The Hitman

[Keanumoreira]

(Revised)

 

Chapter 1: Home away from home

 

Oh mis-ter moon, moon, bright-n’ sil-v’ry moon,

Won’t you please shine down on me?

Oh mis-ter moon, moon, bright-n’ sil-v’ry moon,

Won’t you come from behind that tree?

My life’s in dan-ger, I’ve got to run,

Here comes a man with a big shot-gun!

 

(screech) ….

 

My life’s in dan-ger, I’ve got to run…

 

(screech)…

 

I’ve got to run…

 

(screech)

 

Run…run…run…runnnnn….

 

(screech)… (screech)

 

…..

 

Silence….

 

I awaken to the blatant static of the Robco television, blaring terribly into the heavy darkness as it rests in a vacant corner, tipped on its side, repeating one of the antique songs of the prewar world; “Oh Mister Moon.” It hisses aggressively as radioactive water spills over its surface, the flashing shapes revealing a hidden crack secluded on the ceiling, growing bigger, growing deadlier. This green sludge drags its way over to me, accumulating in a puddle that I’m in direct contact with, my body drained of energy the longer I stay in it. As the rusting television recites its tune in vain, I instinctively attempt to pull myself to my feet and away from this immediate danger, unexpectedly thrown back by an encumbrance against both my wrists and ankles, harming my back as it slams against the wall behind me. The puddle explodes into the air in all directions, as lethal as flying shrapnel, coating me with the thick, green film; the Geiger counter on my Pipboy abuzz with excitement as it finally detects the presence of the dangerous substance. I groan painfully, clearing my face and looking down to make out the rough outlines confining me as I begin pushing myself to test the power holding me back. But I am simply too weak to resist the strain, slumping back to the ground exhausted, chains ringing and skipping from wall to wall like a gong has gone off, and I sit and ponder on what has just occurred.

 

I attempt to dig through my memories in search of an answer- what happened to me last, who was behind this- sorting out all physical aggression of such a harsh environment. Whoever placed me here obviously has no care for their guest’s well being as the room is unbearably hot, inflaming my muscles and pushing down on my fragile and broken body. To add to the undrinkable ooze around me, the air was just as polluted, weighted down by an unbreathable mass of harmful chemicals- perhaps aerosol or from internal decay- every stroke that dances about- a potentially deadly combination. From behind the fatal green mist, the walls too, even if I can’t see them through the unwavering abyss of darkness, is unnerving, pressing against my mind as I sense a very confined space just outside the realm of chaos playing out within me, adding a touch of claustrophobia. But as small as it is, something much grander lies beyond this room, unnoticeable before from all the raging distractions, but I realize at once that I am not alone in this place. I can hear voices echoing, screaming, pleading- an ad infinitum of sounds streaming in from an impossible set of directions- never stopping, never resting, always grueling about something or someone. It’s as if I can hear them- not literally but spiritually, like we both share the same soul between us. Perhaps some were here because they deserved to be and their state of being is just a weakness on my part. Or could it be that most, if not all, were innocent and that their stories all just happened to run together in coincidence? No matter what the truth maybe, it doesn’t change the level of the atmosphere, the sounds of torture just simply too much to bear. The stresses pushed onto me seemed to be evolving by every second, growing and tightening as my world shrunk and loosened, a clear play of invisible Darwinism. This was not a good place to be.

 

