Faster Than This.

[Faster Than This] Chapter 8

I don't expect anyone to read this really. I just felt like I should upload it because I finally got around to writing another chapter. It's been 7 months since I have I think, touched writing at all. Which is very bad, I'd say I was on a hiatus or had an extreme case of writers block. Thank goodness for spring breaks and their amazing time length.

I'd like to say that this chapter provides a little background info on Alan and Riley's past. Moreso Riley than Alan. Alan just goes through a 'pmsing' phase in this chapter (angry sad angry sad, girls will understand this.) *laughs a little* which reminds me of a little quote I got from a great story called The Robbers Bride by Margaret Atwood

"You know how those chemicals released when a woman is pmsing? Men are constantly releasing them."

Anywho, before writing this chapter I went through all the chapter again and thought about how crappy they were. I sure hope my writings improved, maybe I've just changed the way I see things now... and that'll probably reflect on my writing style..

Comments are greatly appreciated. Critique is genuinely welcomed.

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Emotions that ran rampant along a rusty old forgotten trail, similar to blistering gray-purple smudged fumes following a decayed train is what she feels as its whip across her bare body over and over. It's almost as if she's not wearing any clothes. No, she's not, or else why would the wind leave such harsh scratches across her skin? The clothes that feel like nothing more than baggy condiments there to disguise the real taste, starts off heavy, clinging to her body like a dying animal. They grow heavier when she runs out the door, and heavier still as she dashes across the street to catch the bus before it leaves its stop, its rest place. Heavier until she was sure it weighed more than a couple tonnes, before it melts off of her like a snake shedding its skin. She should feel light now, light as a feather with no burdens clinging onto her. Instead she feels bland. Not even white but beige. Bland and powerless.

Powerless because she can't stop it. Powerless because she couldn't erase it, forget it, wipe at the past and erase it. She was designed frail, but not the body. No matter how petite, she always had a tough body. Tough enough to withstand the welting of the thin rubbers snakes the kids would use to torment her with. The kids her mom would force her to play with at little play dates carefully arranged by her mother with the kids of her mothers bosses, co-workers, higher ups. It began as a tease aimed at her quietness, thoughtfulness, with a pull to the hair here or a pinch to the arm there. And when she wouldn't cry out, or respond, it became fiercer. Because they expected her to cry, they expected her to shout and to shudder. Instead they received a thoughtful stare and a penetrating gaze which seemed to say Why are you doing this? Does it make you satisfied? Happy? And somehow that look was far worse than any fit of anger or revenge attempt. It poked at their raw insides, and even mocked them. Yes it mocked them, and they took it as stubbornness. So they kicked her more , waiting for when she would break, and they succeeded. Not physically, never physically, that way of harm never did anything to her. It broke her inside.

The dates would finish and her mom would take her into her arms, bury her face into the once curly hair Riley had and ask her how she enjoyed it. Asked her with such large pleading eyes that Riley felt forced to obliged. Here she did what she was expected. She smiled and thanked her mother just as a good girl should. And she'd walk away, making sure to keep one hand tucked carefully behind her clutching a doll like the films always showed trailing behind. What she was really doing was pressing the back of her skirt to her legs so that they wouldn't accidentally flutter up and show the ugly red swollen lines across her back thighs. That would mean her father seeing, and questioning. She would make up an excuse, “I was pressed against the heater, it was really cold. I didn't notice until it got too hot.” or more often used, since the former didn't seem plausible and she wasn't a daft girl “It's a game papa, like slaps except on the leg. It's an endurance test.” She inherited her quick wits and solemn mood from her father, who would no doubt figure out what was really happening, eventually leading into an argument between her parents from which Riley escaped by hiding under the safety of her bed.

“What are you doing?” Airen would say, peering beneath the linen sheets to see her cowering in the furthest corner with her eyes squeezed shut and fingers plugged in her ears. She wouldn't hear him, and he'd crawl in next to her, or poke her with one of those light up multicolored swords you get at Disneyland.

“I'm pretending to be in a cave, stuck because of an avalanche,” she would reply, “a loud avalanche.”

Her brother, -if he hadn't already-, would crawl in and sit next to her, his head bowing low so it wouldn't hit the top. He had sat next to her for a long while before he spoke.

“Mom is upstairs,” he whispered because it suddenly seemed like the right thing to do, “and dad left 2 hours ago.”

So she'd been sitting there for a two full hours. It seemed shorter than that, by a long shot. She knew how long 2 hours was, she had to spend two hours in school before the first break would start. The dark seemed oddly light when Riley decided to open her eyes and stare at her brother. Lighter than behind her lids. This was the time when she knew how to close her second eyelid, so that she could drown out everything, not just light. After that every time her parents had a disagreement, she'd find herself sitting in the exact same corner, her brother crawling in beside her not long after but not saying a word. Together they'd sit silently and wait for it to past. Sometime she played with his fingers to past the time, her eyes still closed. They'd help pull each other out and nothing was said about it after wards. Because when you don't say anything, when you don't acknowledge it. It's like it never happened in the first place.

“So that's it,” Elise says, breaking the long silence that stretched like an overextended piece of rubber. But rubber doesn't break, it snaps, and it causes a shock. Alan flinches at the sound of her voice, that sounded too carefree for his story. Carefree because it's understood too well. This story was gruesome, a story that would make another silent, speechless, fumbling for comforting words. Meaningless fake reassuring words to conceal instant judgement in the mind.

To Alan, this was disturbing, eerie. To Elise, this was her and normal.

“Well, that explains a lot,” she continues nonchalantly, like they've just lost to an unfortunate episode of gambling. This made Alan angry. Whatever he said before, on those late nights together or summer parties. Those sly grins and secret whispers could be answered using this tone Elise was so fond of. Anything he said would be OK, but not this. This was his secret, his skin tarnished from guilt and sin. It was Riley, Riley's secret.

“Explains what a lot?” he spits,disgusted with what he'd usually find attractive about her.

“At how screwed up you two are,” she shrugs at what she thought was so obvious.

Why did he tell her again? He questions his stupid mouth and emotions. He didn't trust her, he never trusted her, but that was probably one of the reasons why he was so tempted to tell.

“But Alan,” her hand moves to his upper thigh, leaving it there thoughtfully and taunting, “why are you so down about it?” Why indeed, as if she didn't know. Anybody would be down about this, they'd be going insane, tearing their hair, jabbing at their eyes, locked up at the nearest rehabilitation centre and forced to sing too happy inspirational songs. Maybe they wouldn't even make it this long, or maybe they'd be in eternal self denial. But Alan was not normal, he never was. Why are you doing this? It was Riley's voice in his head. The child voice, when she was still strong, before she was broken, just about to be broken. His eyes snapped back into focus. His thoughts clearer, his anger subsided. His body responds to this too and jumps back a little. Elise does too, it's a chain reaction.

“Sorry, my phone,” he says, suddenly aware of the vibration in his jean pocket. She doesn't say anything and just watches as he pulls it out, flipped it open and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello?” His face muscles suddenly dropp. Elise analyzes this, analizes the drooping of the face, the dimming of the eyes and the colour draining as if she were watching a fascinating show on discovery channel.

“Ill be right there,” he finally says, and closes the phone. His hand slide it back into his pant pocket again, with his eyes still looking lifeless.

“Who was it?” she askes. Speculating on who could cause such dulled eyes to look dead. A moment passed silent again until he makes a movement by looking up at the street lamp.

His breath was shallow, his answer curt.

“The police.”