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Post by Nala Winston on Apr 26, 2009 19:09:06 GMT -5
The ride, first cab, then bus, then cab again, had been a long one. The traveling companions, a young girl, almost painfully petit, blond, and a middle-aged man, tall and dark, wit salt and pepper hair, seemed at first glance to be an average father-daughter out for a vacation. If an observer looked at the pair more closely, he or she would have seen a different relationship. The teen, clutching a small messenger bag, clothed in straight legged light wash jeans and a baby-doll tee, proclaiming her as a resident of West Point Military Academy, and wearing her platinum blonde hair swept back from her small ovoid face held lightly in place with thin elastic functioning as a headband, offers a stark opposite to the man, personifying corporate America in a dark suit, briefcase, and graying hair slicked back. He looked harried and slightly grumpy, and she looked a mixture of frightened, sad, and hopeful. The man had been attempting to make conversation with the fourteen year old girl for the entire journey, but each time he tried he was offered a falsely interested voice and a monosyllabalic response. He eventually gave up, halfway through the bus ride, much to the chagrinned happiness of the teen.
Alana Tess Winston, recently uprooted teenager, sat silently on the many forms of transportation, using the time to look back on her old life, think forward to her new life, and pray. The traffic noise lulled her to sleep for about half an hour of the nearly three hour trip. She did not dream; she had not been sleeping for the past few days, not out of excitement, or fear, or self-harm, but more out of busyness. When she was not sleeping the young woman, Nala to those who knew her, mused. She thought back to the past week, remembering.
The hospital room is stark white and silent, with the exception of the steady beep of the monitor hooked up to the pale woman lying in the gurney-style bed. Her hair, once a shiny sandy blonde, is now dull and thin, much of it has fallen out since the last round of chemo, but the proud woman refuses to cut it. Her form, always petit, is now emaciated, giving her the appearance of a skeleton draped in ill fitting skin. The face, always smiling and bright, is calm now only in sleep. Thee eye sockets are hollow and sunken, the cheeks following suit. The woman is so pale it is difficult to distinguish her from the sheets. In a corner chair, eyes wide and almost as sunken as the woman’s, sits a teenaged girl. The physical similarities between the two are striking. They have the same face, and build, and, if the woman had been awake, their expressions would have been identical. Their relationship, that of mother and daughter, is easily identifiable. A doctor enters, white lab-coat adding to the clean sterility of the scene. He checks the status of the woman without giving the teen a second look. She watches the man silently, seeing his callous touch, his muttered words. She is enraged, but sits silently, fuming. The man leaves and the girl moves closer to the woman’s bed. While she watches her sleeping mother, the numbers on the screen of the monitor attached several ways to the dying woman fall. The incessant beeping speeds up, setting off an alarm and bringing the callous doctor back into the room. He shoves the girl away; all she can do is watch the man, followed by a flood of others, touch her mother. The beeping continues, screaming for the girl who cannot, until it suddenly stops. The silence is worse than the hustle and bustle of the frantic hospital employees trying to save the woman’s life. They all stop, realizing the time to help is over. Slowly they turn to the child, seeming very young now, vulnerable, and for the first time in her life, alone. A young nurse, female, goes to the girl, and tries to comfort her. But the silent tears cannot be stemmed.
The girl, now garbed entirely in black, stands in a corner of a funeral home. People mill around, greeting her when they enter. Young men with crew-cuts adorned in formal military uniform make up the majority of the attendees at the funeral. There are no children, and no family members. The blonde child stands solitary vigil for the loving mother, unable to speak. She clutches a bible in her small hands, running her hands over and over the spine. As she moves to the coffin, open, at the request of the deceased woman, she holds back her tears. She has not cried since the day in the hospital. Sometimes it feels to the teen that she has nothing left to cry. A young man, twenty-one, with black hair cut like his fellow soldiers approaches the youngster, enclosing her in his arms. He had been with her before when she needed to give face to her grief, and he has promised to be there again. The two stick together for the funeral, and when the party moves out into the graveyard he remains with an arm around her shoulder. She speaks naturally to the other mourners, asking them not to grieve, showing strength alien in one so young. Not alien in this child. As the coffin is lowered into the deep hole the teen, quickly growing up, showers the empty gash with earth, and throws down a sunflower, her mother’s favorite flower. The headstone, white marble, reads “Bethany Rose Winston / Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints / May 25, 1965 – April 3, 2009”. As the mourners leave, the teen is left alone in front of the open grave. She stands, silent, unable to shed a tear. When the woman attired in a green business suit comes to take the child, the girl does not protest.
Sitting in the hallways of an office building the teen is alone again. Her clothing, an ochre yellow shirtdress and green-black belt set her at odds with the drab building. The voices from behind a closed door to her left can be heard easily. They discuss the future of the very child seated on the uncomfortable bench-like seat. They speak of legal responsibility, about the will never being changed, about fourteen years, about underage. They speak of no family, of no home, of the soldier, of insufficient funds, of cancer. They speak of not legally dead, of a prisoner of war, of the limit of time. She can hear every word they say, and she understands. Beth never changed her will, so according to the document, the teen was the possession of Russel Winston. As Rusty was classed POW/MIA he clearly couldn’t take the child. But, as the voices said, he had not been declared legally dead. What would become of the girl? The voices finally stopped, and their owners filed out of the room. The look in the girl’s eyes must tell them she has heard everything, because as each adult passes they look away quickly, never keeping eye-contact for more than a millisecond. The last to leave, the soldier from the funeral, looks angry. The girl knows why. He cannot have her since Rusty is not officially dead; there is no way for him to adopt her. He kneels down next to her, his tall frame hiding her petit one in the huge hug he gives the small girl. There is nothing he can do, and as the dark suited man approaches he moves away. They exchange heated words, but he cannot change the final pronouncement; foster care.
The two travelers, Thomas Monroe, Social Services agent, and Alana Winston, orphan, arrived at what must have been some real estate agent’s dream. Nala exited the dusty vehicle after the man, her heart full. Through the window her pale face looked washed out, and the light hair and wide still sunken eyes looked as though they belonged to a ghost. The young woman, for that was what she was now, brushed a long strand of ashy hair, curled slightly that morning before the trip, behind her pierced ear. The lobe was adorned with small silver crosses with cubic zirconium set into them, and the hand bears a ragged yellow string around the finger. The teen moved quickly around the back of the car, to stand with the man at the driver’s side. She followed the man in charge of her future up light brick steps to a white door. As she walked, she closed her eyes; the teen was, for the moment, on autopilot. She could hear the sounds of traffic and the rustle of a light wind. The messenger bag, army surplus, an old possession of her brother, was slung over one thin shoulder, covering part of the pink t-shirt and washed out jeans. She hadn’t let them put those possessions in the garbage bags which held her clothes and other things. Her garbage bags were still in the trunk. A Foster child, she held all her important possessions in the messenger bag, and left the rest of her in the black plastic bags. Because to the state, a fourteen year old foster child was nothing more than garbage. She stopped a few steps from the door, watching as Agent Monroe rang the bell, wondering what her life was about to become.
