****Before you read this, may I say it is VERY graphic. Read at your OWN discretion!!!****
I started this a while ago; I believe it was back in early 2010; it was loosely based off the characters of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (c) Rockstar Games.
The title is a work in progress, but it follows an original character, Mariyah DeVereanez, and her moving into the neighborhood that was the base setting of GTA: SA. She meets CJ, and they end up kicking it and becoming real cool. CJ sees her as apart of the crew, but there's something about her he doesn't know: she harbors some problems, from the traumatic experiences of her childhood.
What you are about to read it the prologue to this unfinished story. If I get some good feedback, or I feel I should continue the story, it may be continued. Hope you enjoy it!
****I BEG OF YOU....Please DO NOT steal my original work! You WILL get caught and you WILL get prosecuted!****
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She pressed herself against the wall as she heard her mother’s screams in the other room. She compressed her own screams from synchronizing with her mother’s with her hand. She felt a body slam against the wall she had been settling at, and squeaked as she pushed herself off and scrambled down the hallway. She could hear her mother’s pitiful sobs as she slammed into her room and shut the door, and turned the lock.
Just when she felt secure in her room, she heard a loud bang on her door. She couldn’t help but jump and let out a small scream as she stared frightfully at the door. Her light blue eyes widened as she noticed the doorknob jiggling, as someone was trying to open it to get in, to get at her…
“You lil’ bitch!! Open this mothafuckin’ door,” shouted a man from the other side. Her breath quickened as she heard the sound of someone picking the lock to get in.
“No! You won’t hurt my baby, you bastard!” A woman with a Hispanic accent screamed, and there was the sound of more struggles.
She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her mom was getting beaten, the woman she admired all her young life, and she couldn’t take it. She looked around for an escape; the window.
Seeing her chance, she jumped on top of her bed and pried open the window, she felt the breeze hit her face as soon as it was open, and she lifted her leg on the window seal and jumped out and onto the ground. She didn’t have much time to lose; she pushed herself on her feet, and ran. She didn’t know where…all she did was run.
She stared blankly at the house as she saw that there were no lights on. The streetlights were the only lights illuminating on the windows. There was no trace of life whatsoever. Did her mother run? Did her mom’s boyfriend leave? Were they asleep, after making up with a wild night of sex? That’s what usually happened when they fought like this.
She kept her head down and walked up to the front door and opened the mailbox on the right. She pulled out the key and pushed it into the lock. She turned it and opened the door and walked in quietly. She looked around through the darkness as she closed the door. She stood alone, and waited for her eyes to adjust. She looked into the living room, and saw the television light on. She quickly walked passed the room, and then walked through the hallway, looking into various rooms, to see if anyone was there.
“Mommy?” She whispered quietly as she looked into each room. Finally stopping at her own mother’s room, she pushed open the door. “Mommy…?”
She found her mother. She found her mother, and now, to this very day, she wished she never did. Her mother lied on the floor, her head lying on its side lifelessly. She was naked, and her face was brutally beaten, and she had a stab wound in her stomach. Her pelvic area looked viciously mutilated.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She was blank, her usually fire blue eyes, dead and blank. Her light brown hair hung lankly around her face as she continued to stare at her dead mother.
She merely puffed a sharp breath and briskly walked over to the bureau. She yanked the top drawer open and it fell to the floor. She stared inside it, and pulled out what she was always curious with: her mother’s Beretta 9mm pistol. She picked it up, and remembered when her mother taught her how to use it. Only use it when you truly need to, alright, mija? She looked over to her mother, lifelessly lying there, and she moved her finger over the initials engraved on the handle of the gun: L.M.D….Linda Mariyah DeVereanez.
She gripped the gun and walked through the hallway, leaving her mother behind. She knew there was nothing she could do at this point; her mother was dead. And she would do anything to get revenge. She was about to grip and open the doorknob when she heard a soft and sleepy moan in the living room, along with the noise off the television. She froze, and slowly turned her head to the room; the man she was looking for was in there.
She took her hand off the doorknob, and shuffled quietly and slowly, as though in a trance, into the living room. She walked around the wall and looked at the armchair. There, in a deep sleep, was her mother’s boyfriend; a really deep sleep, as though he didn’t do anything wrong. He would probably dump the body in the morning and leave, thinking the girl was gone and never to come back.
She felt her blood boil, and her dead blue eyes gained a fiery look of hatred, a hatred only for him. She hated him for first hitting her mother, she hated him for trying to sexually abuse her and rape her, a fourteen year old girl, and she hated him for bringing nothing but misery into her mother’s life. Her gun-held hand lifted up, and her finger looped gingerly around the trigger.
“Die, ya sorry mothafucka.”
She pressed the gun to his forehead, and before he could scream, she let a bullet off into his head, skull and brain splattering against the armchair and the floor behind it. Some blood splattered on her as she moved her hand down and shot him three more times in the chest, only misting her in more of his blood.
She flipped some of her hair out of her face and sighed. She walked down the hallway into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She locked and placed the gun on the sink and stripped herself of her clothing, and stepped into the shower, rinsing the blood, and sweat from her body. She walked out the shower, and picked up the gun before walking into her own room. She left her hair wet and curly. She opened her bureau and put on a fresh pair of undergarments, a white ribbed tanktop, and a pair of blue jeans. She went to her closet and pulled out her DKNY cropped bombshell jacket, and pulled it on, and stepped into her white Air Force Ones. She went back into the bathroom, picked up the gun, stuffed the barrel under her pants seam in the back, and put her shirt and jacket over it and walked back to the front door, glancing into the living room at the gruesome fragments on the floor. She opened the door and walked out, her mind on nothing, but her mother, and the last image she had of her: dead and almost mangled.
She looked up at the house as she walked onto the sidewalk, and looked up and down the streets. Snow began to steadily fall around her, and she hugged her coat closer to her body as she put up her hood and stuffed her hands in her pockets.
Where she was going to go in this big and dangerous city of Brooklyn, she wouldn’t know. She just walked right, down the sidewalk. She knew she probably wouldn’t get caught for what she did. It was Brooklyn. They didn’t give a damn about anybody in her neighborhood. After tonight, they all would probably think her to be dead. She was now alone in this cold, dead world, fourteen years old, and a murderer of a murderer.
Copyright (c) 2007 Jemiella Ayala
