she asked for a butterfly. Butterflies were easy, I could do the little ones in my sleep. She wanted one all across her back, she said I could make it look however I wanted. So I did. Wings like fringed shawls and straight heavy lines combined with wispy swirling ones. It was dark, black ink with red highlights and gray shadows under each wing to give it movement and flight.

I hid my smile when I finished and showed her the results in the mirror. She went to my bosses and jumped up and down. She pointed and babbled, ohmyspirits, the best thing I’ve ever seen! Fuck. I should pay you double! Where did you get this girl? 

I held myself perfectly still and studied the ceiling until my eyes dried out.

I took the long way home that night. I stopped once, at the corner where the midnight bus arrived, and watched the the passengers trudge off. I didn’t expect to see Mags again so soon, not really, but sometimes I wanted to show her: Hey, maybe your work wasn’t all wasted. Maybe I did start to become.

---------------- “I’m getting you chocolate.” Annie spat, her thick arms flexing as she cleaned off the spotless counter. “I’m getting you fucking chocolate, Shadow, ‘less you tell me what flavor you actually like.”

I hung at the back of the shop next to the narrow window that faced the road. I let the sun warm my face in thick strips and watched the bicycles pass. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Tell us what your actual birthday is then, you sugar-toasted tart.”

I shrugged. “Not today.”

“Well happy fucking birthday. You’re turning two. You came to work for us two years ago today, washed up from the beach like a deranged feral cat, so this is your birthday now.”

I rolled my eyes which served to look like a flashlight given a shake. Annie spent another minute splashing disinfectant on anything that might have had even a passing conversation with a germ.

“You talk to Birdie?” She asked, but mischievously this time. I responded by setting my mouth in a hard line. “You’re turning twenty-something and you’re not even talking to Birdie, are ya?”

“I’m not telling you what I’m turning. It’s still not my birthday.” I dodged inelegantly.

“Birdie will give you a proper go-around. Even shadows like you must need a little rub now and then.”

“Go dunk your head, Annie.” I huffed.

“Afraid you’ll blind her in bed?”

I turned with a snarl. “I’ll start with you.”

“I’ve seen you flipping through those poetry books, every word about hands or mouths or rosebuds.” She gave me flat a once-over. “You’ve got a sweet tooth in you.”

I dragged myself over to the desk to snarl at her some more, but Annie was already putting her hand up and going toward the backroom.

“I’m getting you a chocolate cake either way.”

There must have been a proper way to get her to never look at my little leather poetry books again, the ones with watermarked pages, the spines broken-in, and words that oozed. No one had to know that I could read, much less that I read that.

The door dinged instead.

“Excuse me.” She walked in. Her. “Is someone, um, named Nana here?” I turned before I could stop myself. That was still my name. And it was still my work.

Twenty-something, curtains of straight black hair falling in her face, pinched nose, thin energetic lips, shorts that gave way to milk-dipped legs that never seemed to end. A slight girl in a university t-shirt. College kids came in often during their breaks, but this one was a bit different. My eyes dragged up and fish-hooked there.

Feathered tendrils sprouted from her head and reached toward the ceiling. Long and searching, a pearly green color that reminded you of leaves or plumage.

I knew within a moment where I’d heard of this: Antennae Girl. The newspapers ran our stories close together along with the boy that breathed fire and the girl with roots growing from her head. We were all born in the same year during the epoch of monsters and bastards.

I think she recognized me too.

We stopped like heartbeats seizing up before the ambulance could make it. A confused, unnatural silence. I glanced at the door and considered making a run for it.

She cleared her throat first.

“Someone said that Misty’s butterfly tattoo came from here?” She blinked once and I noticed how her feathered antennae seemed to twitch. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t blind her. She took a step forward. “So are you . . . Nana?”

The door was right there.

“What do you want?” I had been spending too much time with Bitch-Annie.

“A tattoo?”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then why are you here?” I grunted. Footsteps came in from the back room. I was examining the smudged off-white tiles of the floor one by one.

“I wanted to . . . hey, you can look up if you want.” She said, curiously, softly. I didn’t look up. “I’m still figuring out the design.” She trudged on ahead.

“Fine.” I pivoted away. “But we’re busy. Come back later.”

A hand slapped across my shoulder. “This is Nana.” Annie stopped me from leaving. “Don’t let her eyes fool ya, it’s her personality that’s actually the problem. You saw her butterfly you said?”

“Yes!” She gushed. “It was gorgeous.”

“It was fine,” I corrected.

“It’s her birthday today.” Annie shared because she could and because she was a failed evil villain still trying to get her kicks in.

“Oh cool, happy Birthday.” A deep pause followed that could fill oceans. “You can look up. I don’t mind.” She repeated.

I opened my eyes wide and lifted my chin in one jerky motion. A beam of fluorescent headlights hit her across the face. “Is this what you want?” Venom dripped from my lips. This was why I tried not to talk too much.

The young woman squinted for a moment before covering her eyes and nodding. “I read about you,” she stated as if it was nothing. “I’m turning twenty-two this year . . . so I guess, you are too?”

“What?!” Delight filled Annie’s entire expression. “Hot damn! Twenty-two?” I groaned deeply. “Hey, you, girlie,” she addressed antennae-girl, “you want to come out for drinks tonight?”

I tried to protest as quickly as possible, but somehow didn’t summon the words quickly enough.

“Sure.” She agreed. ----------------------

The night was humid and clung to us like a second skin. I wandered through the hilly streets with Penguin Davies wobbling beside me. The desk kid—Daft Jeff, said Davies had some inner-ear problem that made it hard for him to keep his balance. Annie said he just didn’t belong on land— he couldn’t walk straight unless something was tilting and rolling under his feet.

Davies made his way up the hill, faltering and missing the musical beats of it. He refused to let me steady him and I refused to have him sing to me. It was apparently my birthday.

“Someone saw your design.” He noted on the downhill.

“Yeah. Some college girl.” I grumbled.

“What’d you think?” He asked in his usual mysterious way.

“She just wants a good look.” I returned in a neutral tone. “She read about me in the paper. All she wants to do is look.”

“She saw your design.” He paused. “And Jeff said she was like you.”

I blinked hard so the path ahead was eaten by shadow and Davies stumbled. “Not all of us have to be friends . . .” I said sourly and didn’t fill in the rest. “I’ve met kids with antlers and frog-hands before. I doesn’t mean anything.”

“Any of them come visit?”

“They’re smart enough not to.” I snark. “But the ones who manage to be pretty don’t have the brains to stay away.”

“Mm.” He made a soft sound. “What kind of tattoo do you think she’ll get?”

“How should I know? A heart or anchor or something dumb like that.” I walked on ahead. “Maybe I’ll give her a quote from some dead poet.”

“You like poetry.”

I huff dramatically, “Not what I mean. Girls like her don’t like my type of poetry, you know I’m saying.”

“What kind of girls?” Davies was patient. I hated that about him.

I stopped at the corner to let him catch up. “Don’t play dumb. Hot ones, college ones, getting a degree in money or music. They don’t watch over their shoulders enough or know when to stay away.” I scuffed my shoe on the ground. “Whatever.”

Davies was still thinking. I considered pushing him over. He finally spoke up again as we approach the bar, “That sea witch ever show up again?”

“Mags?” I snorted. “No. Why?”

“Cause I’m sure she’d like to see this.”

I didn’t say anything else as we reached the doorway. -------------------- The bar was loud. More people than I liked came to my “party.” I should have seen it coming. If the cliff city liked one thing it was an excuse to drink.

I crammed myself up against the bar and ordered a gin and tonic before the rest of the night crowd could arrive. Birdy was holding court at a corner table and waving at me. “There she is! Someone put a blanket over Nana, lights out, party up!”

Her puns usually left something to be desired. She sang “Blinded by the Light” every time she saw me for half a year.

I drank half my gin and tonic in the first gulp as a new stream of townies burst in. They arrived to buy me birthday beers and shout their opinions on the shitty new chain restaurant on 3rd street. I was almost tasting the bottom of my second glass when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I barely looked over.

The girl with sheets of black hair and a practiced-appearance stood before me—like she was at dress rehearsal and expected everyone else to know the lines as well. She carried a baby-blue bike helmet in one hand, and I noted there were two hand-drilled holes in the top.

“You.” I was tempted to shake her hand like I might make this a transactional hello and goodbye in short order.

“Hey.” She smiled, hesitant, like maybe the food on the fork might be too hot. “Nana, right?”

“Yep.” I sighed the word real long and heavy. “Listen, I really can’t give you a tattoo if you don’t know what you want.”

“No, no, I get it. But I want you to know . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

“Uh, okay. Though I’m pretty hard to miss over here.” I was looking at the dirty wine bottles stacked near the ceiling. Her antennae hang over both of us like fern fronds.

“No. I mean, when I saw the butterfly. That’s when I wanted to come here. Not after.”

“After what?” I was gonna make her say it.

“After I found that it was, well, you know, Headlights Girl.”

“Mm.” I was spending too much time with Davies. “You want something to drink?”

She sighed as well, real long and heavy. “Sure.” She took the seat next to me. “I’m Park by the way.”

“Park.” I rolled the name around in my mouth. “And you already know me.”

“I don’t think I do.” She laughed, sharp and bristly like something you can get cut on. “And I’ll have a beer. . . but only once you look up. Come on, I’m not like that.” I looked up. Her face was bright, round like the moon, her grin was sneaky and unearned. “There we go.”

She waved over the bartender Kipp and ordered her dark beer.

“It’s not really my birthday.” I informed her, dumbly. Every word felt dumb and clumsy all at once.

“Why not?” She was teasing. I knew that.

“That’s not how birthdays work.” I informed and wished I could backtrack into hostility again.

“Oh darn,” she winked. “And here I was about to make it my birthday too.”

“Uh, well,” I really should have left when I had the chance. “It’s not too late?”

“That’s the spirit!” She laughed, fuller this time and rounded. I looked her straight in the face and then quickly looked away again. Her grin was aimed at me, somehow, and seemed to reach high cupboards inside me you usually needed a stool for.

“Park,” I repeated the name and shifted in place. “So did you go to Haveryards or Simmons?” There were only two schools in the country for spirit bastards like us. Haveryards was close enough for me to get bussed to—an hour one way and then an hour home.

“Neither. I went to public and then Bakerville Uni.” She rapped on the counter. “Hey, you want another gin and tonic? Or I’ll mix you up something.” Her eyes flickered over everything. “I bartended my way through college so I can make a mean margarita.”

“Oh, Bakerville U., yeah. That ones close.” I stuttered a bit. She was leaning across the counter and trying to get Kipp’s attention a second time. My words were feeling dumber and dumber by the moment, perhaps losing all shape and meaning altogether. “That’s where you went?”

“How’d you guess?” She said playfully and pointed to her t-shirt. She finally got the bartender over. “Right, you want something hard? Vodka maybe? A mule?”

I scratched my chin. “ . . . I don’t care. I’m easy.”

She rolled her eyes and I knew she must feel me staring. “I can’t imagine shopping for you for today then.” She snickered and climbed over the counter. “Happy birthday, how about one chocolate mule for a free tattoo?”