Time Of Day: Mid-Morning Month: Early April, a Saturday Others in the RP: Max Travis Attire: clicky!Words: 1575[/size][/color]
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Post by maxtravis on Apr 27, 2009 19:36:33 GMT -5
If I go crazy then[/size][/i][/b][/color] Will you still call me Superman?[/size][/i][/b][/color] -------------------------------------------------- [/center]
» Her arrival had long been awaited. I had known for weeks her name was Anala Winston, but for some reason I refrained from using it. To be on a first-name basis with someone I hadn't yet met seemed awkward, strange. I could feel the anticipation in the air around me, hear it in my parent's voices, smell in the freshly-cleaned house. I couldn't remember the last time my home had been this immaculately done up. Though my parents knew today was the day our foster child would be arriving, they knew not what time. I hadn't done much today but woken up, eaten breakfast, pulled on my clothes, and waited. I sat on my bed now, rocking side to side impatiently, my hands gripped in the soft down comforter. My dark-wash, straightlegged jeans skimmed over the tops of my bare feet, my bare feet skimmed the top of my plush, cream carpet and I wondered whether she would feel uncomfortable here. Despite not knowing the girl that was to be my little sister in less than an hour's time, I knew some of her history, and this would probably be the cushiest place she'd seen in her life. My mother hadn't tried to dim down our home's beauty either, the house smelled of candles and Pine Sol.
» Yet I knew my parents had good reason to be excited. My mom and dad were still very much in love, but after all the pain and trouble I'd caused them in my early years, they couldn't wrap their heads around starting over. To see another child through from the day they came into the world to the day they left home seemed too much, especially with potty-training, puberty, and those awful teenage years thrown in between. This little girl we'd welcomed into our family would give them that happiness of a new arrival but gave them time. They were forty and thirty-eight now. Alana Winston was fourteen. If they'd conceived the tiny orphan, though she might not have lived her life without a real home, she would have experienced the loss of her parents much earlier in life than she deserved. This would be the best for all of us. Even I was getting anxious for the little girl's arrival. She might not feel her best in Laudeville at first, but I would make sure she fit in like a manicured, soreness-free thumb. I would pay for her three-hundred-dollar Juicy Couture jeans from my own pocketbook. I looked at my fat, stubby toes that would say terrible things about my social status if they regulated it, and curled them into the thick shag carpet. I stared at the ceiling instead.
» The doorbell rang in the near-silent house and I jumped. She must be here. I quietly cursed my parents for being gone when she arrived, running down the stairs to open the tall oak door. Before me stood a short, frail girl with shoulders so thin I felt the need to take her messenger bag and stow it away inside the warm house. Spring was making a final go at it with a cold front, and the sky was the anticipatory gray of a coming storm. She was small, and looked starved, and though she looked tired and weak, she had a certain je ne sais quoi to her. My French teacher would applaud my use of the language if only she could read my thoughts. Alana's companion, a tall man with grey hairs sprouting from his head like a Chia Pet, didn't look as personable. I stepped into the cold, somewhat humid day, and grinned. Hi, little sis. I greeted Miss Winston, my arms overlapping as I pulled her into a warm embrace against my chest. How chivalrous I was. One hand ran carefully over her soft curls as I pulled away so as not to mess them up. I knew how particular girls could be with their hair. I didn't make an effort to greet her friend, a Social Security agent, not a handshake, not even a wave of some sort. I just smiled awkwardly and avoided his steely eyes, finding I appreciated looking at little Alana instead.
» Our small little group stood awkardly on my front porch for a few moments before I broke the silence. I stepped back through the doorway. Erm... why don't you guys come in? I tried, offering some small show of hospitality. I moved into the kitchen so they could do as I'd asked them, looking around my clean, modern house. Soft light streamed in from every window, through thick-paned glass in the southwall, from the skylight in the vaulted ceiling, and inset lights above our heads. The filtered sunbeams fell upon the velvety petals of Japanese cherry blossoms my mother had ordered specially for the foster child's arrival, sitting in an oblong vase on our dark mahogany table. I realized somewhere in my rush that I'd pulled on my shoes and thanked the Lord that I hadn't come down the stairs and shown them my hairy, white feet. I had a feeling the color would have matched the paint on the walls. I stepped into the kitchen, painted a deep red, a perfect correspondance to the accents in the living room and dining area. Silver appliances gleamed, I reached into one - the refrigerator - to grab a glass or orange juice for myself. Only then did I realize I'd forgotten my guests. C-Can I get you all anything to drink? A snack? I sounded like my mother when she had company, terribly akward and uptight. I shook my arms out behind the secrecy of the counter and tried to relax. My parents are out for a ride at the barn but I'm sure they'll be back soon.
[/b] I smiled again, but only at the petite blonde girl standing in my living room. Mr. Monroe, as he'd quietly introduced himself in his deep, threatening voice, glared at me. Something made me think he wasn't buying the act I was putting on, but why, I wasn't sure. I wasn't pretending to be anything, was I? Just Max on a regular day. Hiding his hairy feet away from the world... [/center][/color] -------------------------------------------------- word count: one thousand and forty. outfit: here.status: complete. (: creidt: anjewl90 at caution2.0 for the template [/size][/font][/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by ` carter alyssa westwood on Apr 28, 2009 17:36:58 GMT -5
Done. Sorry about that wait.
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Post by Nala Winston on Apr 28, 2009 19:57:18 GMT -5
Nala, on the threshold, worried. She had been confidant that this would work out when she had been placed. After all, the family had a son, near her age, and it shouldn’t be as frightening as it was. She had faced things worse than this. She had fallen from hundreds of trees, nearly drowned more times than she could remember, cliff dove, played rough with the soldiers. She could put together an M-16 faster than the average soldier, and knew how to fire all armed forces issue weapons. She had survived boot-camp, when, a year ago -it seemed much longer- she had followed the new recruits every day, participating. She had stood with her mother at the funeral for the empty casket which was all of her brother that had come home from Iraq. She had helped the dark haired soldier to fold the flag, as she had promised Rusty she would do in the event of a disaster. She had raised and lowered the POW/MIA flag which stood sentinel on their flagpole every morning. She had sat in the sterile white room alone with a dying woman. She had stood and greeted the mourners on the misty day. She had read a eulogy. She had waited for the soldier to come out of the office, hoping against hope he would be able to take her. She had been scared before, for much better reasons. This was to be a new start, an experience. She was alive; every morning she woke up and she was alive. There was music in her world, and beauty. Nothing terrible had happened to the girl. Not in her eyes, at least. Alana Winston, fourteen and frightened, took a deep breath.
