darkSpyro

So, this idea popped into my head after watching an episode of Criminal Minds. Not sure how long it will be. Might just end up being a short story. Any how, enjoy.

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A loud shot woke her from a restless slumber. As she wiped her bleary eyes and reached for her teddy bear, another shot rang out. She found herself squeak with surprise and she cautiously called out for her daddy. Her father’s reply was nothing more than him speaking her name, breathless and strained.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” she asked as she climbed out of her bed.

“Nothing sweetheart,” said her father as he stumbled into her room. His black shirt was soaked through and his hands were flecked with something red. “We just need to go see the doctor.”

“Daddy, I don’t like the doctor,” she said, her five year old innocence slicing through the still night. Her father’s smile spread across his face, revealing red lips and red teeth.

“I know you don’t. But it’s okay, I’m the one that gets to see him.” Her head cocked and she looked at her father again.

“Daddy, what happened?” she asked. “What was that noise?”

Her father didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward the little girl’s dresser and started pulling some clothes out. She watched, confusing flickering through her pale blue eyes as her stuffed the garments into a small backpack.

“Daddy, what’s the matter?” she asked more insistently.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he replied quickly. The little girl’s head nodded and she assured her daddy that she wouldn’t. He coughed harshly, spitting red stuff all over her dresser top.

“Daddy, were you drinking red Kool-Aid?” she asked inquisitively. Her father nodded without saying a word. He motioned for her to come closer. She obliged, holding out her hand for her father to take. He looked at it and shook his head, muttering about his hand being too dirty. She shrugged, not really caring one way or another if her daddy’s hand was dirty. She reached up and took her daddy’s hand, squeezing it as hard as she could.

“Daddy, it’s gonna be okay,” she told him, sure of every word she said.

Her father’s vivid blue eyes looked like they were on the brink of tears. “I hope so, baby girl, I hope so.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

According to official testimony, John Dawson and his small daughter, Sarah Grace, died that night. But, little Sarah Grace and her father drove to the hospital, where he underwent surgery to remove the bullet from his side. Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered any long term damage. Physically anyway.

But, mentally, my father suffered everything.

He broke down and cried that night. The first time I had ever seen the strongest man in my life look so weak. I remember climbing up on the hospital bed and holding his hand, now scrubbed clean. “It’s gonna be okay, Daddy,” I remember saying, “I promise.”

The witness protection agents came to us that night with a briefcase full of papers. I remember how the cold ink had left my thumb black after they had printed us. I remember them giving my father his new name, Daniel Jones. I remember looking up at him, utterly confused as to why they would do such a thing.

Then they gave him the choice of picking out my new name. His response was quick. “Brooklyn Marie.” The agent had asked him if he was sure. He had nodded with all of the strength he could muster. They gave us new birthdays, new social security numbers, new everything.

I looked at them with my five year old eyes. “Why can’t I just be Sarah?”

“Because some bad people might hurt Sarah,” said the agent curtly.

“But what did I do?” I asked. I felt like I was being punished. I had tugged at the man’s jacket until he leaned down. “Did Daddy find out about me eating an extra cookie last night?” I whispered in his ear.

The tense agent’s face lit up and he gave me a hearty laugh. “No, sweetie, your dad just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So we’re going to make sure that nothing bad happens to him as a result.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, only vaguely understanding at the time. I tugged on his jacket again. “Will you not tell Daddy about the extra cookie then?” I asked.

“Scout’s honor,” he said. I remember thinking, ‘Whatever that means.’

The next week, the Witness Protection Agent came back. He told us that he had a new house for us to live in. It was out in the country, all the way in Tennessee. I had looked up at my father, a questioning look in my eyes. “Daddy, if we go, will we get to take Mommy with us?”

In my five years, I had only barely gotten the concept that my mother died giving birth to a premature me. She sat in a vase on top of the bookshelf in my father’s room. I remember seeing my father shoot a pleading look at the agent, who was sadly shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dan, but you know we can’t go back.”

“Please,” my father had pleaded, his voice threatening to break. “We lost her once, don’t make us loose what’s left.”

“Daniel, it’s against regulation.” The Witness Protect Agent put an end to the conversation. He had already gone out and bought new stuff for me and sent it to the new house. He told us that we could go out as soon as my father felt well enough.

We were there the next day.

And so began my life as Brooklyn Marie Jones.

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I'm working on the first chapter, but I thought I'd be kind enough to share this with all of you.

TOTALLY STELLAR !!!

read my As An Ever Thought Story

Thankies, sis!

I shall read-eth it now.

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I only vaguely remember being Sarah Grace Dawson. We moved early enough that I only have but a handful of memories of my past life.