“You wish.” I made a face. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“And you do?” She was still grinning, somehow. “I’ve decided I’m making you the equivalent of all the soda flavors mixed together at once. Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes and I tried to turn off my thoughts. It was bright as knives inside my skull; I carry the daytime with me. Panic threatened to rise up (for no reason of course), but a soft hand brushed against mine, soft like sheets in fancy hotels and flower petals. I peaked and Park slid a full murky glass toward me.

“Drink up.”

It was sweet. It wasn’t even my birthday. I didn’t care. She called it a chocolate-mule-Park Special and maybe chocolate really was my favorite flavor. -------------- Park started coming around. She rode a sky-blue bike with a white basket and rusting hinges. I couldn’t imagine doing all the hills in the city without any gears, but she managed. She said she was figuring things out after graduating. She said she liked it here.

I grumbled when she came by. I complained like Annie when Wicker the cat visited: Get that thing away from me. I hate that. Smells awful. I’ve got allergies. Put that away, it’ll kill me.

I never said anything when Annie left fish heads out and bowls of milk of course.

Park smelled like sunscreen and breath mints. She had strong opinions on everything from street paving techniques to which sun hats went with which dresses. She invited me on walks. She invited me to help her change a flat tire. She invited me to the corner shop to help her pick out bottle can openers.

I said no. Sometimes I said no. I started to say yes.

“Look at this,” she liked to show me things. She liked to show me pictures of squirrels on her phone and weird pieces of glass she found. She liked to point out new restaurants (that I’d already been to) and play videos of funny traffic jams.

This time she held up a seashell. It was rounded and flat with a swirl in the center.

“I’m looking.” I said carefully.

“Watch how it catches light.” I shun my eyes on it and she moved it back and forth. There were bits of silver veins caught in the cracks of it.

“There’s tons of those.” At this point, I had valiantly refused to be impressed by even her cutest squirrel pictures.

“Ugh.” She pouted. “Are you kidding? I spent all morning looking for this.”

“They're right by the surf. I could find you five bigger ones than this before sunset.”

“Alright, hot-shot.” She jut her chin out and jabbed my shoulder. “Prove it.”

I said yes to that one. I left right after my shift ended with the sun setting in the waters like a stabbed orange bleeding out. I met Park by the parking lot with drooping palms trees lining the sides and lost flipflops everywhere.

“This is where you went wrong.” I announced. I couldn’t help it. “This is the tourist beach. You have to go somewhere real.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve already established you’re the hot-shot here. Lead the way.”

She followed me. I ignored how she lingered by my side. I ignored how her hand wrapped around my arm as she stopped us to look at a tiny horseshoe crab. Her hand was soft, like velvet, soft enough to smother something in my chest.

I found two seashells with streaks of silver and rainbow through them, both bigger than my palm. The sun was a flat line on the horizon before I could find a third and Park hooted.

“You said before sunset! It’s sunset, baby, pay up.” She called. “And you were so sure you were a better seashell hunter than me.” She tsked.

I scanned the ground more quickly. “It’s barely nighttime.” I pointed to the sky. “And I can keep looking. I have the built-in equipment for it.”

“Oh I know.” She planted herself on the soggy crusted sand and sat down in a heap. “But can you find why kids love the taste of not doing that? Take it easy. Take a seat.”

“So pushy.”

“You know me.” It was fond. It had only been a few months, but there was something fond there.

I ran a hand through my short choppy curls. “Fine.” I sat next to her, not too close. “It’s your loss.” We both looked out at the gently lapping waves, foaming and anemic. She let a long breath of air and for a moment I considered brushing her hair back. It was always in her face.

It was a quiet moment, bottled, and pitching toward something. Like the the moment where you miss a step on the stairs and the certainty of the fall was right there.

I was the one that scooted a little closer.

“I’m considering getting a storm cloud,” she commented off-handedly. “Can you do storm clouds?”

I made a sound of consideration. “Sure.” I glanced toward the opposite corner of the night sky. “I think I’ve seen one of those before. Big puffy wet things?”

“Kinda fluffy? You’re getting there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I’m smiling, which is alright since there’s no way she could see it. She’s silent for another moment longer.

“Or would you make fun of me if I got something like a butterfly? Like your other one.”

“A storm cloud butterfly?”

“No. The cloud would it’s own thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, ragged and chapped. “I mean, I’ve been doodling some ideas. And tattoos should be personal, right? So I thought a storm cloud might be fitting. Kids used to pay me a couple dollars to predict the weather. It could be a memorial to childhood entrepreneurial spirit.”

I watched her speak and something beat inside my chest like a second animal. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel velvet again.

“Why?” I rasped after a moment.

“Uh, why did they pay me? It’s just something I can do. Whenever it's going to rain or storm or be sunny out. I dunno, I don’t know why the rest of you can’t sense it.”

“And you didn’t become a meteorologist?” I smiled a bit bitterly.

She made an indignant noise. “And you didn’t become a professional lighthouse?”

I choked on a laugh. “Not yet.” A quiet consumed us from both sides, I made sure my light didn’t crash into her. I made sure to look at anything but her. She’d have to squint if I did and cover her eyes and I’d be there, ready to run her over.

“Kids in my class paid me too.” I barely realized I started speaking. “They slipped me a couple bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face.”

“You got money for that?”

“There wasn’t always much to do. Teachers were quitting all the time and sometimes it was just the TV. I dunno, they paid me. Then they’d giggle and run away afterward.” My voice sounded automated like the announcer at an airport, informing travelers their flight was canceled. “They always said I had a pig nose or a unibrow or looked like the lead singer of that Minx girl band-- super hot, but you know, it didn’t matter.” The laugh that escaped was high, girlish in a grotesque way. “Since, you know, no one would ever see it.”

“Kids are fucked up.” Park contributed simply.

“Adults are too.” I sniffed. “Everyone wants a light show.”

“Oh.” She said slowly. “Is it . . . is it bad I wanted to meet you then? I mean, I wanted to see the art first, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor.”

“No.” I said quickly. I lit up my own lap and empty hands. “Does it matter?”

“I never went to those schools,” she said hesitantly. “My parents fought them, said the schools were unfit. They shouldn’t be able to force us there. And that I wasn’t even dangerous since,” she gestured helplessly upward, “I just have these. So then, well, I never really met anyone else like me.”

“I mean, everyone’s different. It’s not . . . a big deal.”

“You’d think so,” she commented sardonically.

I folded up into myself like a complex origami piece. “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish I was dangerous. Actually dangerous.”

She giggled. “Didn’t you just say everyone’s different? I’d say everyone’s dangerous too. Just gotta find the niche.”

“Oh yeah,” I dared to turn toward her. “What’s yours then?”

“My danger niche? Hmm.” She was leaning now, pitching forward like a wave come to drown me. “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve I’ll admit.”

“You have a pair of wings hidden away?” I stopped breathing as her hand lifted up, strange and all at once. I wasn’t ready.

“Here.” Her skin was against mine. She cupped my cheek with one velvet-hand. It was heated cashmere, tiny feather-light hairs on her palm. “Feelers.” She whispered with a hesitancy there.

“Ah,” I was indulgent. I closed my eyes. I leaned in. “And you want to put a needle over these?” I put my hand over hers, loosely, so she could pull away if she wanted to. Tiny hairs pulsed there with some kind of life all their own. 

“I wanted . . .” She paused and I peaked open my eyes. I could see every detail of her face, illuminated. “I dunno.” She finished. “I guess I just wanted whatever I saw there, before.”

“In the butterfly?”

“In the butterfly.” I turned toward the ocean, but my hand remained over hers. “I’m not sure how good it will be a second time. It’s not like I’m really an artist. . .”

“What did you want to be?” Soft.

“Who knows. I mean, I’m glad my parents didn’t try to fight the schools. Being there during the day was better than being home, listening to my mom crying all the time and my father exploding . . . They wouldn’t have wanted me home.”

Before the sunset, when I was walking over, I thought maybe we’d kiss that night. I thought I’d feel that first electric pulse and maybe we’d climb into the ocean and swim in circles, laugh until the moon rose. I thought maybe I’d get something out of my system and there wouldn’t be anything left to say or do.

I’d kiss Park, once, and she’d be satisfied. She’d understand. She’d go on her college path and I’d go on on mine.

But the words spilled out, unbidden. Park stayed in place, steady and unflinching. That made it worse, so much worse.

“My parents weren’t like yours.” There was an accusatory edge to it. Don’t you know? I wanted to shout. Don’t you know? Even without the eyes or the school bills or the bus.

“Hey,” she cradled my cheeks with both hands now and smeared the tears away from one eye. “Hey, listen, I know. Alright? I know.”

I scowled back at her feathered little feelers.

“It’s not about the damn antenna or head beams or anything else.” I tried to pull away. “Even the kid with the antler’s kissed me and I didn’t stop him. I ran away from home and my mom never came looking. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! You wouldn’t even get it. You wouldn’t get it!” I squeeze my eyes closed. “You were wanted.”

Slowly, like an awkward animal burrowing into soft earth, she pressed her forehead to the crook of my neck. I could feel us both breathing in, strong and steady. She was lean and silky, and I swore I can feel her heartbeat hammering through my throat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. I inhaled her sunscreen scent. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know. But I could.”

“Why are you here?” It was miserable and wet, I hated that my eyes were so different and yet still the same. Could still spill over like theirs. She took a long breath but didn’t move away.

“My last girlfriend broke up with me for being . . . sensitive and I thought maybe if I got a tattoo, I’d stop feeling so much. I’d prove something. I’d feel everything less, you know? It would hurt and then it wouldn’t.”

I took that in a parsec at time. “Are you,” I sniffed. “Are you alright?” Her legs and arms were plastered over mine. “You’re so soft, but, but I don’t want to,” I wipe at my face like it didn’t matter. “Hurt you.”

“I know.” Her face was still pressed to my neck and her lips fluttered across the hallow of my skin. “I didn’t want to hurt you either.”

A stillness settled into my bones. I glanced toward the moon, and it was like looking at like, a terrible moon to another moon. I gathered myself. I took a deep breath. I flattened.

“I shouldn’t have said all that.” My voice had dried up. “We led different lives.” It wasn’t her fault if she was wanted.

“No.”

“I wasn’t thinking . . .”

Her hand wrapped around my wrist. “I talk to Annie sometimes when you aren’t there.”

“Okay?”

“And Davies. And that front desk guy.”

“Daft Jeff. Yes.”

“They all say the same thing . . .” I blinked a couple times. “That I really should wait for you to give me the tattoo. You have a steady hand and an eye for detail.”

“Alright . . .”

“That someone taught you tattooing the right way. They wanted to show you the right way to do it.”

I snorted despite myself. “It’s not that hard. Mags was batty. Who knows why she showed me how to pick up a needle.”

“Don’t you see? They say they wouldn’t know what to do without you.” She was still there. She wasn’t moving, almost in my lap now. “You were wanted.”

“Park?” My voice cracked like a question.

“And you come with me to restaurants and help me buy bottle openers. You find shells for me and help me fix tires.” Her breath was hot and dragged across my cheek. “You are wanted.”

I blocked out her face, her voice, I turned on the sharp white sun inside and for a moment I imagine never opening my eyes back up again. Maybe I could make it night forever inside myself as well. Wouldn’t you rather have something quiet inside?

She wrapped herself around me, fully, one long arm at a time until it was cocoon. Soft. “Listen, sometimes the first people aren’t the right people. Sometimes your first relationship isn’t the right relationship. Sometimes you’re sure the world is one way, and like, always one way . . . and then it rains and the whole world is different again. You know? People pass.”