Mr. Monroe rang the bell again, and fixed the teen with a stern look. His charge had barely spoken on the trip from New Jersey; her nose had been in her bible. He was anxious to get rid of the girl. There was nothing wrong with her, she hadn’t witnessed a terrible crime, or been abused. She was fine, and he wanted to be on with it. After hundreds of cases which broke new agents in ways they could never have imagined Thomas Monroe was hardened. He switched his briefcase from his left hand to his right, checking his watch. Nala sighed inwardly. She was just as ready to get rid of this man as he was of her. He huffed, looking sidelong at the teen. She looked so small, so fragile, so easily broken. What the man didn’t know was that the little girl in front of him was already much older than her fourteen years. She had lived on a military base all her life. Her brother had been taken from her by a war she no longer believed in. She had attended many funerals for empty, flag-draped caskets, seen many mothers, lovers, daughters cry. She had held hands at vigils, read letters others were afraid to. She was as much of an adult as he was, but she was no where near as jaded. The world had not been entirely kind to Nala, but she still loved it, still reveled in it. She was ready.
As they stood, Mr. Monroe impatiently, Nala hopefully, he turned to her. “I don’t know what is taking this family so long. I expressly told them what time. They ought to be expecting you.” His voice was like gravel in a blender, and the girl had to exercise every ounce of self control she possessed not to flinch every time he spoke. The older man looked thoroughly displeased at the turn of events. The Social Services Agent had the amazing ability to look down at an individual, and make even the most confidant executive, or the most abusive father feel small. The effect was not lost on the young woman. She felt, in spite of her past life and her current hopes, as though she were a particularly disgusting bug which had been ground into the spotless stoop by the man’s polished shoe. Somehow, though dust had swirled around the two, and Nala’s sneakers were already several shades darker than they had been at the opening of the trip, Mr. Monroe’s polished shoes didn’t have a speck of dirt on them, nor did the hems of his straight black pants. Nala marveled at the anomaly, wondering how he did it.
Suddenly the door opened and a young man stood smiling behind it. He took a moment to taker her in, and then, much to her surprise, wrapped his arms around her. ‘Hi, sis.’ She shuddered, involuntarily, surprised by the reaction. The moment she had flinched she regretted it; this was not what she wanted her foster brother –for she suspected it was him- to think of her. She was tired, and sad, and frightened, and it had showed. He smoothed his hand over her hair, another strange gesture; making her wonder if he was sincere. Perhaps she was judging him too quickly. As he let her go, she smiled slightly in his direction. All in all, he seemed happy to see the girl. Monroe looked stern, which seemed to Nala to be his default. The boy shut the door and led the way to the kitchen. It looked, to Nala, lived in, but spectacularly clean, which made her slightly uncomfortable; she wondered if the Travises used it for show, or for a purpose. Regardless, she kept an open mind, and sat lightly on the edge of the counter, next to Mr. Monroe who had sat down in a chair before he was invited. She grimaced a bit at his rudeness, but there was nothing she could do to change him. She looked apologetically to the boy, who was getting himself a drink, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. Nala was never sure what to expect from people, but tried her best to be polite and courteous when she met a new person. She allowed a bright smile to cross her face. Looking away from the SSA, she saw the boy’s awkward gestures. He was…nervous? Perhaps. He fumbled his words, ‘C-Can I get you all anything to drink? A snack?’. A stab of fear touched her heart, and, momentarily she was lost in the sight of the teen fiddling, ignoring the two visitors. Then, with a mental word of chastisement, she relaxed. He wasn’t frightening. But then, a new worry, one that she hadn’t considered in the hustle and bustle of the past few weeks, hit her. What if he didn’t want her? What if the young man was resentful at getting a foster sibling so late in life, or one so old? What if he didn’t like her? What would she do if she made an enemy of the only friend she had counted on in this new town? He spoke again. ‘ My parents are out for a ride at the barn but I'm sure they'll be back soon. ‘ With a small shake of her head, tossing the curled blonde hair behind the small shoulder supporting the messenger bad, and a smile in the direction of the boy, she resigned herself to what was to be, and readied herself to make an good, but true, first impression. Before she could speak, the Social Services agent interrupted.
Mr. Monroe began to speak quickly, ignoring the introductions, the offer, and the explanation. “Now, Mizzter Travis” he drawled in his terrible gravely voice. “I’m sure your parents have told you, but everything is arranged for Alana here to be transferred into their custody. I understand you live here with your parents. Who exactly is the legal guardian here?” Nala sighed. He had been on the phone throughout the journey complaining about this. Now, knowing what she did about the inability of the parents to be present, the strange conversations made sense. Apparently it was not a DSS to transfer children to a family if the legal guardian, whoever that happened to be, wasn’t at the transfer. But, the Travises seemed to have dealt with this. Nala assumed this was just Grumpy-puss Monroe being his difficult self. She looked apologetically at the young man again, hoping they had this figured out. Nala was looking forward to the new start. Mr. Monroe started up again. “Is it true that you’re parents were unable to manage to be present to pick up their charge?” Nala blushed, anger and embarrassment coloring her pale cheeks scarlet. Being called a charge only instilled the idea that a foster child was nothing more than a piece of refuse, that all of their memories and possessions were, much like themselves, nothing more than trash, to be bundled up into black plastic bags. Sometimes, like now, Nala wondered if her heart had been wrapped in black plastic, a useless piece of trash. She hoped, so much so, that it all worked out. She also hoped the family, and especially the boy, wouldn’t hate her because she had caused all this trouble. She knew how important it was to make a good first impression, and Mr. Monroe wasn’t helping one bit. The girl shuffled her feet and sighed inwardly. She hadn’t even been able to get a word in edgeways.
Time Of Day: Mid-Morning Month: Early April, a Saturday Others in the RP: Max Travis Attire: clicky!Words: 1541[/size][/color]
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Post by maxtravis on Apr 29, 2009 17:00:09 GMT -5
It just takes some time [/size][/i][/b][/color] Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride[/size][/i][/b][/color] -------------------------------------------------- [/center]
» I felt my heart thud worriedly as the grey-haired man turned on me. A flash of intuition in my eyes, a sudden realization of how harsh and cold he was with my little sister. I found my casual use of the posessive odd, but not unexpected. The petite blonde girl was very charismatic, and easily evoked sympathy and a certain protectiveness long tucked away inside of me. 'And Mister Monroe, I do believe, I understand that you were trusted to take care of this girl in every way possible. I'm afraid you're only doing your job halfway. I snapped back cooly, a dry tone cracking my words like a brittle desert floor. The Social Services agent seemed slightly taken aback at this, and I worried for his reaction, but in that second, my parents entered the back door to assuage the tension.