We moved to Cleveland, Tennessee, a small town where everyone knows each other and secrets don’t stay secret for long. That troubled my father. But, Agent Johnson convinced him that it was the right thing to do. Our house was a modest thing, only two bedrooms and in an older subdivision.

I started school a month after the fateful night. But I couldn’t tell anyone about Sarah Grace. To these people, I had been Brooklyn Jones for all of my life.

Sarah Grace was loud and opinionated. Brooklyn was quiet and reserved. I had to be very careful of how I chose my words for fear of someone finding out my father’s secret. I simply chose to only speak when spoken to.

From my lack of communication, I had only a select few friends. They were mostly the kids who wanted to say they had more friends than so and so. My first real friend was Zack. He was, and still is, the most hard-headed, arrogant, southern boy I have ever laid my eyes on. We get along swimmingly.

Our meeting was somewhat of an accident. I had been sitting on the playground in the furthest corner, as far away from the others as possible. The older kids, the big and bad fifth graders, were playing football while my class was swinging and playing Red Rover. Being the smallest third grader
in the entire school, I was easily unable to be seen.

I was constructing a house out of mulch. In this house lived a mommy and a daddy, along with their pretty little girl. And every morning, the mommy would go to her daughter’s room and wake her up. After a breakfast of marshmallows and MnM’s - hey, I was eight - she would take her daughter out to the coolest places in the world.

Talk about deranged eight year old fantasies.

Getting back to my story, the fifth grade quarterback threw a beautiful spiral. Too bad his receiver was talking to his friend and completely missed the ball. What would have been the winning touchdown crashed into my house, consequentially coming up and blackening my eye.

I had developed a stiff upper lip over my years. I simply stood up and punted the ball back to the boys and resumed building my fantasy world. After playtime was over, naturally everyone gawked over my black eye and lack of tears. The teacher asked if I was okay. I merely shrugged it off, saying that it didn’t bother me.

That’s when the initial confrontation occurred. He, being his cocky self, came up and told me that my black eye made me look ugly. I responded by telling him that in a couple of weeks, my black eye would be gone, yet he would still be ugly.

He was speechless for a moment. Then he stuck out his hand. “I’m Zack,” he said. I quietly introduced myself and shook his hand.

We started hanging out during playtime, mostly talking about his dogs and our favorite TV shows. Gradually, as the years went by and we rose through the school’s levels, we became closer. Nothing serious, come on we were fifth graders, just really close friends.

Another friend was added to my social line in fifth grade: Melody Smith. The black haired, blue-eyed rebel child with a voice like a mermaid’s and a left-hook like a prize fighter. Her addition to our group was like jelly to a peanut butter sandwich. She was a transfer student from another school district and came in about half way through the year. With her dazzling tales of all of the places she’s been, she could have befriended anyone.

Yet, she chooses the antisocial and the antisocial’s one friend. “ ‘Sup?” she asked me one day at random.

“Nothing much,” I replied, not sure what to make of this sudden conversation. She then asked me all sorts of questions like my favorite music, my name, why I didn’t sound like a redneck, and many others. I answered them all, slowly growing more confident and starting to trust the girl.

Zack was the next one to receive this bombardment of questions. After Melody was satisfied with her knowledge of the two of us, she continued to hang out with us.

By the time we entered middle school, we were inseparable. But, of course, middle school is that magical time when your best friend who happens to be a guy is thought to be your boyfriend. But by the will of some higher power, we managed to slip under the radar for most of our middle school lives.

Ninth grade proved to be a challenge. Zack became involved with some sports and Melody dove headlong into the Fine Arts. That left me with nothing to do other than join a creative writing club.

Never had I ever really written before. Aside from the topics given in English, I’d never set down and let the creative juices flow. I figured what the hey, you know, what do I have to loose?

Our first topic was “Write about a traumatizing situation.” How fitting. Instead of pouring out all of my closely guarded secrets in a carefully concocted plotline filled with twists and suspense, I chose a more depressing situation: The loss of mobility due to a car accident.

As Zack’s popularity in the school grew due to his saving of our school’s athletic integrity and Melody soared through choir production and drama production, becoming our resident star, I remained in the shadows, quietly scribbling into a notebook.

My father was the same way. I hardly remember John Dawson being my father. But I do know that he was fun loving and mischievous as a school boy. He had a quirky smile that reminded me of a Weasley twin and always was plotting his next joke. He used to pick me up and throw me into the air, catching me and spinning me around like a broken airplane.