Aside from the other inmates and the damning sparks threatening to electrify me, all is quiescent , and I think I am alone in this cell, all calm, silent, and still as I estimate the seconds, minutes, and hours that pass. Was it hours that passed by? Maybe it was; hard to tell with so much time on your hands, and with that time it becomes so simple to lose yourself in a situation such as this. Possibly drugged, delirious, probed, a constant, control, or dependent or independent variable for some twisted experiment your being volunteered for- all these terrific things thrown at you that I’ve heard from various sources on my long travels. But then you got all sorts of things like raiders, or slavers, perhaps a peer pressured or downright unholy scientist gone desperate or insane, or even worse, the fabled Enclave to which no one has been reported to escape from without losing a limb- or their life- first. These are stories that don’t often end with a princess locked up in a tower and some shining Knight from fates command that rides on in, swooping her up in his arms as they share a legendary kiss. The books of times past never made sense to me. As easy as it is to make yourself believe that the books happy ending will somehow happen to you in a similar fate, odds are that such hopes will no doubt get you killed. There will be no divine horse carrying a savior, no musty Vertibird to unload troops who suddenly break the wall down and carry you off to safety. “There is no hope, no happiness- America’s children live in a terrifying, meaningless existence” as one corrupted individual once preached to me before his ultimate demise. He was a liar, a coward, a man standing behind walls of greed and cruelty, shouting his salted propaganda that I knew better than most to follow, and in the end, he became what he sought to rid the world of, his own enemy as it was. But there was one thing he was always right about. The world, this world, OUR world, was not something to be proud of, and as it was out there as it is in here, nothing hopeful reigned supreme. Even if he was referring to the Mid Northwestern wasteland and the children that suffered under it, aren’t we all just that? The children of a world we betrayed that now lack stability, closure, and prosperity, a place where the only means of making a living will eventually spur you to wrong others or choose to be crushed into the dust, your only possessions soon to be plundered from a lifeless corpse. The Earth beyond this room was no different from within here, and it comes as no surprise that help, no matter how determined or resourceful, can save you. No one will come, there will be no fairytale ending…

 

While in this state of darkness, combining worse case scenarios as a means to distract myself, something from beyond the shadow line, just behind those iron chipped bars of my cell, makes its way towards me, the ambiguous phantom slowly inching its way closer. I tilt my head up slowly as I notice it from the corner of my eye and the slow click click of its footsteps. But as soon as I do so it vanishes, just as quickly as it came, and when I come to rest my head and resume my cynical fantasies, the figure moves again, retreating into the shadows every time I come back up to greet it, and the process continues. This goes on for a good five minutes, a tug-of-war of the mind game as it’s no doubt trying to test my sanity, and test my sanity it did. Whether or not it was really there at the time was difficult to say, as it could be nothing more than stress playing tricks on me. So many questions still remained, and still so little answers. Why me? What did this thing, if it were indeed real, want that I had that it could possibly benefit from or need? Was it here because I was losing my mind, or did it have a direct link to that? Was this thing the source behind it all?

 

I squint to follow the faint figure the next time it revealed itself, always keeping track, never losing sight, and finally, at last, I remember it, all of it. Of course, how could I have forgotten?

 

“A-Andy?” I wait for a response, but the speechless entity only continues its paced march.

 

“Andy?” I reverberate weakly, but louder. Still no answer but from its footsteps, getting closer and closer as it seems to favor THAT name.

 

“Andy is that you? Damn it you b****** let me go! So is this how you’re going to play it? Hiding behind a fortress in your own little harem?” Still nothing, but then, as a lone, rough palm rests around the bars, there he is, a face out of the nightmarish halls that even I wouldn’t have cooked up.

 

A sudden flash blinds my eyes, the entire room filling up with illumination, the blurry face smiling malevolently as it peers into the crowded space. He pulls away from the light switch, appearing intimidating as the flickering light hardly captures his image, the bulb itself barely holding together by a bouquet of entangled wires, some hanging freely as the whole thing seems to move slightly on its own from side to side. But I’m not afraid of him. When my eyes refocus, the tall, middle aged warden finally makes his appearance.

 

“Well…well…well…look who’s come ‘in around”.

 

“YOU!” I lunge forward, forgetting who’s really in charge, Andy laughing as I try again and again to reach him.

 

“Oh Hannah, you look a little tied up. Save your breath, even you aren’t strong enough to break steel.”

 

“I’ll break it with my teeth!” I counter, struggling with all my might to break free. “What do you want from me, why am I here? I thought you picked up and ran and never looked back!” Andy paces about curiously, rubbing that scruffy red beard of his, but always with that cruel smile I’ve come to hate when he was always ahead of the game. B******.

 

“You know what I want Hannah; I haven’t changed.” The beast within me only seems to grow angrier.

 

“STILL? It’s been fifteen years and it’s Still about the money?”

 

“It’s always been about the caps to me Hannah, you and your parents knew that.”

 

“Don’t you dare mention their name!” By now, my heart is beating like a chorus of war drums, my breath as thin as a dime, the tension so hot that you could cut it like a Mirelurk cuts through a wasteland child.