» My mother, attractive for a woman of her age, tall, shapely and blonde with a big grin and freckles, made no attempt to hide her excitement and surprise. Her pale pink lips fell open, she wiped her damp brow, and crossed the living room in seconds. Alana. Oh, I'm so happy you're here sweetie.
She grinned. I hadn't seen this side of my mother with anyone but myself and her kids at work since my cousin had stayed the night years ago. Resurrection simple when a need arose. My father, slightly shorter than his wife with an odd mink tone to his hair, shut the door. He was wearing dirty jeans and a loose button-down shirt, all hinting at designer origins. He took a second to remove his muddy shoes and moved forward to stand behind Mrs. John Travis, who'd always been a sort of leader in the relationship. He smiled, the crow feet around his eyes folding deeper into his slightly sunburned skin. Well, hi there, Miss Winston. He grinned. I'd always been surprised at the difference between my father's voice and mine. His was soft, one acclimated to speaking with children after many years of driving ice cream trucks and working in the shoppe. Mine was gruff, warm and sweet only when I was nervous or concerned. I would have liked to know the trick to change it. I would have tried to sound gentler with Taylor if I could. Not that it mattered, I hadn't really worked up the courage to talk to the girl.
» My parents, in the thrill of the moment, had seemed to forgotten the agent watching rudely in on this happy scene and blackening it. My mother kissed Miss Winston's forehead, overly-friendly as always, and happened to see him in her peripheral vision as she moved away from the counter. My parents never let me sit on the marble countertop before, but I wasn't surprised at the allowances made for Alana. Oh, hello. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name. I presume you're here to transfer Miss Winston into our custody? My mother mused in her sugar sweet, Southern debutante trill. I'm John Travis, and this is my wife Judy.
[/b] My dad piped up, moving to the fridge. He had a fat, bloated stomach from all the taste-testing he did at work, but muscular arms and legs. My mother was the picture of health, though her form had always been a little soft around the edges. I was slim and wiry, tall like my mother but muscled like my father had been in highschool. My foster sister, I was afraid, looked nothing like any of us. If she resembled anyone, she came the closest to me, but still, the similarities were few. I would make sure she ate a bowl of ice cream every night. We would take her riding, if she decided she wanted to, and soon enough, she would look healthy. Her cheeks might even glow the way I dreamed Taylor's would when she blushed. [/center][/color] -------------------------------------------------- word count: six hundred and forty seven. sorry, i didn't want to ramble... outfit: here.status: complete. (: creidt: anjewl90 at caution2.0 for the template [/size][/font][/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by Nala Winston on Apr 29, 2009 19:41:21 GMT -5
As Nala watched the boy, she was nearly terrified. This was strange in a girl with her background. She was never afraid. Rusty used to kid her claiming she ‘laughed in the face of danger’, and the men on base had always said that trouble was her middle name. She was forever exploring and pushing her body and mind to the limit. She’d scaled expert level rock walls un-tethered (not the best idea, and one that got her copious scolding from Rusty and the rest of base, although her mother had never found out), allowed the new recruits, several times her size, to spar at hand-to-hand combat with her. She had been a fan of adrenaline for as long as she could remember, whether the rush came from mastering a particularly hard song on the harp hidden at the rear of the women’s barracks, jumping from the cliff overlooking the little river on the edge of the base, sneaking out late to sit and watch the stars, or standing barely clothed on the roof of the little concrete house in the midst of a thunderstorm. Anything that could give the teen the high she so loved was game. Except, of course drugs. She would never do that to her body, a temple she had been given and should care for. And, as much as she loved the rush of danger, she would never do something destructive, or something she knew, however far back in her mind, that she wouldn’t be able to handle. The teen had, in her fourteen years, faced down a notorious drill sergeant, talked down a suicidal soldier, and delivered the news of a death to loved ones more times than she could count. She’d experienced stage fright, performing in front of the men, and she’d experienced the fear of the unknown, after the terrorist attacks in 2001.
In the past few weeks she had lost her mother. Her brother had been classed as a prisoner of war/missing in action since 2006. That was a fancy way of saying no one knew what had happened to him in Iraq, and that he was never, ever, coming back home. She had learned that early on; she knew that even though his coffin was empty, and weighed less than she did, it didn’t mean that he was just waiting for the right time to come back. Beth had had cancer for years before God took her up to heaven, and the chemo had been horrible. Nala had cared for her mother, as early as 2005. An eleven year old girl had taken care of a thirty nine year old woman. There were nights when Nala didn’t go to sleep, because there was no guarantee that Beth would be there in the morning. But, even then, even after the men in the black suits came to the door, even after the callous doctor disconnected the machine, Nala had not been afraid. She had been sad, both times. And, she had felt as though her stomach had turned into a bottomless pit, and that it was swallowing her heart, trying to swallow her up. But, she had not been afraid. Even when the Child Services woman in the green suit had taken her from the funeral, or when Todd told her he couldn’t take her, she had not been afraid. When she had gotten her tattoo at the age of twelve, it had hurt, she had cried; she had not been afraid. For one so young, she had seen quite a bit. Never would she be accused of being innocent, or naïve. Although she never showed and never let it affect her, she was nearly as disillusioned as Mr. Monroe. Although her disillusionment had come from a different place, it was just as strong. She no longer believed in the war that had claimed her brother’s life or the government that had started it. Another difference between the teen and the man was the response to their trials. While Thomas Monroe had grown hard and unfeeling, Nala had done the opposite. She was alive. In every sense of the word. But, she was never scared.
After proving unbreakable, Nala didn’t understand how the sight of a small family, waiting for her could terrify her. She shook herself mentally; this family was here for her. They had chosen her, chosen to open their home to an uprooted teen. But, the boy’s words, though he expected they were to help her, sent her shoddily constructed confidence shattering into a hundred fragments. ‘ 'And Mister Monroe, I do believe, I understand that you were trusted to take care of this girl in every way possible. I'm afraid you're only doing your job halfway.] Again, the doubts surfaced… She stopped herself with a small shake of the head. She wouldn’t judge her foster brother, or indeed the rest of her family, before they had spoken, or even seen each other for more than a minute. She didn’t want them to do that, and she wouldn’t do it to them. Let things progress as they would; she was here, she was alive, she was ready.
She was terrified.