Daniel Jones is not John Dawson. Daniel Jones is withdrawn and rarely smiles. His once cocoa colored hair is now streaked with gray and he’s gained a few pounds since that night. And he has yet to tell me what exactly happened. I’ve caught him with a bottle in his hand, trying to drink away the haunting memories.

When he’s at his worst, he will call me Sarah Grace instead of Brooklyn. He will shout at the ceiling, asking God what he did to deserve such a life. He will pass out on the couch, tearstains on the pillows.

I do my best to help him with his addiction, but to no avail. I’ve thrown out all of the alcohol, but as soon as I come home from school, the refrigerator is fully stocked. He works out of the garage, fixing cars for a living. It’s the only thing that remained truly the same - my father’s love of cars.

Muscle cars are his personal favorite. If it’s got a Hemi in it, it’s ideal for him. I’m not allowed to go to the back of the garage where a huge tarp covers something. It’s suspicious, yes, but I respect my father’s wishes and go about my day, only going down to tell him that dinner is ready.

We don’t say much to each other over our nightly dinners. I’ll usually tell him how Zack and Melody are doing and leave it at that. I find it humorous to watch his muscles tense at the mention of Zack’s name. “This Zack boy,” he’ll start, “what do his grades look like?” I’ll bite back a giggle and inform him that Zack is near the top of our class. He’ll nod and resume eating.

Moments will pass and he’ll ask me how the sports teams are doing. I’ll tell him of Zack’s latest endeavor. He’ll nod and silence will fall over the table. His attempts at being a normal father are endearing, in a way. At least I know he didn't loose everything eleven years ago.


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Sorry that this chapter is slow, I promise it will be picking up.

awesome sisy!

Chapter Two

Life was about as boring as it could get. I ran through the motions each day. Go to school, come home, go to bed, repeat.

But, something peculiar started happening.

I kept noticing this guy everywhere I went. Whether I was at the library, the grocery store, or getting out of school , this man was there. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

But, as the days grew longer, the man continued to show up where ever.

The scariest day was after school one a Saturday night. Zack was walking Melody and me home after a football game. Melody was leading the two of us in a rousing chorus of We Are The Champions and Zack was giving me a piggyback ride.

My smile was wide and I was laughing between choruses. Zack spun around in circles, making me feel as if I were to fly off and crash into Melody.

“Zackary, stop it!” I demanded.

“Why?” he asked with a laugh, “I’m having so much fun!”

“I’ll throw up on you like I did on the Tea Cups ride at the fair!” I shouted. In an instant, Zack jerked to a stop. He slid me off his back and gave me a stern look, warning me about what happens when he sees vomit.

“Yes, darling, I know that you have the tendency to faint at the sight of slightly digested food,” I replied. “And we can’t have Mister Macho fainting like a school girl!” I shouted, poking his shoulder. He nodded vigorously.

It was nearly ten at night and pitch black, aside from a few street lamps. We were walking up the street toward my house when some bushes started rustling. My sense of paranoia kicked in and I looked over. Zack and Melody continued laughing, unaware of my unsettling.

The bushes continued to rustle, slightly louder. It caught my blissfully ignorant friends’ attentions and they looked over, stopping in their tracks. Zack leaned over my shoulder and asked me if the neighbors let their dogs run loose. I shook my head, still staring at the bushes intently.

“Sarah Grace,” called out a voice from the bushes. “We know you’re out there.” My heart leapt to my throat, beating fast enough to produce enough energy to power a rock concert. My stomach worked itself into knots, and those knots worked themselves into knots.

“We’re coming for you,” said the voice. Zack’s muscles tensed and Melody looked defiant.

“Look, bozos,” she snarled into the bushes, “none of us have the name Sarah Grace, so you can take your drunken rambling elsewhere.” The bushes continued to rustle, but then grew silent. Melody rolled her eyes, murmuring about drunken rednecks.

Zack looked me up and down, commenting on how I looked as if I had seen a ghost. “Me?” I asked innocently, “I’m fine. They just freaked me out a little.” Zack nodded, saying that it was a likely story.

We hurried toward my house, where Melody had decided to crash for the night. Dad met us at the door with a worried expression on his face. “Brooklyn,” he said hurriedly, “tell Melody that you’re sorry but something has come up and she can’t stay tonight.” My brow furrowed and I realized that he must have heard our conversation with the magical stalker bush. I turned to Melody and told her what my father had said.

Her jaw hung down, but nonetheless, she gave me a hug and walked back down the steps and down the street toward her house. Zack shot me a confused look, but ran off after Melody, determined to make sure that she also made it home safely.

When they had rounded the corner, I turned to my father. “Dad,” I said gently, “why was that bush talking to us?”

“They’re onto us,” he muttered. “No leaving the house for the remainder of the weekend.”