 

All I wanted was to snap his neck, fling him about like a ragdoll, and feed him to a pack of p***** off Deathclaws whose eggs have just been stolen from right under their noses. I wanted to kill him, but he had me caged up like his little pet, teasing me with a nice juicy bone that lay just beyond my reach. If I got my hands on him…

 

“Still thinking about Ma and Pop eh?” His trash talk distracts me for a moment. “And you say that I can’t forget about the past. Let’s see who’s really trapped…” Andy reaches into the pockets of his slovenly, green pants, swirling around inside until he pulls out a golden trinket, the resting light glinting off of its spectacular surface. “Shall we?”

 

At first I don’t recognize what I’m looking at or what the point of it is, but when he opens it up to a grey photograph of a happy couple and their newborn child, all primitive signals within me explode. That is the locket of my parents.

 

“HOW DID YOU GET THAT?” I roar, Andy pleased by my violent reaction.

 

“The same way I got you into that box of-“

 

“THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU! GIVE IT BACK!”

 

“Oh-ho, I’m afraid for you it is, and so are you. Look around little Hitman, you’ve got no place to run. I’ve won, you’ve lost, and now everything belongs to me. That is, unless, you are willing to tell me where that fortune of yours is.”

 

“Go to hell!” His smile quickly fades away into a brief sense of anger, but as always, he masks his true feelings.

 

“Hmmm…pity. Well, no matter, I’ll figure it out sooner or later, WITH…or without your help. It doesn’t matter anyway; in this place, I’m the king.” He places the trinket back into his pocket, turns away, and lingers his finger on the light switch just before he steps out.

 

“Goodnight…my dear.”

 

Click…

Edited March 14, 2011 by Keanumoreira

[AliasTheory]

Hmm. Here's what I think:

 

I find your story to be very unclear at the beginning. I was confused about what was going on until later in the story. You have this interesting internal development, but it is difficult to paint a scene with no physical information. What does the area look like? It is one thing for the reader to have to imagine the world in his own vision, but you have to at least give a starting point.

 

I also noticed that you use a lot of "he did this," " he did that." It sometimes becomes redundant and then sentence structure becomes too similar and repetitive. When it comes to describing people and how they feel, what do you want the reader to know first? Perhaps a feeling or an emotion. I would suggest toning down on the use of commas and rewrite certain parts. I'm sure you can find them. Ask yourself if a person could say the sentence easily and fluidly in real life...sometimes you'll find what you've written a bit strange when you say it out loud.

 

I think you could have fleshed out some parts a bit more. Like the end with the shooting for example. That's pretty significant, but it seems to pass by quite fast for what just happened. It seems like a fun scene to write about, anyway. :)

 

On the bright side, you have some nicely written, descriptive sentences here and there and character interaction. Keep that up.

[Keanumoreira]

Understood, corrections pending, thanks for reading Alias. :happy:

 

One thing though, the point of this chapter is to build a suspenseful scene, let the reader know what Hannah's motives are, her goals, and why. I did plan on explaining where she was and what was around her in the next chapter, don't you worry about that. I wouldn't leave my readers wondering in such a way. The fight scene doesn't end here though, it is carrying over to the next chapter, for a great deal of it infact. But I'll try my best to work on this in the future.

 

Anyway, I do appreciate your criticism, that and the fact that you took the time to look it over and redirect me on somethings. If you're planning on reading more, and please do, I'd be grateful if you could do there what you did here.

[AliasTheory]

Even though you are trying to build a suspenseful scene and not spill all the beans, yes, I think you need a little more. Paint a picture of a really dark room that creaks with lights shining through cracks in the ceiling...dust particles dancing in the air...something like that. That's quite ominous and mysterious. Totally up to you though. You should try to personify objects sometimes because it helps to get the visual out since we can relate to it. Like the whole "dancing" thing like I just mentioned. Metaphors and such are very powerful tools, but don't overuse them. It makes you sound ridiculous and kinda stupid...like thesaurus-happy people. Now those are funny to read.

 

I also noticed a lot of grammar errors with some commas and you always say "common" instead of "come on." If you want that accent on your words try something like "c'mon." Use an apostrophe. I like writing characters that use these shortcuts and stuff because they tend to also be interesting and bold as well. I do something similar with a character you should already be familiar with in my story.