“My parents aren’t the weather.”

“But they’ll pass.” I should have pushed her off. But even against that, even those words— I liked being held, indulgent as chocolate and twice as guilty. “People sometimes feel forever, especially those kinds of people.” I was off again. “But it rains. And hey, I always know when it’s going to rain.”

I hiccupped; a smile found its way uninvited onto my face, unsure and just wobbly on its feet as Davies. I glanced down after a deep breath. Park grinned back at me and it reached the highest shelves of me all over again.

“So what happens when it rains again? Do you people like you pass?”

“Nah, not me. I don’t know how.” She winked. I didn’t notice that we’re lying flat now, stars and carpet of black above. “You can’t get rid of me. You haven’t given me that tattoo yet.”

The sound of shushing waves filled the midnight air and the moon looked down like that very first bus arriving to get me all those years ago. I wrapped my arms right back around her. She didn’t seem to mind that I was sticky or strange or sometimes kept tearing up all over again even after we’d stop saying anything worth tearing up over. ------------------

It happened. I felt like I should have been more prepared, brought flowers or poetry or earned it through honored warfare. But it happened. I was wearing ripped jeans, a spotty t-shirt and my breath smelled like coffee. We were looking for Park’s lost earring along an overgrown hill she usually biked along.

I found it, one shiny red dewdrop in all that green. Park pointed at some clouds that looked like my last “abstract” tattoo. We lay back in the grass and let the sky pass overhead. She giggled and touched my wrist, side by side. I let her.

“Summer’s almost over.” I mumbled it first.

“Yeah?”

“You find your next step then, college girl?” I tried to keep my tone light. She turned to be on her side.

“Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“That does not sound like a college-girl plan.”

“Maybe I’ve got other plans. Maybe I’ve got other priorities, huh?”

“Ridiculous.” A playfully push her shoulder. “A lousy seaside town really isn’t priority material. There’s only one bookshop you know.”

“Two thank you very much. And that’s not my priority either.” Her voice wavered.

“Are you going to share with the class?”

“Is the class ready?” She whispered and I turned toward her as well now, taking in her perfect round face and question-mark mouth.

“I have been.” I matched her whisper. I tremor from my center outward and hopes she can’t tell.

“Do you know what they say about moths?”

“What?” I gave a breathy laugh. It wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’ve heard of them.”

“They tell your fortune.” She was grinning in that way that put out a stool and reached up. “I used to cry a lot growing up, because some kids said that moths are just evil butterflies. I was sensitive and ran all the way home. I threw myself at my mom’s feet and threw a fit about how moths were just evil butterflies. They were just ugly, wicked versions of a good thing.”

“Evil? Well, I suppose you are rather sinister when you haven’t eaten.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you something.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I inhaled deeply and turned over in place to face her. Only the shallow breeze kept us apart.

“I’m all ears . . . though maybe not as many as you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What can I say? The sun is adorable. I take after him.”

A finger ghosted over my cheek, tracing the arc of my cheekbone. “Well, you’re not so bad behind those headlights too. Some of us have good day vision you know. And good taste.”

I wished those words didn’t make my chest do funny things. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to hear what my mom said or not?”

“That you shouldn’t worry about evil butterflies?” I wiggled closer. “Because you’ll be really hot and funny and smart one day. So who cares if you’re evil?”

“Yeah, those were her exact words.”

“So?”

“So,” a firm hand took my chin. “Look at me.” I looked at her. I was glad she couldn’t see the flush in my cheeks in any way. “Moths show good fortunes she said.”

“Right. Lots and lots of good fortune.” I breathed, dumbly, of course. She was close and sweet and there was hair in her face. The fronds of her antennae tickle right past my ear.

“They can help you find good fortune. They’re good omens. You know why?” Park’s lips were barely moving as she spoke, hypnotic and unhurried.

“Why?”

“Because they follow the light.”

It happened all at once. Like every cheesy love poem or bad lyrics I wrote in my journals at night. It was every cracked-spine of a book using words like “rosebud lips” and every overdone song about people who find their way to each other.

I kissed her, leaning in with no life vest on or readied crash-landing position. She kissed me and my chest filled with her, breathless, drowning, soft as dreams and stranger than hope. I cradled her and she dragged me closer and closer until it was nothing but floods and brimming.

I’d been nothing before I think, I’d been an island that waits, a bus that leaves, a shadow that hides. And then I had been hers. ----------------- I was strolling home from work along the main road. The thin strip of sidewalk was streaked with bleached sunlight and the salt air was thick enough to burn throats. It was the long way home, but I was in the habit of going back to this corner.

The bus pulled up with little ceremony. It was an interstate one that crisscrossed over empty bellies of land. I stopped in place to watch, just in case, as I had many times before.

A silver head bobbed down the steps and planted herself on the concrete, unbelieving. She took an enormous noisy sniff of the air. “Not so bad!” She bellowed.

“Are you?” That wasn’t meant to be my first word. She was more stooped now and wearing shiny things on her wrist that clanked. She’d lost another tooth. “Mags.”

“Eh!” She yelled and waved frantically as if I hadn’t shot up another inch since I last saw her and started wearing clothes without holes in them. Her eyes sparkled as she tottered over. “So how’d you do, kid?”

“See for yourself.” I smiled. It was nice when the tides came back in. Mags gave me a thorough appraising. “Like this I guess.” I held up my hand. I wiggled my ring finger at her, heavy with a silver band and glittering opal.

“That’s my girl! Always knew you’d find your feet.” She cackled. “Am I too late to give you away, kid?”

I shook my head. She waddled over to me so I could take her hand. I took her home to show her my art and new tattoos, I showed her our terrible one-eyed kitten, Basket (Wicker’s son), and the little house we styled ourselves. I showed her our shoe closet and our queen bed, our messy kitchen and busted screen door. I showed her the moth tattoo over my heart, and Park showed her the matching lighthouse one over hers.

I tried to thank her, of course, I tried to say I owed her more than she knew for picking up an angry, dirty kid and seeing something in her. I owed her everything. But she just patted my hand and said that it’s not about our debts in life, kid. It’s about the becoming.

-----------

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[sebbybooks]

Never Mine

Sebastian Stan x Fanfiction

Part One

"With my dog as my witness, to whoever was riding my ass if they didn't back off my bumper I was going to stop in the middle of the road and rip their windshield wipers completely off!"

That type of anger coiled around me like a snake, because there was nothing that bugged me more than someone driving bumper to bumper. The long and exasperated breath I just released helped ease the tension out of my body temporarily. Just in time for reason to settle in. Though in reality it wasn't like I was actually going to jump out of my car and confront this road demon. Who clearly needed to take a course on etiquettes of the road. What I did know was that whoever was behind the wheel of the car had headlights that were so blinding I am sure extraterrestrials in space could spot them.

Trying to find the calm in the situation I focused on the road ahead of me. What little road I could see for that matter. Which wasn't exactly much. I had checked the forecast earlier in the day with the report of it showing that there was to be only clear and blue skies. By the amount of downpour before me you would think there was a tear in the sky if that was how rain fell. I just needed to hang tight for a few more miles until I reached my exit to stop for the night.

I had been driving for nine consecutive hours and it wasn't until the third hour I realized I was not cut out for long distance driving. The plane ticket I turned down from my father was starting to look like a missed opportunity. I opted out for Cooper's sake. I just rescued the little guy a few short weeks ago and I didn't have the heart to leave him alone so soon.

Despite having only six more hours of this painful drive I needed out of my car. A hot shower and a bed was calling my name like a siren's call was to a dazed sailor at sea. I was fervidly drawn to it. Granted, I wasn't exactly going the speed limit in my own defense. Simply because I chose to be a cautious driver not a careless one unlike the dip shit behind me. Cooper and I were going to get to Sonoma, California in one piece if I had anything to do with it! I had no intention to speed in the rain even if it annoyed the person behind me. After all I was driving down a one lane road there was literally nothing else I could do but drive forward.

Taking a glance up at my trusty Garmin my gps projected that at this rate I wouldn't make it to my hotel for another hour and a half. Ahead of me the sky was starting to look like a terrifying shade of gray and to top it off the dismal weather was becoming more and more hard to drive in. I could barely see the paint on the pavement. My defrosters seemed to have given up on me as I began to notice that my rearview mirror fogged up as though it was twilight hour.

I needed to pull over to try to wait out the heavy rainfall. The only problem was that I did not know where I was nor could I see where the road even had an end. The cheap gas station coffee was starting to wear off and the pep talks could no longer motivate me. The words of encouragement quickly transitioned into self deprecating quips of "I can not fucking do this!"

I was too far from home to turn back now and hearing a lecture from my dad despite being well beyond the ages of even receiving one, certainly would not stop him from scolding at my absence. I am more than certain that fiancée number three would not mind if I missed their prenuptial celebration. Especially if arriving on time meant I would be showing up dismembered. It was official I was going to die in this storm.

All of sudden like I called upon a bad omen my tiny Kia Forte jerked forward. I thought I accidentally stomped on the gas pedal too hard without realizing it. When it happened again I knew exactly what it was. Clearly the driver had mistaken this for a game of bumper cars. I laid the palm of my hand on the center of my steering wheel and relentlessly pressed my horn. Not sure what that was going to necessarily ward off , but I had to try something in the efforts that they would leave me alone.

Cooper's head shot up from his bed in the backseat. He looked just as displeased and annoyed as I felt. Why wouldn't they slow down? Is the question I could not figure out. I don't know if it was all the Stephen King that I read, but my paranoia was increasing as I started to settle on the possibility that they were now following me.

Maybe I was tired?

Maybe my imagination truly was getting the best of me?

Or maybe whoever that person was also suddenly decided to take the same random exit as I was taking.

I didn't think. I veered my car off to the right and got on the first breakaway from this seemingly endless road. I had no idea where I was headed at this point and neither did my Garmin. It made multiple attempts to reroute itself, but even that could not locate where I was. I took an unexpected detour by driving off into the middle of nowhere with a now stalker in my midsts.

Adrenaline now filling up my bloodstream. I gave my steering wheel the death grip and drove as fast as the tire tracks of my car would guide me. On a midsize billboard to my left I saw a logo for a gas station and a non franchised bed & breakfast saying it was right up the road. I was taking a chance by trusting that the establishment was clean and safe. I just needed to go where a crowd of people would be. The battery on my phone was likely dead and yes this was now becoming the opening sequence for a King novel. I'd laugh if my heart wasn't fluttering as fast a hummingbird's wing.

I managed to make out lights ahead as I neared the petrol station first. However, it just about looked abandoned. The dim white lights flickered around the desolate parking lot. I saw only two freight trucks parked side by side and I immediately thought

. . .hell no.

I kept driving forward in the hopes that the bed and breakfast sign wasn't last updated in the early nineties. I nearly combusted from relief when I finally saw it. Several cars and mini vans lined up with people inside of them probably doing the same thing that I was. I didn't plan on staying the night I just planned on staying long enough to hide out from the rain and from the trouble that still followed my trails.

Luckily there were free parking spaces close to the entrance. It was still hard to make out what the place truly looked like. From my view in the car the rain made it look like it was a melting oil painting. In a swift motion I put my car in park, turned my ignition off, reached in the back to grab Cooper and grabbed ahold of my purse in the other arm. I bolted out of my car for the door.

