AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
I own the white tanktop. Everything else, fiction, mostly. Inspired fiction, however.
Our antagonist isn't really an antagonist. (Unfortunately, I'm feeling more sympathetic to her now, so this plot may go a little farther than I thought...) There's going to be some interesting stuff ahead, which little Bono probably is not going to like. Although as my sister says, I have a propensity to write about things I haven't done
Warning: a bit of swearing.
***
As she walked down the street, shivering, the night became an undefined, soothing blur of dark, closed storefronts like blank eyes and the reflections of headlights in the lampposts.
She hadn’t gone out walking away from home for a while. She stayed in the apartment most times, but usually there she just stayed, in her controlled chaos, so the world couldn’t catch her—for so it would, if she revealed herself, she had feared a little.
I should have left a long time ago, Cath thought to herself with what in her mind wasn’t muddled from drink. Her head was sharp static, full of pins and wires—but the hangover was nothing next to the scratches of the words she ran from. She had slammed the door, forgetting a jacket—it wasn’t hers, anyway; a man had given it to her, when she huddled in the cold—and there was no way in hell she was going back there to claim it.
Bastard. The fast tempo of her walking couldn’t block out the image of her brother leaning drunkenly from the wall and loudly drawing her father into a fistfight. It hadn’t been what they did—but what they said, casually, to her.
Her heart pounded as she stumbled up the stairs, hoping she walked fast enough to hide the scratches on her arms. She hadn’t brought other clothing to the apartment, dammit, and had only the sleeveless shirt she wore and her jacket for tops. If she was even luckier, she could go so fast she wouldn’t even be noticed. A hard, sharp slamming sound of glass from downstairs killed that hope instantly.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t there, Cathlin!” she heard more distinctly the overly loud male voice. Her father mocked her full name, pretending to believe she was his little girl still, someone to be commanded, who always went to school and came home with her books, nice and clean in sweaters and appropriate pants. She didn’t dwell on what he said but bolted up to her room, blindly threw her clothing into the corner, heart thumping, and threw on something on the bed. A tamer seeming Cath came downstairs, eyes wide in an uncontrollable manifestation of fear or anxiety.
“Gone and done your homework, have you, Cathlin? Back from school? Not seeing any boys, are you?”
Yeah right. She was too frozen to respond, adrenaline turning her veins cold and the air acrid as the walls.
One of the men loomed in the doorway. Her father, or her brother—someone with a black eye and a bloodied face; it was hard to tell. She didn’t want to get closer; the sour alcohol-breath bit, made her slightly nauseous. It wasn’t dark enough; he noticed her hastily-changed clothing was askew.
The mood abruptly changed for the worse as something sharp thudded into the wall near her head and stuck there, quivering quicksilver danger.
“The hell have you been, slut? You haven’t been to focking school for days!”
I’ll rip a new ass for whoever’s been messing with you.”
She couldn’t leave fast enough.
She found she wandered to the street crossing the hissing stream, where her apartment was. Something was off: a ghostly luminescence barring the door. She looked closer, silently frantic at what she knew she would find. A police notice saying the rent had not been paid and the place would be torn down or given to new owners.
She didn’t say anything, though a yell clawed from inside her throat—she did not let it out, mindful of all else who wandered in the night.
Nowhere else to go, she walked down the street the opposite way she had come. There was nowhere open, no space she could even sit in, and the street was filthy, shining malevolently with moonlight. Her feet began to tire and then to burn, the signs blurring in front of her—signs…somewhere inhabited, or some bar open, but something. She was too exhausted for relief, banging open the red glass door of someplace or other.
“You need money to go in here!” the bartender snarled. His face blurred into the lights and became swirls of neon and ultraviolet half-dreams.
“Fuck you,” Cath groaned, head dropping onto arms that latched cementlike onto the tabletop.
Our antagonist isn't really an antagonist. (Unfortunately, I'm feeling more sympathetic to her now, so this plot may go a little farther than I thought...) There's going to be some interesting stuff ahead, which little Bono probably is not going to like. Although as my sister says, I have a propensity to write about things I haven't done
Warning: a bit of swearing.
***
As she walked down the street, shivering, the night became an undefined, soothing blur of dark, closed storefronts like blank eyes and the reflections of headlights in the lampposts.
She hadn’t gone out walking away from home for a while. She stayed in the apartment most times, but usually there she just stayed, in her controlled chaos, so the world couldn’t catch her—for so it would, if she revealed herself, she had feared a little.
I should have left a long time ago, Cath thought to herself with what in her mind wasn’t muddled from drink. Her head was sharp static, full of pins and wires—but the hangover was nothing next to the scratches of the words she ran from. She had slammed the door, forgetting a jacket—it wasn’t hers, anyway; a man had given it to her, when she huddled in the cold—and there was no way in hell she was going back there to claim it.
Bastard. The fast tempo of her walking couldn’t block out the image of her brother leaning drunkenly from the wall and loudly drawing her father into a fistfight. It hadn’t been what they did—but what they said, casually, to her.
Her heart pounded as she stumbled up the stairs, hoping she walked fast enough to hide the scratches on her arms. She hadn’t brought other clothing to the apartment, dammit, and had only the sleeveless shirt she wore and her jacket for tops. If she was even luckier, she could go so fast she wouldn’t even be noticed. A hard, sharp slamming sound of glass from downstairs killed that hope instantly.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t there, Cathlin!” she heard more distinctly the overly loud male voice. Her father mocked her full name, pretending to believe she was his little girl still, someone to be commanded, who always went to school and came home with her books, nice and clean in sweaters and appropriate pants. She didn’t dwell on what he said but bolted up to her room, blindly threw her clothing into the corner, heart thumping, and threw on something on the bed. A tamer seeming Cath came downstairs, eyes wide in an uncontrollable manifestation of fear or anxiety.
“Gone and done your homework, have you, Cathlin? Back from school? Not seeing any boys, are you?”
Yeah right. She was too frozen to respond, adrenaline turning her veins cold and the air acrid as the walls.
One of the men loomed in the doorway. Her father, or her brother—someone with a black eye and a bloodied face; it was hard to tell. She didn’t want to get closer; the sour alcohol-breath bit, made her slightly nauseous. It wasn’t dark enough; he noticed her hastily-changed clothing was askew.
The mood abruptly changed for the worse as something sharp thudded into the wall near her head and stuck there, quivering quicksilver danger.
“The hell have you been, slut? You haven’t been to focking school for days!”
I’ll rip a new ass for whoever’s been messing with you.”
She couldn’t leave fast enough.
She found she wandered to the street crossing the hissing stream, where her apartment was. Something was off: a ghostly luminescence barring the door. She looked closer, silently frantic at what she knew she would find. A police notice saying the rent had not been paid and the place would be torn down or given to new owners.
She didn’t say anything, though a yell clawed from inside her throat—she did not let it out, mindful of all else who wandered in the night.
Nowhere else to go, she walked down the street the opposite way she had come. There was nowhere open, no space she could even sit in, and the street was filthy, shining malevolently with moonlight. Her feet began to tire and then to burn, the signs blurring in front of her—signs…somewhere inhabited, or some bar open, but something. She was too exhausted for relief, banging open the red glass door of someplace or other.
“You need money to go in here!” the bartender snarled. His face blurred into the lights and became swirls of neon and ultraviolet half-dreams.
“Fuck you,” Cath groaned, head dropping onto arms that latched cementlike onto the tabletop.