 

You also seem to love ellipses a lot. Kind of like my best friend back home. You don't need them in speech all the time and when trying to discuss two separate but similar sentences, use a semicolon.

 

Also, another suggestion. Be wary of where you break up your story when you try to make chapters. It kind of goes without saying you shouldn't just put things to a halt in the middle of an intense fight or argument or something unless you have a good reason, but just remember: it is a chapter. When the reader turns the page, you can potentially start a new scene as you transition from the older scene. The same question I said before applies here: what do you want the reader to see first?

 

Symbolism is also neat, and I think we often subconsciously associate with it. If you watch a lot of movies, don't you notice common themes such as weather? Take the sun for example; it symbolizes warmth and life. Since the beginning of mankind, it has been the source for basically everything on planet Earth. Heck even the wind is related to the sun...that just goes to show its omnipresence. Anyway, if day time shows liveliness, night symbolizes coldness and death and negativity. Evening is the approaching of night, so think what you can do with that. Also consider spring and summer versus fall and winter in the same respects. Or rain. You get the picture.

 

This is all constructive crit and by no means do you have to take it. I get a lot of constructive crit on my essays and writing and I rarely ever listen to all of it. And I'm no writer...or at least, am looking into this area of expertise.

[Keanumoreira]

But I want you to criticise me, I want everyone to, at least to a certain degree. I will admit, I don't take it easily, I'm a very sensitive person and it does hurt, but I tell myself one thing "Do you want to stay where you are forever, or do you want to change for the better?" I need it because I'm aware of the issues I have, but I can't correct them if no one points them out. I don't take all the advice you give me since my style differs from yours, but some of it is what I do need, and I do take it and I do apply it where I need to.

[AliasTheory]

Absolutely. If I get the time and I'm in the mood, I'll be happy to read over more things. And yeah, don't copy my style...make your own style. That is what gives you identity as a writer. Go figure.

 

If there is one thing I would really like to see you do, it is again, give us a little physical information on the environment. You don't have to barf out everything in one paragraph; you can slowly reveal additional details as you go along. You seem to be good with characters though, and breathing life into them is definitely no easy task. Your interactions are particularly nice to read. Good characters make interesting stories, especially when they do the extreme and things people may not normally do. But of course, balance...they can't be TOO extreme. Otherwise things get funneh. :P

 

Oh yeah. Swearing is a good way for getting emotions out. Even though it is offensive and the word may not be used in its true meaning, it does mean one thing: anger, frustration or hatred. For some people it naturally becomes a part of their everyday language, and that says a lot about them. So that's cool that you aren't afraid to use those words. I mean, what would a war movie be without swearing? Boring, uninvolving and unrealistic.

 

I wouldn't mind some comments from you on my story as well. :)

[Keanumoreira]

Absolutely. If I get the time and I'm in the mood, I'll be happy to read over more things. And yeah, don't copy my style...make your own style. That is what gives you identity as a writer. Go figure.

 

If there is one thing I would really like to see you do, it is again, give us a little physical information on the environment. You don't have to barf out everything in one paragraph; you can slowly reveal additional details as you go along. You seem to be good with characters though, and breathing life into them is definitely no easy task. Your interactions are particularly nice to read. Good characters make interesting stories, especially when they do the extreme and things people may not normally do. But of course, balance...they can't be TOO extreme. Otherwise things get funneh. :P

 

Oh yeah. Swearing is a good way for getting emotions out. Even though it is offensive and the word may not be used in its true meaning, it does mean one thing: anger, frustration or hatred. For some people it naturally becomes a part of their everyday language, and that says a lot about them. So that's cool that you aren't afraid to use those words. I mean, what would a war movie be without swearing? Boring, uninvolving and unrealistic.

 

I wouldn't mind some comments from you on my story as well. :)

 

Don't worry, now that I know my problems, I'll try to improve them. Yeah, developing the characters isn't hard for me, but where to place them in those times is.

 

I have been reading your story, seeing how you structured it and where you went, not to say that I'm copying you, definetly not, our two styles differ greatly in some areas. I'll be sure to leave you a comment here and there, that you can count on.

