Prelude.

I know I wasn’t always this way. But somehow it just feels so natural, like this is how it has always been. But it hasn’t. And I know it. If I didn’t it might be easier. Not that its hard. I guess I’m just a natural at this sort of shit. Which is exactly what this is, shit. But I’m good at it. I even enjoy it sometimes when its an actual challenge. Hell, I’d probably be doing this if I hadn’t changed. But I have changed and I know it.

I know when it happened too.

My mother would probably say that it started when Back Pack leaving and the first brown bunny died, followed (eventually) by the rest of them. My sister would say that I was just born insane and that I haven’t changed at all. And she has been saying that, since I was born practically, so its lost all meaning it might have had once. Its too bad I haven’t had the heart to tell her yet. My step dad would say that he didn’t notice any change in me and maybe go on to suggest that we start spending more time together. He gets sappy like that sometimes. I think he wishes that we hadn’t grown apart. I do too, but that was part of it, the change. And it just felt so natural to be strangers to each other afterwards. I know I love him, or at the very least I used too and don’t hate him or dislike him now, like some would have. My almost uncle would just curse and say something along the lines as ‘Fuck! What does it matter if you change? People change its what they do. Its part of their nature. Jesus you sound more like your mum and sis each fucking day.’ And I’d be fucked to know what my real father thought.

But of course I would not be so dense as to actually ask them when they thought I had changed. Especially since I already know and that just asking them would be another confirmation of how little I actually have in common with them, since all of them would be wrong. Or at least not perfectly right.

My mother would be closest. Back Pack leaving was the worst, even though I was genuinely disappointed when he was created and continued to tell him so afterwards, he was the only person (thing, creature, whatever) that I felt truly understood me. Part of me still thinks that if only I had been nicer to him he would have wanted to stay. Or at least explained to me what and who he really was when he left. But he would have left as abruptly as he had anyways. The bunnies dying were bad as well just not as bad. They were the only purpose I had at that age (even then I knew better than to make school my top priority) and I always felt I failed them when yet another succumbed to old age. Not to mention the fact they were so damn cute. But bunnies had nothing to do with it. I had already changed by then and the bunnies just shattered my last sense of security and purpose at home.

But my mother is still the closest because it happened a couple hours prior to then. I had always known about it deep down, but it really hadn’t mattered until then. Until that night and moment, when I felt the full force of my lack of a family. I had them and didn’t at the same time. Really it was more like they had had me all this time, like a spoiled dog who had never been told it was a pet instead of being a member of its family.

The night I changed, standing perfectly untouched in my memory from the time that has passed from then and now. I can see and feel it in my mind like it were happening right then. And yet none of that really matters. Just the voice saying that I was not part of the Reflected One’s sect and could not enter. My sister. I knew it was about her all along, it simply was her destiny to go through the ordeal, and mine to be left (albeit reluctantly) alone, waiting, and wondering. But this had been the first time anyone had ever said that she and I were only half related to each other. And the saying and the exclusion suddenly made it important in ways that hadn’t mattered at all before.

My mother, of course, would not let it pass with out a long heart felt chat after the whole thing saying that she and my stepfather loved me all the same and that it didn’t matter and never would. It would have been better if she hadn’t said anything at all. Not too mention she left out the parts I wanted to know, like who and where he was. Things that I was beginning to wonder for the first time in my entire life.

I didn’t ask though. My mother is the type of person where if she wanted me to know something she’d just tell me. So I didn’t. I haven’t. And I probably won’t. I have been looking for tiny clues in her old things though. Not that I wouldn’t go rummaging through her things without reason anyways, but now there is a small sense of purpose in it. And of failure when I don’t find anything.

But that’s when I changed. The moment I knew that I had no father, and that I wasn’t a part of their unit. I wasn’t related to Rose or her father, I was related to her mother but my mother always seemed like she was more related to those other two than she was to me. Despite how every one is always saying we look so alike. Or as Mara always says ‘You are just one punked-out mini version of your mom!’. Which I suppose is a compliment, but being told I look like my mother just feels empty. Who else would people say I looked like? I certainly don’t look like my step dad and I sure as hell don’t look like my sister.

I haven’t changed much consciously, other than a growing sense of the meaningless of words and of my own disconnection to my family, both present and absent. It really has little to do with what I do now. How I spend my nights and days (mostly my nights). But I’d just be lying if I said it didn’t have anything to do with it.

In another alley, seems like they’re my route of choice now, walking to Mara’s house at what’s probably way to damn late even on her clock.

I would go to my house but its one of those rare moments when my mother and step dad are both away on business. If I were normal or had ever been normal I’d be probably throwing one hell of party right now. It’s a shame I can’t stand people my age. Or most people in general for that matter. Our house would be perfect for it too. Its not even a house, it’s a ware house in the middle of what used to be a thriving industrial area. Now it’s in an area that might be considered chicly cheap, it would have been turned into some sort of ghetto if it hadn’t been for an art school opening up near by. All the artist types moved in living the trendy life in an industrial home. Ours being refurbished for live in purposes, as well as for the use of my step dad’s metal stuff and my mom’s culture stuff. All our rooms, offices, bathrooms, etc., are on the top floor and the bottom floor is open with the kitchen rather randomly in the back of the space. It seems to have been getting bigger over the years first as Mara kept coming over, then my almost uncle and whoever was his current fling moved out, then my sister just had to go to college.