The woman who had entered was starting at her, mouth agape, as though surprised, happy. For what, Nala didn’t know. For the first time it dawned on her. They might be as nervous as she was. As she watched Mr. Monroe tear The Travises apart with his sandpaper voice her hopes fell. Now, even if they had had been alright with her arrival, Grumpy-puss Monroe was going to make them wish they had never gotten involved. For, while Nala never gave up on someone, even when he or she was considered a lost cause, she did not believe others were like that. People were all good, yes, but… As she snapped back into Mrs. Travis gently kissed her forehead, eliciting the same response as her son’s hug had. Nala was surprised, and frightened. She had not been expecting this. But, the parents were taking control of the situation, speaking to Mr. Monroe. The callous man had thrown them off, as Nala herself had been when they had first met, but they seemed to be taking it in stride. At least, as much as they could. She felt hope bloom again. Perhaps her foster family did want her, and were showing Agent Monroe through their answers.
The adults spoke, and Nala listened. Mrs. Travis had a beautiful voice, and Mr. Travis sounded polished and professional, with a voice that could melt a glacier. She focused on the words in time to see Mr. Monroe open his mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to agree. He swallowed his words at the look the man of the house shot him, and opened his mouth again. “Yes, Mizzter Travis, there is no problem.” He motioned towards Nala with one hand, taking out some papers from his case with the other. As the family smiled at her, she calmed down a bit. Perhaps, her heart whispered quietly, breaking free of the black plastic it had been so carefully packaged in at the corporate building, this family truly did care about her, and would be allies in the new town. She wouldn’t allow herself to hope for friendship or affection from the son she had never met, the boy whose family she had interrupted, but an ally she could dream of. Mr. Monroe spoke again. “The girl’s bags are in the trunk. If you two” his eyes strayed to the girl whom he had been ignoring since they had entered the dwelling, and the boy at the refrigerator, “will unload them, I’ll be off.” The man waved at the car, and clicked a key pad, opening the trunk, and showing the two bulky garbage bags to the world. The girl blushed, and averting her red face from either man, headed towards the open trunk, furious that the man who had, for such a short time, been in charge of her well-being had shown the world how he little he cared about her. Terrified that the family she was placed in would do the same.
Time Of Day: Mid-Morning Month: Early April, a Saturday Others in the RP: Max Travis Attire: clicky!Words: 1356[/size][/color]
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Post by ` carter alyssa westwood on Apr 30, 2009 18:30:05 GMT -5
THIS HAS BEEN STARTED! (: I just worked really hard on this reply for you and it turned out to be 690 words. You deserved more, so I'll come back to it when I've taken a break. [/blockquote] |
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Post by ` carter alyssa westwood on May 2, 2009 20:04:52 GMT -5
It just takes some time [/size][/i][/b][/color] Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride[/size][/i][/b][/color] -------------------------------------------------- [/center]
» Only a portion of the tension was alleviated by the calming of Mr. Monroe. I was very glad that it was Alana who would be joining the family, and not him, because quite frankly, I wasn't sure whether I would have been able to handle these constant mood swings. A seperate part of me wanted to reccomend him to a good doctor or psychiatrist, because he apparently had some issues and stress to be dealt with. Not that I knew any psychiatrists, but I'm sure my parents, being Californian elitists, would have the name ready on the tips of their wine-stained tongues. I couldn't blame my new little sister for looking so terrified, but after some thought, I came to the conclusion that maybe it wasn't her caretaker for the journey or even the slight outburst I'd directed at him. She was nervous. My green eyes took her small frame in greedily, but for all the right reasons, looking for the tell-tale signs of tension or anxiousness. Her knee was shaking slightly, her shoulder twitched every half minute or so, and she had goosebums on her forearms. Her dirty-blonde eyebrows were intricately knit in fear and her forehead wrinkled into rifts of worry. Alana was nervous. I felt terrible and guilty, like I needed to fix this.
» I only vaguely heard the directions of Mr. Monroe, his gravelly voice piercing my ears and grating against them. He was playing a Metallica-esque solo on my ear drums, cymbals and all crashing along. What a horrible, horrible person he was. How did people like this come to be in the world anyhow, and where did they go wrong? Was it early in childhood, or after life started looking down and their midlife crisises arrived? Or was it fate, something that was decided before they were born, like the destiny of this sweet little girl following me outside? There was nothing she could do about it, but my family and I would try our hardest to fix it. Already, I felt some sort of connection growing between myself and the young girl. A sense of protectiveness, like she was my blood sister, as if I'd known her since she were born. Heavy gray clouds hung in the stormy sky and proclaimed coming rain. I quickened my pace, hoping we could get all her baggage out before the raindrops started falling. Gosh, tough guy, huh?
I muttered, jabbing a finger back towards the house and in the direction of Mr. Monroe. I'm sure the ride over here was a bundle of joy.