It felt as though I was running through a hurricane. I was completely drenched. I could barely keep my eyes from closing as I ran up the slippery steps in my worn Toms praying that I wouldn't eat concrete. There was an awning over the door that offered relief from the storm's cruel embrace . Looking down at the fuzzy brown welcome mat I noticed a quote was scribbled out on it.

"some beautiful paths

can't be discovered without getting lost."

As I reached for the doorknob I couldn't help but notice the intricate design. I'm aware of how wrong the timing was to fawn over something so utterly mundane. I just could not conceal the fact that I was a sucker for antiques roadshow and architectural designing. Growing up with a dad that built and reconstructed vintage furniture one might pick up on the interest. It was a white privacy doorknob with hand painted roses, with a Victorian long plated silver keyhole. The sound of distant car door slamming snapped me out of my daze. I turned my head in the direction of the sound low and behold it was that same car. Crazy thing is I didn't see anyone by it.

Instinct guided me forward considering my brain was scrambling with worry. I ushered myself inside and it was as though I fell into a pink wonderland. From the pink carpet to the multicolored pink pinstripe wallpaper. Hot pink roses seemed to have been the main theme for the lobby. There were various black and silver picture frames with photos of pink roses hanging on every wall. On every surface my eyes could catch, red and pink plastic roses sat in circular olive green vases. It was certainly....something. I thought I was doing the most logical thing by coming inside, but it quickly dawned on me that I saw no one around.

"Hello?" I cautiously called out.

I paced myself as I walked up to the front desk, simultaneously looking around for any potential red flags. My right arm was going numb, my little guy was tiny but felt like I was lugging around a sack of potatoes. I wandered away from the desk to poke my head around the place. There was a entry way that led to a dinning area with a handful of seats adorned with of course pink table settings. I was standing next to a spiral staircase to what I assumed led to the rooms. There was only one door that held a sign for a bathroom. Perhaps there was a power outlet I could use long enough to charge my phone to call my dad.

The same door I walked in swung open and droplets of rain was blown in by the wind. A shiver rolled down my spine, sending a myriad of sparks that shot through my body. Turning around a strange sensation filled the pits of my stomach. It felt like butterflies and moths had taken up space there. Excitement and fear. I just stood completely mute like I had never seen a man before. Well to my defense I hadn't seen ones that look like him in my town. Without even seeing my reflection I had an inkling as to the state of my appearance. I was utterly perplexed by how he pulled off the kissed by an ocean look. To embarrass myself further of course my dog chose that moment to shake water off of his fur on to me.

"Really Coop?" I tried to hide my disgust, but he got it around the corner of my mouth! The good looking stranger offered a half smile that probably pitied my overall state.

"Is the black Kia parked out yours?" Even his voiced oozed sex appeal. He angled his frame so he could face me. There was about an arm length of distance between us. His eyes practically bore into my face I suppose waiting for me to say something. Must have been the buzzcut, the facial scuff, or the fact that some creep was still parked outside waiting to do who knows what. But my thoughts were not where they should have been.

I blinked and straightened up my posture. "Yeah why?" I finally answered.

It was a causal question, yet it felt completely random like there was something else to it.Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.The silence was so thick it would take a hacksaw to cut through.

"Well I'll be damned! I didn't think I would get to see you until after you got back from your trip in California." A woman most likely in her late sixties came rushing down the stairs for him. She draped her arms around his body clearly taking him by surprise. Her cotton candy colored pink bouffant made up for most of her height. Sebastian returned her embrace. Although it looked extremely awkward considering he stared at me the whole time and I stood there watching.

"Moe's old truck didn't give you too much trouble did it?" She asked.

"No it still got some life left in it." Sebastian's jaw went slack and he looked from her to me once more. Only this time he was looking at me with a cold glare. Realization suddenly crashed into me like a wild horse.

[fanficteen]

stale blood (4)

chris argent x reader

Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly where you’d expect to find a bog cat. There definitely wasn’t a bog, and it wasn’t even coastal, no major water sources… There was the lake an hour or so out of town, but the bodies were near the school. Your light flickered and you glanced up. 3am. Your tea was cold beside you and the rabbit hole had so far proved worthless, so you flipped your laptop closed and poured the stewed drink down the sink. A muffled click brought your attention and you frowned, letting your senses roam a little wider. Something was breathing – something big, rasping, and close. You fumbled for your phone. The breathing drew closer. You unsheathed your claws, hurrying towards your bedroom in search of the painted nettle plant you’d bought. This was as good a time to test that hypothesis as any. One hand out behind you held the front door shut as you passed it, heading for the stairs, your magic holding strong though you could feel something bashing at it. Then the door splintered under the weight of clawed hands, and a man stepped through. He was unnervingly tall, with eyes the colour of torchlit fog and black fur beginning to sprout up his arms. You growled, lowly, urgently tapping through your phone. He leapt forward and suddenly you were jumping out of reach of a full-blown paw, claw marks scraping down your chest. The man was gone, and you were faced with something entirely feline, and entirely feral. His hackles rose, fur bristling up so you couldn’t get a clear view of his true size. He hissed and you bolted before he could pounce, sprinting up the stairs.

“Hello?” Allison’s voice was quiet, confused, when she answered the phone. “Allison,” you greeted, trying to keep your voice steady as the cat’s quiet footsteps approached. “It’s (Y/N). Your, uh, your Dad isn’t home is he?” “Yeah, he is. Are you okay? You sound a little out of breath.” You heard her muffled voice call for Chris on the other end of the line. “Well, on one hand, I’m great, because we were right.” The door to your room slammed open, and a huge paw sent you hurtling across the room, crashing into your closet with a thud. “On the other hand, there is a giant cat in my house.” “There’s what?!” Allison exclaimed, and you heard shuffling in the background. You ducked under the cat’s next swipe, but he caught your arm and your phone tumbled from your hand. Growling, you sent it crashing back into the hallway with a wave of your hand. He yowled, but was back on his feet in a moment, hurtling towards you as you lurched towards the windowsill. You snatched up a handful of painted nettle and tossed it, desperately. The cat hissed, darting backwards, a few burns patterning into his fur where the leaves settled. You could hear Allison trying to talk to you, something about calling Scott, then the telltale beep of the line cutting off. Wary now, the cat circled you as you held the painted nettle plant between you and him, distinctly aware that the only way out was under the cat or out the window. He darted forward and you shot out a hand, throwing him back. But he landed on his feet and ran for you again, slamming into an unseen wall between you. You could feel the wound in your chest still oozing blood, though it should have healed by now, and your head was beginning to spin. Headlights flashed across your window as the Argents’ car hurtled down your quiet street. Your shield flickered with your focus, just long enough for a stray claw to slash across your face, and then you flipped, one clawed foot smashing into the cat’s jaw as you shattered through your bedroom window, plant still clutched to your chest. A few shards of glass embedded themselves in you, but you were more worried about the snarling of the cat behind you. There was a crash as he followed you from the window, then you were both blinded by torchlight. A ragged hiss, and it bounded away, disappearing into the woods behind your neighbour’s house. “(Y/N)?” Allison questioned, as you blinked against the light of her torch, staggering towards their car. You hummed what you hoped was an agreement, holding the plant out to her. She took it, raising an eyebrow. “It works,” you managed, after a beat. Chris rounded the other side of the house, gun still raised.

“Where’s Deaton?” Chris demanded, as Scott let you all into the vets. “He’s on his way.” “Why aren’t you healing?” Stiles frowned. “I think he laced his claws with wolfsbane,” you admitted, looking down at the already-festering cuts on your chest. “He what?!” “He knows what he’s dealing with. That means he didn’t come to Beacon Hills accidentally,” you realised, aloud, as Scott and Chris helped you up onto the operating table. “If he’s laced his claws with wolfsbane, how are we meant to fight him?” Scott fretted, as Chris already began setting to work cleaning around your wounds. “With that.” Allison was still holding the plant you had handed to her, as though she wasn’t sure what the hell else to do with it. “It smells like weed,” Stiles commented, sniffing it suspiciously. “Are you going to feed the killer cat weed? Get it stoned?” “It’s scaredy cat plant,” Deaton corrected, making Stiles jump as he entered. “Plectranthus caninus.” “I was looking into it,” you explained, “As possibly useful, but I wasn’t sure.” “So you went up against this thing with no idea how to hurt it except maybe a plant?” Stiles clarified. “I didn’t invite it over,” you snapped, muffling a shout as Deaton poured antiseptic into one of the scratches. “Can we talk about this after the wolfsbane is out of her system?” Chris prompted, raising an eyebrow at Stiles. Deaton held up a needle, and you groaned, but let him push you down onto the table anyway. “Don’t look at me like that. This will be out of your system in thirty minutes,” he scolded, lightly, jabbing the needle into your neck. “Just lie there and be glad you’re not a real dog.”

When you blinked awake again, the room wasn’t any quieter. Stiles was complaining loudly about supernatural creatures targeting them, while Deaton very patiently pointed out that the town was literally a supernatural beacon, Stiles, and your best friend is a once-in-several-lifetimes rarity, you can move away to college if you want. “He enjoys this too much,” Scott snickered, making Stiles glare at him. “What, it’s true! You’re the one who dragged me out to murder investigations before I was even a werewolf.” Stiles grumbled a response, but you were too busy with the sudden pounding of your head to bother absorbing it. “It’d be really nice if being bitten cured migraines.” The room fell silent, then Chris was at your shoulder, helping you as you struggled to sit up. “How are you feeling?” “I no longer feel like I’ve been attacked by a large cat,” you started, wincing against the lights as Deaton quickly dimmed them. “But I could do without the jackhammer in my head.” Deaton passed you some painkillers, and you smiled gratefully. “You didn’t hit your head or anything, did you?” Scott asked, peering at you worriedly. “No, this is distinctly a migraine. Give me a few hours of sleep and a handful of painkillers and I’ll be fine,” you assured him, finally settling on just closing your eyes. A shiver ran through you, and you instinctively leaned into the warmth at your side, before it shifted, and you remembered, as Chris’ arm wrapped around your shoulder, engulfing you in his warmth. You didn’t see the three teenagers exchange glances. “We should all get some rest,” Deaton spoke, eventually. “You three – four, I suppose – still have school on Monday. You’ll keep an eye on (Y/N)?” You shot your eyes open, feeling Chris nod above you. “Hold on, I don’t need babysitting!” you protested, though your voice was barely above a whisper. Stiles snickered and you glared at him. “Well you’re not going home alone,” Scott insisted, folding his arms. “Your house was trashed anyway,” Allison pointed out, making you grimace. “There goes my deposit.” “You almost died and you’re worried about your deposit?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “We aren’t all renowned arms-dealers, Argent,” Stiles put in, before you could answer. “In this economy, I’m with her.” You felt the heave of Chris’ sigh, but he didn’t respond.