“Dad,” I started, feeling that just because a drunken bush said my former name was no call for immediate house arrest, but he silenced me with a bloodshot glare.

“Sar - Brooklyn,” he said, cursing himself for nearly using my real name, “don’t put up a fight. I’m going to have to make some calls tomorrow morning.” I sighed, defeated.

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Alrightie, this is really sucking, but it's gonna get better, I promise!

you do know you must continue now right ?

And I did!

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I spent my Saturday morning utterly bored. After eating an entire box of Frosted Flakes and watching twelve hours of mindless cartoons, I was fit to be tied. I ran laps through the house, turned cartwheels down the stairs to the basement - which might I add is not the smartest thing to do - and painted small targets on the fan blades so I could throw stuff at them and watch it fly through the air.

A knock at the door jolted me from my target practice. I sock slid down the hardwood and crashed face first into the door. Cursing to myself, I opened the door. Three men stood on the other side, all of them in their older forties with gray streaked black hair and dark jade eyes.

“Hello, little girl,” said the one who appeared to have knocked on the door. He had a slight accent, but nothing strong enough that I could recognize instantly. “My, how you’ve grown. Is your father home?”

I contemplated this. I had never seen these men in my life, yet Thing 1 was admiring how I had grown. I shook my head. “Sorry, you just missed him,” I said, “left about fifteen minutes before you got here.”

The man gave me a gentle smile. “I know you’re lying.”

“Brooklyn?” came my father’s voice, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, Dad? You’re home?” I asked, praying that he would catch on.

“Brooklyn, what are you talking about? I told you we weren’t allowed to leave the house,” he said. “Who are you talking to?”

“Just some people who were looking to talk to you,” I said, smothering all traces of anxiety in my voice. Father rounded the corner with his salt and pepper hair tousled in the infamous bed head style. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Talk to me? Is it Uncle Darren?” Uncle Darren was our pet name for our agent. He had come around a lot when I was younger, so I started referring to him as my uncle. I didn’t have the time to correct him, nor did I have the time to fully register the petrified look on his face. “Brooklyn, to your room, now,” he commanded sternly, all traces of a hangover gone. I knew better than to interject and I dutifully marched to my room.

I left the door cracked and plastered my ear to it, trying to take in all of the hushed whispers that were being murmured. Suddenly there was a crash and my father cried out. Profanities were slurred and a thud echoed through the house.

A sinister laugh sounded and our screen door clanged shut. I held my breath and as soon as I heard my father’s footsteps, I rocketed over to my bed and put in my earphones and picked up a magazine.

No sooner had the bed stopped shaking did my father blast through my door. I jumped in the air and put my mp3 player on pause. I took in my father’s appearance and I tore the wires away and dropped my magazine. There was a huge gash above his left eye and it appeared he had fallen on his arm, which was starting to bruise.

“Daddy, what hap-”

“No time Brooklyn,” father said hurriedly. “Start packing.”

“What do you -”

“You’re packing your backpack with everything that it can hold. Books, clothes, whatever you want. We leave tomorrow morning.” I slowly got up and walked over to him. I picked up a spare towel from edge of my bed and dabbed his oozing forehead.

He cringed but let me apply pressure to his wound. “Daddy, what’s going on?” I asked sternly.

“I can’t tell you,” he said, regret dripping on each word.

“Why?” I asked.

“You’re not old enough,” he said.

“Not old enough? When will I be old enough?” I asked.

He looked down at his feet. “Never. You will never be allowed to know.”

“Daddy, tell me,” I insisted. “Why do we have to lie? Why did we have to move? Why am I no longer Sarah?”

“Brook, I can’t tell you. Uncle Darren forbids it. You’d only become a liability.” He pulled away from my towel and looked me in the eyes. I was taken back to the night eleven years ago, his vivid blue eyes looking into mine. He was holding the very backpack he had packed all those years ago and I could see the fear slowly breaking through his courage.

I saw John Dawson for the first time in a long time.

I took Daddy’s hand and squeezed it as hard as I could. “Daddy, it’s gonna be alright,” I promised, sounding more sure of myself than I truly was.

Tears cascaded down Daddy’s cheeks. “The last time you said that,” he started, “you were right.” He took me in his arms and held me close. “Sarah, I’m sorry,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen, I really didn’t.”

I patted Daddy’s shoulder. I was at loss for words. Even though he was distant and had a hard time associating with others, I had never once seen him breakdown - even on his worst nights. I had his stiff upper lip.

But now, that attribute was lost on both of us.

We stood there, Sarah Grace and John, locked in each other’s embrace and utterly lost in this big bad world.

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SUSPENSE!