 

Thanx again A you've been a big help. Guess I better start planning. :happy:

[Keanumoreira]

(Revised)

 

Chapter 2: Reminiscing

 

“ANDY! ANDY YOU COME BACK HERE! COME BACK HERE- NOW!!!” I yank and twist at the chains in heated infuriation desperately, collapsing onto the floor in a devastating pang of tears and grief.

 

I wrap my hands in a deadlock around my knees, my face buried in my hands, streaming and dripping with salted sorrow, my long, chestnut brown hair coming to rest beside them. For a long time I stayed in this position, crying on and off, thinking deeply about when times were simpler:

 

“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack

All dressed in black, black, black

With silver buttons, buttons, buttons

All down her back, back, back!”

 

Laughter fills the air-they belong to me-, spinning and twirling in unison with the ballet of the morning breeze, passing just beneath the charcoal colored trunks of a dead tree grove, seed saplings dotting their branches which will never grow into the bushy leaves of their distant ancestors. A young man, perhaps in his mid thirties, claps along with me as the palette of oranges, reds, and yellows spills over the canvas of the horizon, the rising run stretching to greet a hollow world.

 

"She asked her mother, mother, mother

For 50 cents, cents, cents

To see the elephants, elephants, elephants

Jump over the fence, fence, fence!”

 

We clap a little faster now, the challenge to sing and to play along deepened as each line is recited. As we sing along, another figure decides to jump in-her worn out, bottom tattered, pink dress flowing with the wind as she gets into the rhythm.

 

“They jumped so high, high, high

They reached the sky, sky, sky

And they didn't come back, back, back

'Til the 4th of July, ly, ly!”

 

We all jump up into the air together hollering a grand, cheerful “Woo-hoo!” as my feet are lifted from under me, the man sending me into the air like an airplane with Zooms and Zangs following with every round before setting me down for a break. He straightens out his red cuffed shirt that had wrinkled during playtime, loosening a button to cool himself down as he clears away the rocks and pebbles sticking to his beige pants. Holes and tears line every corner, sowed patches necessary to hold it together. They were rough and were sometimes hard to look at it, but I wouldn’t trade that shirt away for the world. I loved that shirt.

 

“Sweetie…” replied the woman as she acted as a bridge for me to sit on between her right shoulder and the man’s left, “Did you sleep well?” I didn’t hesitate to answer.

 

“Yes, mommy, I did.” Mom looked over to my father who was observing the dawn with a troubling thought on his mind.

 

“George? Are you alright?”

 

“Hmmm…? Oh yes Marcy, I’m alright.” He kissed her with the white lie stained on his lips as I believed mother had suspected, but at the time I knew nothing but of the small clouds forming over the sands, dust devils we called them, and of the flapping crows passing overhead.

 

Ca…ca…ca…

 

“Mommy…mommy…” I cried as I tugged at her brown ponytail, nearly untying the red bow that wrapped around it, “Can we adopt a super mutant?”

 

My father laughed, “Heh…heh…Hannah, you know how dangerous a Super Mutant is. You know we can’t adopt one, not even as a pet.”

 

“But they look like big, green teddy bears! With their al-al-pho-o-betic-“ I struggled to pronounce it, “-betic…mixed up words! Like that yummy soup with the little words in it that you find sometimes in those stores Daddy. They just look like they need a great, big hug!”

 

He chuckled again, a large smile forming across his face, “We’ll see”.

 

“We will?” said a bewildered mother in a stern, concerned tone, father answering her with an unconscious “No” as I laid my head on his shoulder.

 

Chirp…chirp…chirp…

 

The world is suddenly recognizable again; the sunlit skies bleaching over with an expansion of eclipse, the endless horizon compressing into a four walled cell. It is morning now, the boiling air replaced by a chilling sequence of drafts. At one point during the night, I must have dozed off and begun to dream, or maybe all this remembering took place in the short hours before sunrise- hard to tell with a foggy mind.

 

Chirp…chirp…chirp…

 

There it is again…that melodic, sweet, mysterious sound, a candle in the dark. I gaze up at the tiny beam of light pushing its way through the small window high above me, a strange figure bathed by a seemingly divine moment. I turn my head to the dancing shadow making its way across the prison floor, a light, yellow feather coming to rest gracefully in my lap.