You climbed out when Chris stopped the car, and barely even bothered protesting as he took your bag. You’d almost given up on arguing with him, he won every time, and your head was already pounding. “I’m going to bed. You know where to find me if you need anything.” Allison kissed her father goodnight and padded up the stairs. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight, I’ll make up the spare bed in the morning,” Chris offered, leading the way upstairs as Allison disappeared into her room. “I’ll come by and check on you every couple of hours – I know you’re a shifter, but you still jumped out a window and took a solid hit of wolfsbane.” “I won’t kick you out of your bed, Chris. I can take the couch,” you answered, tiredly. He plopped your bag down at the foot of the bed and turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re already housing me, you don’t need to give up your bed. Or your sleep, for that matter.” You reached for the bag. Chris blocked you. “Just take the bed.” “No!” “(Y/N) –“ “Either we share, or I’m sleeping on the couch.” Chris blinked. “It’s plenty big enough, and then I won’t have to talk you out of checking on me when you need to sleep.” “We’re not teenagers at a sleepover! You were seriously injured!” “Will you two make up your minds so we can all sleep?” Allison called across the hall. “Fine. We can share.” You smiled, triumphantly, as Chris ceded.

[midnightartemis]

Chapter Four

Read Me Here

TW: Violence/Abuse

She woke to dim light leaking through dark curtains and let herself drift in the half-waking half-sleeping world for a while. She was so warm, so comfortable that she never wanted to wake up or leave. Her fingertips danced around something soft and smooth. She froze as the warmth around her groaned and shifted, coming to life beneath her fingertips.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What happened last night? She didn’t remember drinking that much. Not enough to blackout. Had someone slipped something in her drink? Rey scrambled away from the person’s side. The person groaned rolling to his side and stretching a massive arm across the bed towards her. “Mmm... Come back.”

Ben?

The night came crashing back to her. Kuruk gripping her waist hard enough to bruise, already drunk beyond recognition. The sound of a glass bottle shattering. Kuruk breaking his own beer bottle to brandish as a weapon. Ben charging in any way. The way her heart stopped when that broken bottle sliced down Ben’s face. The way Ben never missed a step, yanking the bottle from Kuruk’s hand and throwing it to the ground. After that, it was fists flying. Kuruk getting in lucky shots. But he hadn’t stood a chance against Ben’s blind rage. She didn’t know how many shots Ben got in on Kuruk’s face before she was beside him. Before she caught his hand and he stilled under her touch. She watched that utter calm fall over his face. With the faintest of pulls, she had taken him away. Taken him up the stairs to the loft. Her hands shook as she cleaned his wounds and he looked at her like no one had ever looked at her before. He never tried to push her. Never stepped close to her boundaries. Maybe that was why she had kissed him.

She hadn’t realized that the spare room was his until she jumped into the bed and his musky cologne surrounded her. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in it either. She knew what it meant. She only fell asleep in places she felt safe. And laying in Ben's bed she had never felt safer.

She still had the nightmares. She always had the nightmares. No one had ever bothered to wake her up before though. And Ben had been so conscious of touching her. Of breaking that boundary just to pull her out.

She didn’t want him to leave. Her heart racing as he crossed his room and climbed into the bed, his feet dangled off the end and he was trying terribly hard to give her as much space as he could. When he looked at her, it was like he was patiently waiting. Wanting. Hoping.

It was the first time she had ever shared her bed with anyone else.

And she had woken up wrapped around him like a little monkey. His warmth and smell were intoxicating. Her heart raced and she pressed her thighs together, but it only made her want worse. Rey’s eyes dipped down his chest before snapping up to the ceiling. It was a normal thing, right? For guys in the morning? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

She wanted to lay down again and let him pull her back into his chest where she’d be safe and warm for a few more hours. She had work at some point. She couldn’t tell the time from the filtered light through the window. And she didn’t have a phone and she didn’t see Ben with one either. She could sneak out, check the time on the oven and sneak back in.

It was a solid plan until the telltale sound of Spongebob filtered through the door. Rey’s heart stopped. Trudge and Ushar watched Spongebob. Trudge and Ushar never got up before noon the night after a party. She was late for work– she was–

“Fuck. Fuck. No no no no no no no.”

Rey scrambled over Ben, accidentally kneeing him in the gut.

“Ow, fuck.” Ben jerked awake as Rey scrambled to find the pants and the shoes she kicked off in the middle of the night. “Rey?”

“I have to go.”

“Rey, wait, slow down. What–” Ben rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wincing as his hand touched the open wound on his face. “Fuck.”

“I’m late for work. I– Plutt is going to kill me.” Rey buttoned her pants and jumped her feet into her holey knockoff vans.

Ben pushed himself out of bed. “Hold on, I can give you a ride.”

Rey fought with herself. She didn’t want to be indebted to him but with a ride across town maybe– just maybe– she wouldn’t be late enough for Plutt to be super pissed.

“It’s just a ride.” Ben was already standing and pulling on a t-shirt and grey sweats. He moved around her as she ripped her hair out of the last surviving bun. Rey twisted her hair up into a singular bun as Ben slipped on a dingy pair of Nike slides and grabbed his car keys and wallet off the desk.

Rey practically shoved him out of the room. The twins and AP sat on the couch with bowls of cereal and coffee. AP barely acknowledged her, choosing instead to glare at Ben. Ushar and Trudge were still too out of it to comment on her leaving his room with him.

“AP you’re on Kuruk duty. Everyone else can clean up. I’ll be back.” Ben through his commands over his shoulder as he opened the lock on the door. She rushed ahead of him, hurrying down the stairs to the parking lot. There was only one car she didn’t recognize– an old black mustang. Rey waited impatiently at the passenger door as Ben manually unlocked the driver's side and slid in, reaching over to open the passenger door. Rey slid in.

“Where to?” The engine started up with a roar.

“Plutt’s Pawnshop. It’s ‘cross the river. On Deerwood.”

“Plutt’s?”

“Yeah. Go.” Rey glanced at the analog clock on the dash and began nervously tapping her fingers against her leg. She didn’t need his judgment. Everyone on the southside knew about Plutt’s business dealings. Ben put his foot on the gas and got her there in record time.

She was still fucking late.

He pulled up a block away when she told him too. Her hand was on the door handle before the car was even in park.

“Wait.”

“I can’t–“

Ben pulled his share of the weed money out of his pocket. “This is yours.”

Rey glared at him.

“For the questions.” He added quickly.

She softened. “Put it in the safe. Plutt will only steal it if he finds it. I have to go.”

Rey slipped out of the car and took off running down the back alley that dumped her out at the fence to Plutt’s scrapyard. She ran along the fence and squeezed between the gap between the fence and the breeze block building. She had been eating enough lately that she almost didn’t fit.

Plutt wasn’t in the yard. Rey steeled herself as she walked in the back.

Unkar Plutt was a heavy squat man with a beer gut that rolled over the top of dirty blue sweatpants from underneath a yellow-stained cigarette-scarred wife beater. He had a face like a blobfish with a bulbous blackhead filled nose and lifeless fishlike lips and beady black eyes. His skin always looked jaundiced except for when he was mad and it turned dark shades of red and purple. It turned purple when those dead eyes landed on her. If it wasn’t for the customers in the shop, her life may well have ended there. Rey forced herself to step behind the counter, Plutt’s stench hitting her like a brick. He grabbed her arm above her sleeve and squeezed, but she refused him the honor of a whimper, looking down as she tried to not gag on the smell of rotting teeth.

“I’ll deal with you later, ungrateful cunt. I don’t have the fucking time for little whores who show up late to work. No pay. No food. You come home tonight or you’ll get it ten times worse next time I see you.” Plutt let her go and Rey clung to the counter as she tried to stay upright. Plutt slammed his fist into the register and pulled out a fifty when it opened.

She watched, shaking, he lumbered out the front door. Probably to grab tonight’s drinks of choice. He’d be near blackout when she got home. Rey sat down at the cash register and tried not to think about warm soft skin under her fingertips or a strong arm gently wrapped around her waist. The man who reached for her but never touched. The store hours moved slowly. She didn’t sell anything or buy any of the junk that came her way. She knew when to look the other way.

Rey closed up shop as slow as she could without it being slow enough to warrant wasting time. Plutt expected her when he expected her. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. She walked through the darkening streets alone. Cars passed by, their headlights highlighting the dark sidewalk. She didn’t need to see where she was going anymore. She had it memorized now.

She stopped outside of the tiny rundown house. The exterior was crumbling at the edges, the white paint now grey with dirt and pollution. The porch always threatened to give out under her feet and she wondered how it could bear to take Plutt’s weight every day.

The door whined and screeched as she pushed it open. The living room tv blared an ‘As Seen On TV’ commercial loudly. Plutt sat in his brown recliner, an empty beer in his hand. Freshly finished.

“Gemme a drink, girl.” His slurred voice came from the folds of the chair.

Rey went to the kitchen right away. Her hand shook as she pulled out another beer and popped the top. Maybe he had forgotten all about it. Maybe he didn’t care anymore.

Rey approached the recliner and handed Plutt the beer. His meaty fisted wrapped around her wrist and yanked her closer. “Cum’mon little cunt gimme a kiss.”

Rey tried to yank away but only succeeded in sending beer everywhere. Rey watched in horror as it dripped onto Plutt’s stained shirt.

“The fuck you’ve done.”

She felt the sting of his blow before she heard it. Her cheek pulsed as she pushed herself off the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was my bad. I’ll get you a new shirt.”

She turned only to see Plutt’s hands reach out and grab her and throw her against the wall. “You ungrateful little slut. I give you a job. The roof over your fuckin’ head.”

Another shot to her face. Rey reeled, her body slipping into flight mode. But Plutt had her cornered now. She stared into those beady black eyes. He wasn’t drunk, not even close. He was wide awake and out for her blood. A blow to her gut sent her to the floor but a fist her in hair brought her to her feet again. Rey felt her face connect with something hard, tasted the tang of blood on her tongue, saw the darkness rapidly approaching.

Right foot Followed by a left foot We'll guide you home before your curfew And into your bed

Standing on our tip-toes Peering through open windows I swear I heard my name

Sit tight with the lights off Waiting for my brain to start Trying to work things out It's thunder and it's lighting And it's all things too frightening I could barely see outside

Your body was black and blue It struck twice there's nothing new

Your body was black and blue It struck twice there's nothing new

- It's Thunder and It's Lightning, We Were Promised Jetpacks

[whirlybirbs]

i’m begging u .. can u write a rlly fluffy blurb about bee’s human getting injured and worried!bee is all over her

UNLAWFUL ARREST ;

summary: charlie, memo and you accidentally intercept a distress call.enter barricade & frenzy. it’s fight night at the junkyard. frenzy has rabies.pairing: bumblebee x human!readerrating: t for canon-typical-violence & some swearing!a/n: this was very fun to write bc i love ‘cade and i love ‘bee and i love one bad-ass reader with one (1) good wrench. set in the 2018 bumblebee movieverse!

Shit.

Charlie had woken you up out of a dead sleep, rattling your window frame with rocks much larger than pebbles to indicate the urgency -- sure enough, her and Memo were saddled up on her bike. 

Leaning out the window, you hush them both.

“What?” you whisper-yell, “Shh, stop yelling, you idiots --”

“The junkyard!” Charlie finally gets out, eyes wild, “Something’s going on. Something bad. We need to help them.”

Sector 7? The Decepticons? 

