This is an unpolished piece of something I’ve been working on for a little while…

**Chapter One – Stranger Danger**

I don’t trust foreigners.

OK, that’s possibly a bit misleading since I don’t really trust anyone at all. My distrust of foreigners is neither greater than, nor less than my distrust of anyone else, but rather equal to it. The only difference being that I happened to be staring at one now – a foreigner that is – a somewhat shocking occurrence too, as I hadn’t come across another human being, domestic or foreign, in nearly a month’s time.

What the fuck is he doing here, in my swimming hole? Not an easy place to get to, by either chance or design.

My fourteen year old self would have (secretly) delighted in stealing a forbidden glimpse at a chiseled bit of dripping wet, nude male flesh, but I haven’t been fourteen for a long time, and that was before the world fell apart. So I didn’t take notice of whether or not he was a fine specimen, only that he didn’t belong there – in my pond – and that I wanted him gone, immediately, and with deadly certainty.

**Chapter Two – Ancient History**

I go out of my way to avoid people at all costs. It’s simply not safe to put your trust or faith in anyone else, or to rely on anyone for anything – period. I live in the mountains. I live off the land. I live off of my own resources. I live in the shadows. I am unseen and unheard. I leave no trail, because to live life in any other way is to live a life of slavery and brutality, subject to the whims of evil men and women; a life devoid of personal freedom, devoid of dignity, and devoid of humanity. I would rather be alone and alive than be among others and inhuman.

I was lucky. When the world fell, I had already had a head start at being self-sufficient and living off the grid. I was more prepared to deal with what was to come than most of the poor souls who had become so dependent on a life of easy instant gratification: grocery stores and restaurants on every corner so they never had to learn how to feed themselves, brick, concrete and asphalt at every turn, so they never had to learn how to live with nature, butane lighters in every pocket, right alongside their cancer sticks, so they never had to learn such a basic, basic thing as how to start a fire; those poor, slaughtered lambs.

I was fourteen, almost fifteen, when my mother died. I would have gone into the system but for my stepfather offering to adopt me and take responsibility for my continued upbringing. Neither was a good option. Better the devil you know, I supposed at the time, opting to stick with him, though I was fooling myself that I had a choice.

I have no idea why he kept me; our mutual dislike of each other had eclipsed legendary proportions before the first week after the night he’d trailed my mother home from the bar was even through.

My mother – bless that crazy bitch – had been a weak woman. She had a weakness for the bottle, a weakness for a charming smile – so long as it was attached to a hard body and a large cock – and a weakness for just about any other thing you could have a weakness for, as long as it wasn’t any good for you. I loved the shit out of her anyway, and she broke my heart when she chose him over me.

Even at twelve I had been a smart girl. It had been apparent to me from the moment my (soon to be) stepfather walked through my front door that his plan had been to sever the ties that bound me and my mother together. That’s precisely where our dislike stemmed from; he wanted her all to himself, and so did I. Not much for sharing – neither one of us.

When I confronted him that first week (while my mother was out), accusing him dramatically, as only a twelve year old girl can, “You’re trying to take her from me,” he didn’t even bother to deny it. He just smirked at me, a smugly confident smirk that let me know that he fully expected to come out the victor, and quite easily too; I didn’t even tip the scale as a worthy opponent. The challenge I represented to him wasn’t even a measurable increment on the scale that he was using.

I of course went bat-shit on his ass.

I launched myself at him from across the room like a flying squirrel, long black curls whipping out everywhere around me and fiercely flashing eyes like some possessed anime character (at least that’s how I imagined it – I have my pride you know), and managed to scrape four wolverine claws satisfyingly down his left cheek before I found my four and a half foot – barely seventy-five pounds soaking wet – frame tossed down forcefully into the dirty, lumpy couch and completely covered by six feet something of solid, and very angry, fully-grown man flesh; my wrists gripped tightly, one in each of his hands, and pinned uselessly above my head.

I growled my defiance at him, with all of the pent up rage in my small, trapped body. “Get off of me Gareth, you fucking piece of shit.” I could tell he was underwhelmed by my vocabulary.

With his nose practically touching mine, and the blood beginning to well in the cuts on his face, he gave my wrists and extra bit of a squeeze and waited until I gasped in pain, and fought to blink back the tears which were beginning to form – utterly without my consent – at the corners of my eyes, before he opened his mouth to speak.


© 2015 Kat Crimson

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6 years ago

Reblogged this on Kat Crimson.