[/color] I laughed in my smooth, deep voice, coming to the open hatch of the trunk, my face falling when I realized her stuff was in garbage bags. These people really had no dignity, did they? How did they sleep at night? The idea. » Desperately, I attempted to cover the expression on my face, but I worried it was too late. She probably thought I was shocked for all the reasons, the rich kid that had never touched a plastic black garbage bag in his life. No, I was above that. I had as much knowledge as the next guy over the whole Get Glad-complex. Grabbing both bags in each hand, I walked from the trun. I smiled, hopefully reassuring my foster sibling. She wasn't being very talkative, so I tried to calm her fears, seeing as there obviously were several. Listen, you don't need to be worried about anything. My mom and dad have been waiting with baited breaths for you to get here. When Grumpy in there leaves, I'll take you upstairs and show you you're room. I hope you like baby blue. I grinned. It was the longest sentence I'd said all day, and I was rambling because I was slightly nervous myself. Maybe I should take my own advice. This was a tiny fourteen-year-old with blonde curls and the sweetest, most courageous disposition I'd seen in a girl her age for quite some time. She was far beyond her years, far beyond mine. There was nothing to be afraid of. We would learn from each other. Keeping this reassuring thought fresh in my mind, I lifted a Converse-clad foot onto the threshold, looking back over my shoulder to see if Alana was following me. She was keeping a close lead, and apparently, so were the clouds because there were small droplets on my leather jacket sleeve. The wrap-around porch of our Georgian planation/colonial style home was muggy with the overhanging fog that had just settled in and the grass was waving in anticipation of Mr. Monroe's departure. I secretly willed the rain to come pouring down the second he came out of the house without an umbrella. As we both came onto the whitewashed floor boards of my familiar porch, I placed my hand on the doorknob, pulling back and holding open the door for Miss Winston, chivalrous and big-brotherly as could be. My parents were still in the dining room with the god-damn Social Services agent, attempting to make small-talk, but failing on the fault of the other party. He stared at the wall and pretended not to hear them, though I considered maybe he needed a hearing aid but refused to use one. He seemed like one of those people, striving for appearance but forgetting practicality in the chase. He stood, grabbed his briefcase and without a farewell, or at least an audible one, headed out the door, slamming it. My mother jumped, my father watched her with raised eyebrows. Never had my house welcomed such a rude guest. Thunder clapped and a splatter of rain came pattering down on the house's roof. I peered out the front window and got a last peek of Mr. Monroe running to the car, with the trunk still wide open to the weather. [/center][/color] -------------------------------------------------- word count: nine hundred and forty-seven. . outfit: here.status: complete, sorry for the shortness and wait. (: creidt: anjewl90 at caution2.0 for the template [/size][/font][/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by Nala Winston on May 4, 2009 19:32:14 GMT -5
The first drops of rain fell on Nala’s hot face, calming her. She sighed, drinking in the scent of coming rain, feeling the hints of a thunderstorm tickling the little hairs on the back of her neck. Max spoke, he was on her side. ‘Gosh, tough guy, huh? I'm sure the ride over here was a bundle of joy.’ He pointed to Mr. Monroe, laughing. She managed a weak smile, knowing what he would see when he looked in the trunk. Garbage. She was not garbage, no matter what the callous doctor who had disconnected her mother from the life-support machines, the woman in the green suit who had collected her from the funeral home, all the men and women in the conference room with Todd, and horrid Mr. Monroe said to the contrary. She had watched her mother die, folded her brother’s flag, and scattered dirt on the caskets of the two people who meant the most to her. She had saved a life, she had broken bad news. She could play the guitar, as well as the piano, harp, accordion, and pan pipes masterfully, and had dabbled in flute, trumpet, and bagpipes. She was a world class swimmer, and could defend herself against men twice her size. She was intelligent, she was kind. Even if she hadn’t been, she was never garbage. No one deserved to have his or her possessions stuffed in black plastic bags; no one deserved to have his or her life regarded as just as much trash. And no one deserved to have the people they were trying to get a fresh start with see them as garbage. The Travises had no idea what sort of girl she was, and this was not the impression she wanted to give. She was not the kind of girl to allow all of her things to be wrapped up like household waste. But, neither was she the kind of girl to fuss around with her clothes. She had a few nice dresses, and some fancier shirts and skirts, but she mostly wore jeans, plaids, and thin long sleeved layers. Her clothes being wrapped was not the problem, more the impression that it gave. She hadn’t let them wrap the important things, not her journal, not her bible, not the guitar in its leather case, not her box of treasures, not the box containing Rusty’s flag. Those, as well as some other personal items, were stuffed into the handed down army surplus messenger bag.
She watched Max’s face fall, and wondered. Was it because he was sorry for what she was going through? It was probable, he young man seemed kind, but her past few weeks being shunted around had taught her that this wasn’t always true. With the fear that had infected her, her usual happiness was not as apparent as it generally was. Nor was she as trusting. She’d been through a lot. As Max hefted the heavy-duty black plastic bundles, nonplussed by their bulk, she watched him. He was kind to her, or had been thus far, but she was still wary. She had a brother, and no matter how kind and protective Max was, he would never be Rusty. There was no way anyone would take Rusty’s place, but she wouldn’t begrudge him if he tired to be a brotherly figure. She wasn’t angry that all of a sudden she had a new big brother, even when she could never really accept that her own was dead. She would never accept it unless she got a body; an empty coffin was like a story without the last chapter, like a chord progression without the resolution. She hated the fact that she was just supposed to pick up and leave, leave all her memories behind. But she didn’t complain, because she was alive, and she had a chance at a fresh start. She could be anything she wanted, here in California. For some this chance at reinventing themselves would have been something to celebrate, a chance to wipe the slate clean of any misdeeds, a chance to become a new person. Not for Nala. She was, and would always be, whether she was watched or not, who she was. There were no masks, or, if there were, they had been worn so long they were synonymous with the girl herself. The sharp edges of the boxes and books in her bag pressed against her thin ribs, stabbing slightly. ‘Listen, you don't need to be worried about anything. My mom and dad have been waiting with baited breaths for you to get here. When Grumpy in there leaves, I'll take you upstairs and show you you're room. I hope you like baby blue.’ She followed him towards the house, watching Mr. Monroe.
With a bright smile, more sure on her face now, she met Max’s eyes. “Really?” Her voice was quiet, gently musical, and had the gentle lilt of someone who had grown up around hundreds of different accents. She smiled again, wider now. She wondered, for a moment, why anyone would be waiting on her, but let it slide. “I’m to have a blue room?” She was unsure why that surprised her, but it was a happy surprise. Although she hadn’t let on, not even to herself, she had taken some of the stories the others told her in what they called ‘Limbo’ to heart. Stories of horrible families, who had tens of foster children in basements, stories of families that adopted or fostered because it was fashionable. A small part of her had been thinking that was what she was going to get. But Max didn’t seem to fit that mold. She laughed, musical and spontaneous, breaking the tension she had been feeling. “Blue is like the sky! I like blue.” Her response wasn’t normal, but it was Nala. She was close at Max’s heals, when she looked back at Mr. Monroe. The steel haired man watched the two teens, and as soon as they had unloaded the bags he folded his lanky frame into the seat of old battered cab. With a word to the driver he was off, opening the window to leave one final remark: “I’ll be checking up on you.” And then he was gone, little yellow car kicking up dust from the roadway. Nala turned her back on the receding shape, and followed Max onto the stoop. The rain that had banished the agent, was to the displaced teen as a clearing of clouds and a sunbeam would have been to any other individual. She smiled, pulling away from Max and the open door. With a bright smile, and a peal of innocent musical laughter, she ran into the drive, and spun gently on the spot, allowing the rain to wash down her face, tasting the liquor of the sky in her open mouth. Her hot face cooled, and all hints of fear and embarrassment were washed away by the sudden storm.
Time Of Day: Mid-Morning Month: Early April, a Saturday Others in the RP: Max Travis Attire: clicky!Words: 1164[/size][/color]
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Post by maxtravis on May 10, 2009 10:48:21 GMT -5
It just takes some time [/size][/i][/b][/color] Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride[/size][/i][/b][/color] -------------------------------------------------- [/center]
» Finally, the little girl was loosening up. It made me happy to take credit that I'd been the one to make her smile. The grin that spread across her face was infectious. A few seconds, and I foun myself smiling too. I'm going to have a blue room? She asked. Max wasn't sure why this needed confirmation, or why it seemed that Alana couldn't believe it. She laughed. I whipped my head around, trying to listen closer to the sound. It was so pretty, musical and light. Such a contrast from Mr. Monroe's gravelly voice. I was glad we would soon be rid of his presence. Yet again, my little sister spoke. I was so happy her mood was looking up. She would soon see there was nothing to be afraid of, and my family was genuine in their love for her. Blue is like the sky! I like blue. She said. I grinned at this. 'You aren't a regular girl, are you Nala?