The blood drains from your face. You don’t even respond, just begin to tear your room apart in a desperate attempt to throw on a sweater and jeans and tuck the long-distance Sonic Ranger radio into your back pocket  -- your Adidas beat down the stairs as you burst through the door, meeting Charlie and Memo half-way down the cul-de-sac. You’re running, hair wild and sleep forgotten. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, lungs burning as the three of you beat the tarmac in the direction of Old Maccadam’s Junkyard. Charlie’s electric bike has a lot on you, peddling like a bat out of hell, “Is ‘Bee okay?”

“We got a call on the radio -- sounded like a distress signal -- a lot of yelling --”

You move, tugging the walkie talkie from your jeans and clicking on the signal. There’s a lot of static, and then you press the receiver.

“’Musketeers to base, I repeat, Musketeers to base.”

Nothing. Just endless static.

“What the hell?”

“I know,” Charlie says, “Sideswipe always has the frequency on. No one’s responding.”

Suddenly, headlights flood over the three of you. 

“Charlie --”

“Shit.”

You turn, still peddling, spotting the paint-job of s Dodge Diplomat behind you. 

“Is that Prowl?” you ask, confusion flooding your voice as your eyes bounce to Charlie next to you. She blinks, turning to look. 

Memo, upon hearing the name of the Autobot Second-in-Command, brightens visibly and begins waving his arms wildly. “Prowl! Hey! It’s -- it’s us! Your friends! You know --”

Suddenly, the police cruiser surges forward and it’s lights paint the night sky red and purple.

The Decepticon insignia on the hood sneers in your face. 

“Not Prowl!” Memo screeches, “So not Prowl! Bad guy! That’s a bad guy!”

“Shit!”

You both turn fast, dipping off the road and into the rocky path towards the run-down scrap-yard turned Autobot base in attempt to shake the sudden predator who’s tailing you too close for comfort.

The sand and rocks and cacti don’t do much to dissuade Barricade, though. He’s trudged through worse to track down Autobot filth. In this center console, Frenzy vibrates -- his senseless chatter seems to grow as nimble metallic servos tune his own radio to Judas Priest.

“BREAKING THE LAW, BREAKING LAW!”

Barricade doesn’t mind this Earth music too much.

The three of you hit the Junkyard’s wall fast, breaking in opposite directions along the fence. You break hard, kicking up sand and peddling as fast as you can along the western side of the scrapyard.

“‘Bee! Optimus!” you screech, “For fuck’s sake, Sunny! Anyone!”

The growl of the engine behind you startles a scream from your throat.

You cut the handlebars fast, turning into the back-end of the scrap yard and hauling your bike over the fence as fast as you can. Slipping through the gaps in the chain-link, where it’s curled and rusted, you take off on foot and are fast to duck into the shadows of the scrapyard’s rusted and gutted cars. 

At first, Barricade rolls by.

You look around wildly, wondering where the hell they all were. 

They were twenty-foot tall alien robots. They weren’t hard to misplace. 

Suddenly, the large flood lights fixed high above the Junkyard crank on -- and Barricade spies you duck fast beneath a bottomed-out Buick. From your spot, you see Charlie and Memo climbing the cat-walk, desperate to get a sight on the Autobots normally here. 

The yard is silent. 

For a second.

And then, Barricade transforms.

You reach for the radio, shaky hands tuning the dial. You whisper desperately.

“Musketeers to Car Show, we’ve got a problem here! So, I dunno, return to base!”

He seethes, peeling away the fence and taking his time to stroll through the Junkyard. “So this is what they call home now.”

Charlie and Memo freeze, gripping one another tightly. 

Barricade seems to ignore the reaction, seems to ignore them both completely. He isn’t interested in fleshlings -- he’s interested in Optimus. And that fragging scout of his. 

“Where are they?” Barricade asks casually, “Where are the Autobots?”

Red optics sweep around, no doubt trying to get a read on the absent energon signals. Even still, the three of you are silent. 

A ped crushes the car next to you like a tin-can and you squeak. 

“Frenzy,” Barricade rumbles, “Handle the humans. Pick their bones.”

“Pick our bones --?!”

“Shit!”

The compartment in his chest bursts open, revealing the three-foot tall death mini-con hankering from a snack. 

You scream then, launching yourself over the Buick and throwing the walkie talkie as hard as you can. It nails Frenzy straight between the optics, giving you enough time to book it to the main storage space -- but, Frenzy is hot on your heels with sharp denta snapping at your knees. You trip, landing hard on the concrete as Frenzy’s servos dig into your ankles. You scream, landing a hard kick that sends the mini-bots servos offline for a second. 

You bound up the catwalk, just in time to see Bumblebee make his entrance. 

Sometimes you forget he’s a soldier -- he’s strong and fast and lands lightning punches that nearly cripple the Decepticon in a seconds time. His battle-mask is up and ready, blue optics narrowed in an angry determination. 

With Barricade on the ground, those blue optics connect with your gaze. He seems to go soft for a moment, waving slowly. You laugh -- dirt covered face cracking into a grin. 

You’re enthralled, completely and totally, but the current Decepticon threat ruins the moment. Barricade pulls the scout down by his door-wings just as Frenzy chatters out a sharp cackle and continues his hungry pursuit of you.

“Get off of me, you gear shift!” you holler, hands winding into the spaces in his plating as you toss the bot to the catwalk stairs. The whole thing rattles and Charlie, up above, shouts your name.

“Catch!”

A 12″ wrench.

Or, in this case, a blunt-force weapon. 

You swing down hard and fast, catching the minibot as it rolls away and shrieks. 

Suddenly, the junkyard is flooded with more Autobots -- Prowl is first through the gates, landing a hard hit on Barricade as Bee staggers back from a blow to the processor. Optimus is next, full of grace and power as he draws his gun and nails Barricade’s shoulder amidst the scuffle. 

Frenzy, now corned by the three of you, has set it’s sights back on your ankles -- he clings, scaling the skin there and landing a harsh bite on your thigh. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

“FRENZY! RETREAT!”

You unceremoniously throw the minicon off you, hammering home with the 12″ wrench. It’s barbaric and the move even has Ironhide wincing as the small Decepticon dashes from the premise and follows the taillights of the Dodge Diplomat into the night. 

You huff, hands dropping to your knees.

“Jesus.”

Charlie, behind you, has a hand wound in Memo’s shirt. They both look shaken, albeit safe. Silence settles in the junkyard. Along the comms, Ooptimus is barking out orders. You can tell by the way his optics move.

‘Bee is by your side in a second’s time, rolling onto his knees and eyeing you with a wide and worried look. He coos, offering a gentle prod. Blood is running down your leg, ruining your jeans and splattering on your Adidas. 

“Bad dog -- zzrt -- he’ll bite ya! Woof!”

And then you laugh.

And then Charlie does. And Memo, too. 

And Prowl looks at you three like you’ve shorted out. 

“I’m gunna need,” you say between breaths, “A tetanus shot. He bit me. That fuckin’ thing bit me. It bit me.”

‘Bee whirs again, sounding sick with worry.

Ratchet steps in then, gesturing the rest of the crew to get to work at cleaning up the mess the scuffle made. He kneels, servos gentle as he narrows his optics and blinks at the wound.

“Let me clean his up,” he says slowly, “You three are lucky we came when we did.”

“We tried calling,” you mutter, “But no one was home.”

“We were trying to locate Barricade. He’d broadcast-ed a distress signal when he landed. Though, it seems our Musketeers found him before we did.”

Ratchet transforms, opening the back doors of his alt. mode. You crawl in, accepting the ride to the main hangar. ‘Bee follows close behind, the rush in his systems starting to quiet and cool. Right now, you’re the main focus of his worries -- he’ll rip Frenzy to shreds later. 

“Pants off.”

Ratchet says it so curtly, Charlie and Memo take it as their cue to leave -- so they make their way to Optimus leaving you and ‘Bee and Ratchet in the main hangar. You grumble softly at the command, rolling your eyes slightly and tugging at your belt buckle.

“Could at least take me to dinner first.”

‘Bee chirps angrily from his spot behind Ratchet. 

“Bumblebee,” he sighs, “I need to clean the wounds. I have no intent on seducing your mate.”

Your eyes widen. You blink. ‘Bee has worked himself into a flurry at that, waving wildly and buzzing more like a wasp than anything.

“What did you just call me?!”

“Will you sit?”

You do as your told, wiggling your pants off and hissing softly at the sting. There’s a lot of blood -- the gashes are deep, too. Just seeing them makes your face run cold. Settling on the edge of the bench, Ratchet deploys his holoavatar.

Older, with white hair and a kind face. His hands are gentle. ‘Bee watches the whole way. 

You try to distract yourself. 

“See ‘Bee? Nothing more than a scratch. I’m fine.”

“These are deep wounds,” Ratchet counters. You whack the shoulder of his holoform. It fizzles out at the rough contact. He yelps. “I am just being honest!”

“Yeah, well,” you chirp, “Stop being a good doctor and tell me I’ll be fine.”

“You will be fine,” he mutters, “If I can ensure you don’t get any Cybertronian-prone bacterial infections.”

‘Bee nearly wallops Ratchet himself.

“Great,” you breath, “Nice. Here I am, no pants on in the middle of the base, bleeding, and that little Decepti-freak might have given me robo-rabies.”

‘Bee drives you home that night. By the time you make it in, the sun is starting to creep up along the horizon. You crawl out of the cab, moving to tug the garage door up. You’d borrowed a pair of shorts from Charlie -- she’d had some in the basket of her bike -- and Ratchet had done a nice job at patching you up.

The bandages are tight.

‘Bee rolls into the garage. You sigh, patting his hood. He transforms slowly.

“Long night, huh, buddy?”

An affirmative coo.

“You were a bad-ass out there, though. You handed Barricade his aft.”

“Not -- zzRt -- as cool as you!” ‘Bee’s gaze is heavy though. He whines a bit, nudging his face into your hands and nearly purring at the contact, “Glad -- srt -- you’re safe with me.”

You hum, enjoying the attention. A delicate servo has secured itself to your back, nudging you close to his chest. You can feel his spark vibrate under the plating there. Two hands splay across the glossy paint there. Bumblebee coos -- it’s happy and content, not full of worry like it had been earlier. 

For a while, you two settle in like that. You crawl into his lap, curled up around a big servo. His optics dim, going from a vibrant blue to a soft, pale glow. 

But, after a moment, you break the silence.

“‘Bee?”

His antennae twitch.

“Why did Ratchet call me your ‘mate’?”

Shit.

[fulldreamsahead]

Motorcycle Stunt Race

Last night I had a dream that my mom had a new motorcycle. I really want to give it a try so I start to take it down my mom’s driveway. Now my mom’s driveway has a crazy steep slope and as I go down it I have this fear that I am going to pop a wheelie because that is what happened to my Aunt Pat the first time she ever rode a motorcycle. I screw my eyes shut as I go down and as I make the turn into the alleyway I realize I am fine, but I need to accelerate to keep going. For some reason, even though I am clearly on a motorcycle, it has a gas pedal that I compress to speed out of the alleyway. Even within my dream, I’m confused because I know inherently that bike’s have their throttle on the grip.

I ride the motorcycle around town, but the bike keeps getting smaller and smaller as I ride. For some reason I can’t comprehend this is happening and by the time that I return to my housing tract the bike is almost a child-like size. It’s getting dark so I turn my headlights on and I prepare to make a left-hand turn into my housing tract. I am pretty proud of myself for a successful first ride and I wait for other cars to drive by on the other side of the road so I can turn. As I turn the landscape changes and instead I am driving through a brand new and unknown area. It seems like a fancy neighborhood, but as I ride I start to see other motorcycles joining me in my trip. I realize that I have accidentally entered some sort of bike race and the other contestants and I race through a park and then through some hills. 