 

“A bird?” I stroke the feather gently, slowly rising with my back to the wall to observe this one of a kind creature.

 

When the light is nothing more but pleasant to look at, I see it in all its glory- standing there proudly as it peers down at me. It was an Altamira Oriole, the rare birds of South and Central America, its short, thick beak grooming its plump underbelly, black markings extending from its beady eyes down to its chest and over both its wings and tail. But why was this bird here? How did its species maintain its survival, let alone those colorful plumes of feathers for the past two centuries? The only logical conclusion had to be genetic engineering, perhaps a scientist somewhere in the U.S., maybe Canada or down in Mexico, was experimenting with surviving DNA samples and testing them for their studies. Or, could it be that actually, truthfully, a miracle existed out there, that an oasis in the desert could be possible? Some claim that the glistening lights of New Vegas, that wonderful metropolis out in the Mojave Desert, was one of those, but boos, sex, and elevated crime rate regulated by a totalitarian “government” doesn’t exactly fit the bill. But this…this was something else. Real life, a real chance, out there in the world- could such a thing be real? Nonetheless, wherever this bird originated from, it provided something new, a true reason to believe that maybe not all hope was lost.

 

“You’re lucky…Mr. Bird.” I explained to him, “You’re not confined in this box like some kind of children’s doll. You have wings, a sleek angle, and a carefree, energetic attitude. That world out there is your oyster, your playground, while I’m stuck in here counting the cycles, rotting away like a wastelander out in that hell.”

 

Tweet Tweet…Tweet Tweet…Tweet.

 

“You’re a beautiful musician. With a life like that, you must have a lot of inspiration.” I stood there for a second, witnessing his generous performance, feelings slightly lifted and a want to move myself.

 

“No one can fill that vacant chair

Home isn't home when you're not there

No need to knock, the door is open for you

Please, Daddy

 

Even the clock keeps tickin'

Daddy, won't you please come home?

Daddy, do you have to roam…so very long?

There's lots of other new sheiks who would like to be sheikin'

Haven't slipped yet, but I'm liable to weaken

Daddy, Daddy, won't you please come home?”

 

“Daddy…daddy please…please daddy…come home…”

 

“Oh…sweetie”, I turn away from the window, dusk descending on our two story Victorian, tears rushing down my face as mother pulls me to her side, setting down a tray off scavenged apple tarts meant to be shared “He’ll be back soon; he just needs to pick up those deliveries.”

 

“The fourth time this week, Mommy? He’s been gone for so long, I worry about him”. I cry into her lap as she comforts me, brushing my hair with her hand and rubbing my back.

 

“I know, sweetie…I miss Daddy too.” She raises me to eye level by placing her index finger under my chin and slowly pushing it up, “But you know what Daddy does is important to us. Hannah, baby, we live a very difficult life in this world: Raiders, Super Mutants, mutated monsters- horrible things that would hurt us if it weren’t for your father's sacrifice. Honey, look around.” I follow her hand as she points out the house, “Do you see what we have here, Hannah, how fortunate we are than what most others could say? We live in a very old, still standing prewar home that your father has used our fortune to maintain, but he can’t use that fortune if he doesn’t have one. The work he must do is extremely dangerous, but he does it because he loves me and because he loves you. You are the world to him, Hannah, don’t ever forget that. That’s why he is taking such a big risk by doing what he does. He only wants the best for me and for you…for his family.”

 

I dry my tears with my sleeve, sniffle a bit, and hug her tightly, “I know, Mommy…I just wish we could spend more time together.” She sets me on the ground, takes me by the hand, and we proceed to prepare dinner as I grab one of the snacks from off the tray, “So do I.”