I grinned. I wasn't sure why I'd called her Nala, it just felt right. We were heading toward the porch now, Mr. Monroe exiting the door and coming down the walkway. I'll be checking up on you. He said gravely, one consanant away from gravelly. As he passed me, I turned around, walking backwards and brought two fingers to my eyes, like scissors spread apart, then poked them back at Mr. Monroe's retreating head. 'Same for you, Mr. Monroe!' I yelled after him, cupping my hands around my mouth, laughing immediately after. At this, I fell back to where Nala was following, wrapping my arm around her waist and rushing us into the house before the rude agent could respond, laughing all the way.
» Yet as we reached the door, Nala pulled away. For a moment, I wondered if I'd been too forward, but she didn't seem annoyed. So that couldn't be it. With a bright smile, she laughed again, running into the driveway, and as if in celebration at the leave of her agent and her new home, she began to spin around and around. I stared for a few moments, dumbfounded, and then, the spell began to break as I chuckled softly to myself. My new little sister was really something. I began to run out with her, joining her in the little spinning dance, laughing myself. I stopped spinning after awhile in fear of looking gay, and feeling dizzy. When Nala seemed to have finished her cute little episode, I lifted her up in my arms and carried her toward the house again. 'You'll catch cold.' I grinned playfully, setting her down once we were back in the house. It was apparent my parents had been watching, because they were smiling at us sweetly, tears in their eyes. I wasn't sure the moment had been touching enough to deserve crying, but I knew the day had been full of overwhelming emotions. Not liking all the feelings circulating through the room, and the warm feeling I was getting in my chest, I tried to change the topic. 'Well. Let's go see Alana's room, shall we?
[/b] I asked, speaking up. My parents nodded softly, my mother rushing forward to give her foster daughter a bear hug. She buried her face in the girl's blonde curls, tears dotting the already wet hair. We're just so happy you're here, dear. She muttered into the girl's ear, kissing her forehead. I rolled my eyes, happy to have Alana here too, but worrying that my mom was pushing it. My father just smiled at her, which I thought was more appropriate, and began to head up the stairs with me. Alana's room was positioned perfectly, the door between mine and the master suite. If she got up during the night and needed to talk, she could choose either of us, and I could watch over her in case I happened to feel protective, something that often controlled my actions and emotions. Once we were at the landing, we turned left, crossing the wood floor, to what had been the guest room, now newly refurnished. The walls were the closest blue man could make to imitate the sky. Most of the shelving and furniture were painted white, so was the crown molding. Her bedspread was decorated in blue and green plaid with dragon and butterflies. We hadn't been sure whether she was a girlie-girl or a tomboy, but the decorations had seemed innocent enough. Her dresser with the gilted-frame mirror was my mother's favorite part. Little glass bottles and pearls littered the top, somewhat resembling a scientist's workplace, just a little more polished. The glass bottles contained some of my mother's favorite scents, lavender, sweet pea and violet, amber. I think chamomile was somewhere in there. One drawer was full of makeup my mother had bought from Sephora, another full of Jane Austen and Emily Bronte. I wasn't sure whether Alana would like either of the gifts, or even the little armoire complete with a little stool covered in lace, but we would see. 'So.' I said as my mother led her into the room, the plush carpet making soft squishing noises as they walked across it. 'Do you like it?' That was the big question. If not, we could always change it... [/center][/color] -------------------------------------------------- word count: 884 outfit: here.nala's room: here.status: complete. (: creidt: anjewl90 at caution2.0 for the template [/size][/font][/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by Nala Winston on May 11, 2009 19:40:37 GMT -5
Nala watched Max, and his smile widened hers. He wanted her here, she decided. This wouldn’t be as bad as she had been halfway dreading. Sometimes the stories were just that, stories. He watched her laughing and she tilted her head, questioning his watching. She wasn’t doing anything strange, was she? A blue room sounded amazing, but a room of any color would have been. She thought for a second of the dusty sage mural on her wall back on base, but banished the saddening thought from her mind. A blue room was open and free, sky colored, water colored. She decided she would like a blue room. ‘You aren't a regular girl, are you Nala?’ Max asked her, not really a question, not an accusation. He sounded happy at her strangeness. Was she strange, she imagined so? She hadn’t seen much of her ne home, but she knew she had always been a little bit different. And with her history, who wouldn’t be? He had called her Nala, eliciting another head tilt, but no question. Maybe it was in her file? Maybe it just sounded right. “Or so I’ve been told. Apparently I’m a little crazy. I’ve been informed I’m not exactly the norm. It’s alright, you can say it. But, I think you’re right. We are on different wavelengths.” They had moved top the porch, and she laughed again at herself. She must be proving to him that she was crazy. But she didn’t mind. In her mind, the world needed more like her. She had once been called a philosopher of raindrops. It seemed to fit.
Max proceeded to gesture with his index and middle finger at Mr. Monroe, eyes challenging playfully. Nala laughed harder; glad her foster-brother had a sense of humor. She beamed up at him as he wrapped his arm around her thin waist. She realized this family must be fond of physical contact, and didn’t mind. There hadn’t been much full on touching in the last few months of Beth’s life, but before Rusty had been deployed they had wrestled and hugged, playing like children. She had been a child herself then, much more than she was now, though Rusty refused to be one. The current Nala was ageless, very very young in some respects, and an old woman in others. She molded herself into Max’s one armed embrace; smiling and laughing with him a he led her to the house, her bags in his hand. Not meaning to affront him, she pulled away before they entered the beautiful home. She spun easily in the rain, drinking in the droplets and the world, letting herself fall open before it and her new family. She was no longer scared, no longer worried. She was alive, and she would like it here. She had a new home, and a family that, though it was not and would never be her own, seemed to love her and want her there. Bright laughter, not derisive or mocking flew from her open mouth, mingling with the music of the raindrops and the light wind. She smiled, elevated by the small storm to something more than a foster child with black plastic bags around her things, her heart breaking firmly from behind its own black plastic shield. Rain was like baptism, and this little dose of joy made the teen ready to embrace the Travises, California, and her blue room.