As we enter a fancy neighborhood the other racers seem on edge and I realize that the race is not sanctioned. Nevertheless I get excited, thinking I have a shot at winning a race during my first ever motorcycle ride. The course in the housing tract becomes exceedingly complex and the other drivers grow more nefarious. I realize the race has Split Second rules and you can get bonus points for doing stunts, setting off explosions, or even crashing the other competitors. I scramble to compete and dodge traps, but eventually my motorcycle just dies on me. I know I have to cross the finish line with the bike so I run along side it like it’s a bicycle. I know I can’t rely on stunts anymore so I have to at least abide by the rules of the race. Thankfully almost all the other competitors have also wiped out at this point and are carrying bits and pieces of their bikes with them to do the same. 

I know I have to outclass them somehow and my eyes land on a makeshift ramp that’s set up on some scaffolding on the construction site of a new home behind the neon lights of what looks like the back of a convenience store. This feels like a point boost I could use so I take a running start to get my bike up the ramp. A sheriff comes out from around the corner of the convenience store just as I hit the rest of the scaffolding. I recognize him as Sheriff Lanning (like the Blair Witch video game) and mount my bike to ride it down the ramp on the other side of the scaffolding I’m on. Out of the corner of my eye I see some bags stacked on top of each other and some fireworks badly hidden behind that. I realize the whole scaffolding set up is another rigged trap and I get excited at the prospect. Sheriff Lanning is closing in on me as I hesitate and I realize that he will probably catch me no matter what since my bike is dead. I decide if I’m going to go out, I might as well do it in a blaze of glory so I light one of the bags on fire knowing it will delay the flame getting to the fireworks. I push off on my bike and ride the ramp down at top speed while Sheriff Lanning chases after me. 

The bike slows and he is able to catch up and grabs the back of my shirt to stop me. He yells at me for a few things including leaving a small fire burning. I try to convince him that it is all just a set-up and I’m a pawn in a higher game. I beg him to just let me go and keep on racing. He’s confused at the mention of a race and in his lapse of judgement I break free and start running beside the bike once more. He curses my name and the fact that I’m running away from him. Now that i’m not physically on the bike, I’m a bit faster than him running and I keep going while trying to focus on the race. 

Somehow I catch up with the other racers and we are all weaving in and out of these pillar-like wood structures (sort of like obstacles on a paint ball field). It’s just me and a bunch of middle aged men all running our broken down motorcycles to the finish line. I start to pick-up speed as the land starts to go downhill and I gear up to jump back on my bike. I feel the wind ripple across my face and feel myself getting close to winning if I can just get around the next bend. Far behind me there is a thunderous boom and the fireworks I lit finally take off and dazzle the sky. Unfortunately they also somehow detonate a backhoe on the construction site and the secondary explosion is so loud I am ripped from my dream. 

[chinxino5-blog]

It’s A Package Deal - Four

Bryce watched as the sun hiked across the sky. It travelled its distance and threw light into any and every corner it could see. The world bathed under its rays. It soaked beneath a thin layer of golden paint, left in the star’s trail as it travelled onwards and didn’t glance back.

Golden paint speckled Bryce’s face as they raced below the sun. They tore down roads, driving towards the western horizon. It was the just the two of them and the blazing sun.

The blank page of Bryce’s notebook laid face up on his lap. His pencil hadn’t touched the paper in hours. He made no sound. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t look at Ohm – he didn’t even play his music. His earphones sat in his ears, playing a playlist of curiosities on repeat. He let himself sink into his mind and drown in the questions he swallowed.

He didn’t voice them, he didn’t speak. He didn’t bother Ohm the whole day.

Afternoon began to swell, the sun reared forward. It was guaranteed to win their race, as it won each one, each day. Spaces spotted the forest, exposing the land with paddocks and fields. It changed from passing a paddock here and there, to driving through open, exposed areas, the forest waving them away as they turned their backs. Acres of farmland printed over hills and Bryce gazed out somewhat in awe. To his surprise, he felt uncomfortable in the open – he felt too exposed.

He’d spent the whole day driving through the forest with Ohm. It had been hours since he’d been on his feet and a whole day since he’d been near any sort of civilised area. They’d seen only about three cars over the hours spent driving. They had had only each other to talk to. It had been a long, lonely, closed-off day.

Bryce was curious about how thoughtlessly Ohm travelled, he couldn’t deny. It was as though it was second nature: instinct. He never once dropped onto a busy road, and easily navigated around any towns or populated areas. It was as though since he was a child he was living under people’s noses: hiding, sneaking and moving undetected by anyone. He lived like a ghost and Bryce couldn’t help wonder how he travelled within a city.

He so easily lived behind everything. Behind prying eyes, and cameras, and anyone’s curiosity.

It felt wrong to be in such open space in their black car. It felt exposed, like people would be running to authorities the moment they were spotted. In all honestly, the car was very suspicious-looking. Tinted windows, black with low lights. The numberplate was simple and slightly smudged over in what looked like an “accidental” splatter of mud.

Ohm glanced at Bryce who was staring out over the open spaces in a mild sort of wonder. He himself felt slight concern pulling a grimace to his lips. He was comfortable in his ability, yes, but he hated being in the open. There was so much risk involved. And he didn’t want to get caught up in a rough situation – they didn’t have to time to run around and make a fuss. The town up ahead grew closer, small and homey.

It was a simple place, no close-nit houses, or tall apartment blocks. Each home had its own space of land, little one story cottages with open windows and fold-out chairs on porches. Pretty rose gardens decorated some of the little homes, others were joint buildings with family businesses such as cafes or little simple shops.

The town was very local and removed, and they got a few odd glances as they passed through. It was likely unusual that travellers stopped in the little town – there were other towns not far from there with more people and more life. It was odd that strangers would choose there of all places to pass through.

Ohm’s eyes flickered back and forth across the street. He spared a few seconds’ glance to each person they drove past. People who paid no mind, and people who watched curiously. He pulled into the parking space out the front of a quiet motel, across the street from a little grocery store. He put his focus solely to parking the car, trying not to notice the locals who dawdled across the street. He cut the engine and turned to Bryce with a glare.  

He wasn’t surprised, but slightly thrown-off at the intense way the older man watched him after having not even blinked in his direction all day. The blonde could sense the distrust and ducked his head slightly, wishing he had something to hide behind. It was as though the hitman could hear his thoughts. His plans, his ideas, his screaming mind. Run, escape, yell, shout, scream; don’t waste your only chance of getting away.

Ohm made a show of reaching across him, opening the glove box and pulling out his handgun. He didn’t let his gaze leave the blonde, eyes malicious and cold. He did not like him. He did not care for him. He would gladly put a bullet in him if he had to. Bryce’s thoughts blanked, eyes honing in on the weapon with a newly restored fear for the guy. It shone tauntingly as he tucked it in under his jacket along with the low, calm words masking hatred and cynicism that slipped from his lips. “Don’t make me have to use it.”  

Seven words that wiped colour from his cheeks and stole away his ability to breathe correctly. It took him a few attempts before his body allowed him to swallow the golf ball in his throat and even then he felt like he was choking. Ohm was still talking, fast but clear. He rested back in his seat, his form relaxed. Anyone able to see through the tint would see no signs of threat – just two guys discussing what their evening plans were.

“You’re going to stay right by my side until we’re driving again, got it?” Bryce snapped his attention back. He didn’t want to get caught not listening and receive a bullet between his ribs in return. “Avoid making contact with everyone and if you can’t, your name is Adam Moore and you’re on a road-trip with your step-brother Kyle. We’re from Michigan. Don’t act stupid, don’t draw attention and don’t think you’ll be able to get away while here. There’s nowhere for you to go and I’m not going to be nice if I have to discipline you.” Bryce tried to calm his racing heartbeat feeling a war erupt behind his eyes.

Make a scene, get help.

Do what he says, we don’t want to get shot.

Maybe taking a bullet was worth it?

We don’t want to risk it.

We won’t get another chance to make a break for it!

But where would we go?

He didn’t know what to do.

“McQuaid,” Ohm growled, yanking attention back to him. The blonde hastily nodded, locking his jaw and taking a deep breath. His exhale was far shakier than he would have liked but he didn’t want to stay in the car any longer. He followed the other man out onto the bitumen, and the moment his eyes lifted from his shoes they met another’s.

Two pairs of curious eyes watched the men exit the suspicious-looking vehicle. The two women glanced between one another, making small conversation of which Bryce couldn’t hear. He watched intently as one pulled out a phone, rapidly typing away. As they huddled close, their outfits contrasted under the retiring sun. The shorter of the two was wearing a pair of pink shorts and various other light colours that sat well with her fair skin and pale hair. The other was wearing a heavy-looking leatherjacket, short brown hair tucked under a beanie. They looked quite odd standing together – a collage of pastels and blacks.

He wandered how their personalities clashed, whether they were close friends. When the taller slipped her arm around the blonde and pulled her close to her side, looking over her shoulder at the phone, he second-guessed his wording of “friends” and tried to convince himself to look away. He didn’t want to stare.

But he was curious.

They both took a moment, finding what they’d been searching for, and examining the little screen. In unison, both women looked up to stare directly at Bryce whose eyes widened. There was meaning behind the ten-metre observation, a meaning he was beginning to worry about. They stared for a few long moments, expressions unreadable and lips unmoving as Bryce stared back – a deer caught in headlights.

“Hey.” Ohm’s voice was far gentler as he stepped around the car. He looked oblivious to both Bryce’s discomfort, and the two staring ladies, and leant against the car in front of the blonde. “We’re gonna go over to the store and get some more food. I don’t want to end up running low at any time.” Even though they couldn’t be heard by others, his words brushed against the younger man lightly. There was no threat, nor malice.

Bryce tried not to shudder at how easily he could hide his snarl. He tried not to glance down to where the gun was hidden at his hip. He kept his lips sealed and nodded uneasily as the brunette locked the car. He didn’t glance in the women’s direction, he didn’t stray from his captor’s side, he didn’t do anything but pursed his lips and kept his eyes low.

Ohm spoke softly to him as they strolled through the grocery store, keeping simple conversation as he rambled on about a cousin’s newborn child – a cousin Bryce was quite sure didn’t exist. Still, he nodded and listened numbly while pushing their trolley down the aisles. Nobody else even glanced at the two of them and Ohm only half paid attention to the fake stories that rolled off his tongue.

He felt confidence swell in his chest. Bryce didn’t act terrified or weird at all as locals passed. He didn’t make any contact with anyone, he kept his eyes on the ground and talking to a minimum. Exactly how Ohm liked him.

They rolled up to the counter and he smiled at the woman. Bryce quietly began placing things on the bench and listened to each beep. Manicured fingers scanned each item, fitting them in bags, and Bryce glanced up to see her watching him curiously. She smiled sweetly. “How are you, handsome?” Her voice was honey sweet. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and didn’t look too much younger than him.

He offered a smile and tried not to grimace beneath Ohm’s stare. “Good thank you, I’m just tired from the drive,” he said. He kept his voice soft, and the lie fell so smoothly onto the conveyor belt with the two bottles of milk. She kept her smile, sliding a third bag towards the older of the two to put back into the trolley.