 

In those days, while Dad was off making his rounds, it was just me, Mom, and that house. I never really felt attached to that old Victorian as much as they did since it was a very big, and at the time, a very scary place. During windy days, when the house was vacant and all you could hear was the rustling breeze whistling in through the windows, a loud and ghostly whooo…whooo…whooo… would blow on in, sending shivers down my spine every time it made its unwelcomed visits. At night, when the cyclone of howls finally died out, another conscious threat fell upon me. With the lack of electricity flowing in and constant blackouts emerging from the long damaged and deteriorating electric plants, and candles a rarity in the ruins, it was often very dark in the already haunting Victorian, creaking and swaying with the slightest movement that happened within it. I was always paranoid during those times, often seeing and hearing things that weren’t either there or were the branches of the threes outside brushing up against the exterior of the house. The dusty chandeliers, whose structure were unbalanced, would sometimes rattle as they tilted to one side or the other like an uneven set of weights, laughing as I avoided their shadows in fear that they would fall atop of me. The walls themselves seemed to follow you, telling secrets behind your back, spying on you when you slept...always icy cold to the touch even when you swore it was one hundred and ten outside. But it was a fairly stable place and I trusted mother in what she said for I felt lucky; I knew I was lucky, but I didn’t always see that I was lucky. Maybe in a way I was spoiled, I don’t know, but when you’ve grown up without ever spending a set amount of time with your father, it certainly doesn’t seem like you are. I would always pester her by asking where he roamed at least once a day, and it was always that same response: “Daddy’s out selling schematics.”

 

That was how we got around I guess, selling random plans my dad would formulate in the backyard in this strange little shed of his, and yet they always worked. A machine that could self-repair, a metal box with buttons that could think without a human aid, and a glowing ball that could flash blind you; that’s how I use to describe them anyway. The things he made were wasteland renowned and there was always someone from somewhere who wanted to buy them, usually traders, and because his job was so demanding, Father would have to periodically travel into the D.C. ruins to find more parts or supplies for the machines he would build. As the years prior to my eighth birthday progressed, however, things began to take a turn for the worse. Although our steady pile of bottle caps was far from drying up, each year we would receive less and less orders, and more of them became increasingly hostile meetings. We were under a lot of pressure, and Mom and Dad tried their best to hide it from me, but it came to a point when it all fell apart and that was a day I would never forget…

 

"Dear diary…

 

Father still hasn’t returned home and Mother is on edge as always. I sit here with Mr. Fluffles wondering if he’ll be back in time to celebrate my birthday today, but as the sun goes down I feel that isn’t going to happen. He promised he would be on time and Daddy never breaks a promise. He just doesn’t. I know he said that I shouldn’t but I worry about him more and more each day and he isn’t even himself anymore. He smokes, he drinks- he never puts on a smile anymore and doesn’t even want to go to my tea parties or play dress up like we used to do. I don’t care if we are poor, I don’t care if the monsters get us; I just want things back like the way they were before we got into this stupid ska-matick thing. Mother is calling me to the living room now so I guess I'd better go. I’ll write more tomorrow anyway. I just wish things would change…

 

“Hannah…Hannah!” I set the pen down, mark my signature, and grasp Mr. Fluffles- my teddy bear- , hurrying on down the awkwardly curved staircase under Mother’s wishes, leaving my diary on the bed to sit in the fading sunlight.

 

As I approach the knees of the stairs, I notice that no one is there to greet me, the unsettling environment slowly creeping along, “Mommy?” No one answers…

 

I walk along the hallway leading to the kitchen, pacing myself along the fluttering sheets of the windows, the cool breeze licking my naked arms and legs, my hair following the direction of dusk’s breath. I encircle the entire area without a soul to be seen, winding up where I began, the bottomless pit in my stomach growing deeper, “M-Mommy, anyone?”

 

The lights suddenly go out, footsteps echo from behind me, the Victorian creaking and swaying from the outside storm. “Who’s there?” I’m almost to tears now, “Hello? Daddy, is that you?”

 

“Heh…heh…heh…” The low, daunting laugh amplifies throughout the house, a shadow amongst dozens emerging into the small silver of light from the roofs caved in portions.

 

His smile is malevolent, his eyes are piercing with the promise of pain- appearance alone is not to be taken lightly. He holds a knife in one hand, a forming fist in the other, blood dripping from his weapon’s serrated edge, “My…my…if it isn’t the birthday girl.” My eyes widen, and my heart thumps as loudly as the cracking thunder in the distance.

 

He grins as I anxiously utter his name, “Andy?”

Edited March 22, 2011 by Keanumoreira

[Keanumoreira]

Chapter 3:

 

(To be revised)

Edited March 14, 2011 by Keanumoreira

[Keanumoreira]

Chapter 4:

 

(To be revised)

Edited March 14, 2011 by Keanumoreira