Max was laughing gently as she danced, and then, surprises, he joined her. She beamed at him through eyelashes encrusted with stars, and damp hair tracing lines over her open face. Taking his hands in a display of spontaneity, she began to spin with him on the spot, their dance growing increasingly wild and joyous. She loved the closeness of the rain, and when he lifted her up and carried her to his home she didn’t mind in the least. He would make a good big-foster-brother. Nothing like Rusty had been -she wouldn’t let him- but good all the same. 'You'll catch cold.' Max was half teasing, half serious, and she smiled even wider, her eyes glittering from behind their rainbow coronas. “The wet won’t give me a cold.” Nala laughed as she was carried away. Max set her down when they entered the house, and she caught a look at his parents. They were both holding back tears, and something about their expressions and the overwhelming love and relief surrounding the four people in the room told the teen that they were tears of joy. They had watched their son and foster daughter bonding in the rain, and it seemed to make them happy. She knew it would be difficult to guard herself from their love, and resolved to try not to. She could carve new places out of her heart for her new family; her old family would always be safe, awarded the place of honor.
'Well. Let's go see Alana's room, shall we?’ Max seemed awkward now, in the presence of his emotional parents. Nala wondered for a moment if this was a time to cry, but she neither wanted to, nor could. Disregarding the thought, she smiled at Max, hoping to make him feel less uncomfortable. His mother rushed the little girl embracing her and burying her face in Nala’s wet hair, which had decided that ringlets were the appropriate response to the dampness on top of the gentle curl they had been coaxed into the night before. The long trip to California had begun in the middle of the night. But the teen hadn’t slept much regardless. The woman was crying, and Nala embraced her, wanting her to stop, but understanding the well of emotions. The woman seemed like a good mother. Never her mother, but a good one. ‘We're just so happy you're here, dear.’ Nala smiled, whispering back in a voce brimming with unspoken emotions, joy and happiness mixed equally with a tinge of regret and a little bit of sadness at this joyous family. The joy won out, and Nala swallowed hard to clear the lump she felt forming above her heart. “I’m happy to be here.” Her foster mother let her go, and the girl, suddenly very young, followed Max up the stairs.
She followed him them up the stairs, turning left on the landing to a door between two other bed rooms. /the room was the perfect shade of sky, making her gasp lightly. The shelves were the white of clouds on a summer day, and the molding and furniture matched. To the adventurous girl it was like being encased in a bubble of sky, flying on her bed, which was decorated with dragonflies and butterflies in pale blues and greens. The dresser was the piece de resistance, gilded mirror reflecting the beautiful room, and surface covered with all the things a young girl could want, make-up, perfume, books. Nala had never used the formers, but she loved the look of them, and looked forward to a little experimenting. The brand names on the bottles and tubes in the open drawers were alien to the teen, but she expected to learn about them quickly. The stool set enar the dresser was lacy and beautiful, and Nala beamed at the room, stopping a moment at the door to take it all in. Her small feet, clad in their rough sneakers sank into a heavily piled rug as she took a few steps into the little heaven, following her foster-mother. Her room on base and been beautiful, and personal, but this room was a masterpiece of design and love. 'So. 'Do you like it?' Nala nodded, speechless at the beautiful room. I was not hers, nor was it what she had been expecting, but she found that she liked it, loved it even. She could make herself at home here. Finding her voice, choked by the feeling of wanting to sob for joy, but being utterly empty of tears, she whispered, awe coloring the nearly inaudible reply. “I love it.” Her eyes, bright and crystalline, were wide and surprised.
Time Of Day: Mid-Morning Month: Early April, a Saturday Others in the RP: Max Travis Attire: clicky!Words: 1349[/size]
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Post by maxtravis on May 27, 2009 9:16:58 GMT -5
It just takes some time [/size][/i][/b][/color] Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride[/size][/i][/b][/color] -------------------------------------------------- [/center]
» Here she was, my little sister, in her very own room. A strong feeling, indescribable, thick, almost gauzy laid over my heart, making it harder to breathe, the rise and fall of my chest weighted. I swallowed back a lump in my throat and assumed that I was just tired and feeling a little emotional because of it. Not that this moment wasn't a big one for me. It was everything coming together, this one little girl who had gone through so much, and had to face so many trying situations, finally finding a home. I knew she couldn't appreciate it as much as she would being back with her real family, but the Travises were going to try and embrace her as much as we would our own daughter, or sister, in my case. I didn't find it hard to almost make myself believe that she was my flesh and blood relative. Her blonde curls bounced angelically as she looked around the room, excitement evident on her glowing face. I could almost find the same highlights in her hair as in mine, and those that had been there before my father's started going grey. I couldn't say the same for the courageous spirit she seemed to have about her. I couldn't remember ever being as brave as this fifteen year old had already been in her life, and I was the Berlington Wildcats star quarterback. I knew it was hard to take seriously, but I had some lessons to learn in strength from this little grl.
» I love it. She said, and I smiled. I was happy she was enjoying everything so much, even the things that must have seemed unfamiliar or out of place, like the expensive perfumes on her armoire, but even these, she seemed to appreciate with the appropriate excitement my mother expected. She didn't seem to stop smiling, her face like a sunbeam, bright and nourishing in a strange way. Tears filled her eyes and yet another jolt of sympathy struck my heart. It was charming enough to call for another group hug, my mother beginning the action, and my dad and I couldn't help but feel required to join. After a few moments of standing there in the plush carpet, the only sound in the quiet room our own breathing and the soft click of the ceiling fan above, we all pulled away, grinning down at Nala. My dad took the farthest steps back, a man that always seemed to feel like he was intruding if he wasn't offering someone a scoop of ice cream in a conical paper cup. My mother followed because she was always faithfully and devotedly attatched to her husband. Well, Alana, we'll just leave you and Max alone, okay? We have to get started on dinner.' She excused herself, offering a small smile that seemed almost like the physical form of an apology.
» Turning to Alana after my parents had left the room and were off down the hall and down the stairs, I looked around the room as if I were new to it myself. I was just trying to take in what she did, see what she saw. I couldn't imagine how so little and such a pitiful attempt to make a girl happy could cause her to be so pleased. Well. Do you want to just chill out in here or would you like a tour of the house. Maybe I can take you out the barn? I didn't know why I was almost asking Nala's permission to take her out to see the horses. However, I allowed myself, though I might have felt like it, I really didn't know her yet. There was a lot to learn, and it all seemed to be too much to be covered in one night. How lucky I was to have her in my family. If things worked out the way my parents and I had planned, she would be here for many years to come.
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word count: 668
outfit: here.
nala's room: here.
status: complete. (: i'm sorry it's so short. i'm just trying to crank something out. i promise after your next reply, mine will be longer. you can tie me up by my toenails if it isn't. (:
creidt: anjewl90 at caution2.0 for the template
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