She kept her entire focus on Bryce as he put the last of the food onto the belt, oblivious to his attempts at keeping his gaze from her. He wanted to make the least amount of contact possible. “Where you boys from?”

“Michigan,” he answered robotically. The backstory ran through his thoughts like a drama script. “I’m travelling with my brother.” The last item dropped into the bag and she reluctantly passed it to Ohm. He smiled at her, his charm glimmering and she nodded at him.

She scribbled down her number on the back of the receipt and pressed it to Bryce’s chest. He blinked down at her long, blue nails and took it with a small smile of gratitude. “Have a good evening!”

Her joyous words shut themselves behind automated glass doors and Bryce tried not to show his exhaustion so blandly. His thoughts were whirring in his brain; they screamed and cried about every little thing that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours. About Ohm, the driving, his phone, Ralph, the women, the driving, Los Angeles, Ohm, the driving… He didn’t get a moment of peace.

Ohm latched a hand onto Bryce’s shoulder as they got to the traffic lights, stopping him from walking out directly in front of a silver van. His hold lingered, fingertips digging into the blonde’s flesh painfully. It brought him back out of his thoughts and into the conscious world, and he silently shrugged the touch away. He didn’t meet Ohm’s stare.

They waited beside each other in silence, watching the cars zip past and listening to the consecutive beeping of the traffic light. Ohm stared down into the contents of his shopping trolley, mentally listing off everything they’d gotten and everything they’d needed. It would suck to forget something.

Bryce’s eyes wandered. He looked over the aged motel and dropped his gaze down the streets. The motel, an ice cream parlour, a post office. The little local buildings were scattered around the small town, only a few small roads drawing paths lined with houses or facilities. As Ohm started forwards, the little green man flashing up above them, Bryce swung his gaze down the street the other way.

His body moved automatically beside the other’s as he created simple maps in his mind. A doctor’s, a chemist.

The police station. He did a double-take upon glancing at the station, and almost stopped walking in the middle of the street as he watched pink shorts and a leather jacket disappear into the small building.

A firm hand curled around his upper arm, yanking him across the road before the cars continued flitting back and forth. “What’s your problem? Quit acting like a fucking ditz in public – we can’t attract attention, okay?” Ohm’s words splattered Bryce’s cheeks, hissed through clamped teeth, and he dropped his gaze, the hand on his arm burning through his hoodie and scorching a hand print onto his skin.

He nodded in silent obedience, and Ohm released his arm with a huff, a couple of muttered words dropping to his feet as he continued pushing the trolley towards the motel carpark. Bryce reminded himself to keep up and watch where he was stepping as to not anger the man further. He didn’t mention the women. He didn’t mention the station. He didn’t mention anything other than asking where to put certain foods in the back of the car.

Ohm tried his best to ignore the man’s weird behaviour, dragging him along. No one spared them more than a few seconds of curious attention, yet he was careful to finish up and pack everything away into their car so they could leave the next morning without having to get anything else together.

They were just going to sleep, shower, eat and relax before continuing their trip. Ohm hoped they wouldn’t have to do it many more times.

He shut the door of their room behind him, dropping the two bags of stuff he had for both of them by the door. He did a quick run through of their living space, the two beds, TV and mini bathroom. It was cheap, out of the way and Ohm’d be damned if Bryce complained for even a moment about the discomfort.

Fortunately for Ohm, the blonde didn’t say a word as he dropped himself on the furthest away bed and turned to face the wall.

First: Prologue

Previous: Three

Next: Five

I’m actually in such a good mood with this right now guys, I spent five hours yesterday reading and editing up to c.7 and I’m so hyped about posting all of it <3 I will be putting it up on ao3 tonight, so I’ll send out a link when I do that! 

gi

[imunsavy]

Cleanse - Part 1- Purge!au

Part (1) (2) (3)

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre/Warnings: Angst, Violence and probable gore (I mean have you watched the Purge?)

Summary: The Purge. The most hated or loved time of the year. Depends on who you are. What you do and your place in the world. This was the most horrible time of the year for you and getting stuck in the middle of it was terrifying.

(gif credit to original owner)

(A/N Yooo I Totally got inspired by @jungblue and their amazing Purge series Go go go go read it noowwwwwww instead of wasting time on my story also I am so inexperienced at angst so lets do this!)

Traffic. On the day of Purge, there was always fucking traffic. People desperately trying to get home to lock themselves away for the 12 hour period where people became utter monsters, something most people purposefully lock away in the depths of their mind just so they can “Cleanse” Themselves on one day. It made you sick to your stomach. While you thought about it, some of these people probably were just as ready to get home so they could prepare themselves for their night of “fun.” The thought made you shudder, you checked the time and your eyes bugged out of your head, you still had at least half an hours drive to your house and you only had an hour and a half until the commencement.

You had survived The Purge so many times but you knew, any year could be your last. It was what kept you going, what kept you up at night so you wouldn’t accidentally fall asleep though you doubt you would with people screaming all throughout the night. 

You stuck your head out the window of your car to see traffic was still very slowly moving. You decided to get somewhat comfortable in your small car. It wasn’t a great car, it was about five years old. The black paint was slightly peeling from its previous owner, you loved the car though and its gross brown leather seats. The radio was so old it had no USB port or anything from the last five years. So the good old radio stations were your friend through your daily commute. However, you tried to avoid listening on the day before, during and after The Purge as every station was discussing the Purge whether they agreed or disagreed. You didn’t want to hear it.

With an hour slowly slipping away, you remembered last year when you were about five minutes late to your home and had to fend off some crazy girl who had done herself up to inspire fear in others. It definitely worked on you, her eyes were stained black and rubbed down her cheeks as if she had been crying. She had red staining all her clothes, it dripped from her hair and she looked like she had stepped out of the movie Carrie. When you had the chance you had noticed she couldn’t have been over 18. It seemed to make her much more frightening that someone so young could be so violent. She had pressed a knife to your throat and began rummaging through your bag to steal whatever you had before a loud bang made her drop on top of you, she had been shot dead where she had stood. Her killer running off to his or her’s next target.

You had stumbled inside before you realized the red now staining you was a mix of blood and paint. You had showered it all off. However now your shower was permanently stained red with whatever that girl had painted herself with, it was a lasting memory it was the closest you had been to death during these Purge events. No one ever bothered with dingy flats unless they were looking for people in particular. Like how people had hunted down you brother and killed him while you hid in the closet, he had blocked the door with his body and when he died, he had essentially trapped you in there, it wasn’t a bad thing it just meant you were a young kid who was hungry, scared and thirsty. It wasn’t until the next morning when your neighbor had come to check on the two of you to discover the grizzly sight. She had called the police and they searched long and hard for you before the sound of sniveling drew them to the closet. You were crying, clutching a doll and stained in your brother's blood.

You were brought back to reality by the sound of the car behind you honking its horn to get you moving. You had felt the dampness of tears on your cheeks and rubbed at them. Your parents, brother and even your neighbor had given their lives to protect you, so you weren’t going to throw it all away. You had been saving up to buy a ticket and move away so You needed to work two more days and you would be free, free of the purge. Well, you would be. If the fucking traffic wasn’t so slow.

You saw the tunnel enter your field of vision, instead of calming down at the prospect of being closer to home, it picked up. You had a half hour to get home. You knew you wouldn’t make it so you flicked on the radio for the announcement just in case you got distracted again. You reached over and opened the glove box and saw the knife and gun you kept in there in case of any emergency. You entered the tunnel and poked your head out the window once more to see if you could spot what was holding up the cars. However, You couldn’t see much since the tunnel was long and only dimly light. People in front of you, were following your suit to see if they could check what the hold up was but no one knew and with 20 minutes left they didn’t really want to get out to go see in person.

The traffic was drawn to a very sudden halt, there was no movement, you looked behind you and out the back window of your car. You were near the middle of the tunnel so there was no backing out. You watched as the lights that illuminated the tunnel dropped out one by one until the only lights were yours and others headlights. You had heard of large purge groups setting up traps in places like this so it was like herding sheep. Just like one big game of hide and seek, except if you had the unfortunate luck to get caught. You’d die.

Eventually, you were growing restless, with 1 minute left you knew you weren’t going to get out of that tunnel. You locked all your doors and broke the lock on your passenger seats so the doors couldn’t be opened from the outside. Only the driver's seat could be opened. However, it wouldn’t stop people from smashing your windows. You had since shifted your weapons onto your person, and your hands were shaking. You could see some people get out the car and begin to run back the way they came. It was useless, some people were hiding under their car and you even at one point saw a mother place her child in the boot of her car before locking it. With a shaky hand you turned off your headlights, the last thing anyone needed was extra light. This was so you would have less chance of being seen.

Your heart thumped against your chest as the telltale alert noise filled the eerily quiet tunnel. You turned your own radio off to listen to it. Then that god awful voice, the one you dreaded to hear every year. “This is not a test. This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government. Weapons of Class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning until 7 a.m., when The Purge concludes. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you all.” A second passed before the loud siren blared into the tunnel and making tears sting your eyes.

People caught onto your idea and switched their headlights off and the only light was the very dim shine from the sun outside. That wouldn’t last long and soon you would all be plunged deep into darkness. You could hear yelling from one end and you knew it had begun. You were glued to your seat, far to frightened to move. You saw movement and you squinted your eyes and watched as a young man jumped onto the car near yours but still a fair distance away. You could hear a scream before you gathered it was the mother from earlier. She was sobbing loudly and begging for her life but this young guy just seemed to love teasing her. The purge hadn’t been going on for 10 minutes and you were about to listen to someone die, you were somewhat thankful you wouldn’t have to see it though as you couldn’t see shit.

It hadn’t been long before even the dim lighting from the setting sun outside vanished and all you could see was the occasional flashlight or one ballsy person who would flick on their headlights, however, all it would do was draw attention to themselves and the lights would soon be switched back off again. So far you had counted four Purgers, however, none came near your car. Screaming would every now and then fill the tunnel and make you feel sick but what else could you do? You didn’t know how many Purgers there were and what they had put in place to stop people from getting out.

The sound of a thump from your right scared the living shit out of you as you saw a young girl, no more than 10 banging on your car door. “Let me in please!” She begged.

You stared at her before opening your car door and pulling her in before slamming the door shut without thinking of the consequences of loud noises. You placed her in the back seat and got in there with her. “What do you know?” You asked her in a hushed tone.

She was shaking like a leaf and you took your jacket off and placed it around her. “They seem to know how many people are in the tunnel and they are counting them down.” She mumbled.

“Little red where on earth did you go? I promise I won’t hurt you, these hands are used to hug you tightly and never let go.” A deep voice rang out near your car.

It made the girl force herself as low as she could go before you copied and pressed yourself down as well. You could hear his footsteps nearing your car so you covered her mouth as well as your own. “Are you hiding from me? I do love a good game of hide and seek, don’t you?” He taunted.

You looked up ever so slightly and could see a psychotic set of eyes staring straight back at you “Ah! I found you! Hey, you’re cheating! That’s no fair.” He Chided before beginning to try to rip the door off.

You covered the girl's ears and just hoped he would give up and go away but he had seen you now and that gleam in his eyes, told you he wasn’t going to give up.