When my parents go away I just feel like I’m in the belly of some creature. Its just me in there. Alone. I can’t sleep with out someone. I don’t why, but I can’t. When Back Pack was here and the bunnies, I could always sleep with them. When my sister was here I could sleep with her. But I can’t sleep alone. It would make things less complicated. I wouldn’t have to go to Mara’s just to sleep.

Mara was a good friend of a friend. She understood just enough to kick her current fling to the couch for the night so I could sleep with her. She only got away with it because she told them I was her cousin, I’m sure its crossed some of their skuzzy minds that we might be having a secret lessie fling. I can see the question on their faces. Idiots. Mara’s too good a person to sleep around. Besides she’d have better taste than to have a relationship with me.

It’s a nice night warm but not stifling with a light breeze. There’s a lovely full moon hovering above the city and lighting the alley ways. Perfectly quiet except for a few cars, music echoing so ominously against the buildings that there would be no way of telling where it came from, and footsteps. Mine and those of some punks who have been following me for about a block now.

The old me would have assumed the best, that maybe these guys were just a couple of stragglers from the party who just wanted a second chance to hit on me. While at the same time being perfectly ready for the worst.

The new me doesn’t assume shit. But she sure as hell is hoping for a good excuse for a fight.

Lucky them, I haven’t changed enough to where I’ll attack without reason.

I breathe silently with my left hand loosely hanging by a belt loop. Close enough to my waist band to grab my favorite blade, an exacto knife that has a blade that flips out just exactly like a switchblade. I doubt I’ll need it, even if they had guns I could probably take them on.

I carefully began the test. Breathing slowly and quietly, walking softer but not slower, I listened. They were behind me and judging on the rhythm of the steps there was just two of them, so long as they weren’t carrying anybody on their shoulders. I couldn’t help but smile slowly. A little late night entertainment if I was lucky and if they were stupid.

I walked faster and seemingly carelessly turned right to go down a narrower alleyway and waited. I heard the steps quickening and turn down towards my direction. So far they’re passing with an average score. Rather slow though in my opinion. I’d better add a couple of bonus questions to the test. This is where it gets fun.

I turn left and left yet again so I’m walking down the same damned alleyway as when we began. Continuing, I hope that I haven’t accidentally thrown them off if they were following me and wait expectantly to hear if they come up behind me. I just hear the sound of my steel-toe boots beating a one-two rhythm on the ground for what seems like a hour. But then I hear them. Going even faster this time. Walking just short of a jog. Those two blessed souls who so graciously wish give me one last party for a night.

They’ve passed with flying colors. I start running, slowly. They start running, quickly gaining on me. If this were a cheap Hollywood blockbuster, I’d make for the nearest dead end and find myself cornered by these wannabee thugs, and of course we’d exchange a few words and I’d say something coy followed by a cheesy pun then proceed to kick their asses in an unnecessarily slow, yet very dramatic fight where they both end up on the ground unconscious but otherwise unharmed. Man, am I thankful real life ain’t the movies.

I turn a sharp right corner grabbing the nearest metal trash can lid hesitating barely a second for them to turn the corner. Before I can even register that I’m actually looking at the assailments for the first time I swing the metal lid as hard as can into the closest one’s face. The ‘Clang’ of the metal denting against his face sounded deafening in the quiet night. I stunned the guy but the other had gotten to my right grabbing my arm and jerking it. In disgust at the revolting feeling of his rough disgusting hand touching my arm I jam my left fist with an unbelievable speed up his nose.

To him the feeling of his nose breaking might have been a jolting instant of a moment, but for me it was a taste of eternity. Noses are my specialty. My preference. Some fighters might think that the nose is joke. I worship the moment they break. It’s a rare moment of clarity in a fight for me, when I can feel everything around me in less time than it might take someone to blink. Feel the crack and movement of the bones underneath the skin, the metallic smell of blood, the very pain of it I can feel. There are some people who might hesitate after causing this sort of pain and feeling it and I’ve seen it happen to less experienced people. But for me it just made me want more and act faster.

I had barely begun retreating my arm from his now loosened grip when I struck my foot straight between his legs. His buddy seems to have finally registered that they’re being beat up by a girl. Out of nowhere he now has a knife in his and thrusting it out. It was a blade that would have seriously injured a much slower person than I, very, very much. Dodging it, I swing my left arm down on his out thrust one moving his out of my way and using it as leverage so I can swing my right up into a hard steely kick to the side of his head and my body right over his muscular but now limp arm. Landing on my feet on the other side of his falling body.

I grab the knife from his limp fingers for safe keeping and walk away.

Simple as that, for this is how these things end with me walking away and with them unconscious and with a bleeding nose clutching their groin. And me gravely looking ahead of me as I pull my trustworthy blade and kiss its fine edge. So fine the only way I know I have broken skin is from the wetness on my lower lip. Adding to the only scar on my body, the only wound that seems to leave the slightest trace of itself upon my skin. The scar, barely that, is just a slight indent like a crease going straight down the middle of my lower lip.

In moments I know that the bleeding will stop. It always does. The kiss is the only injury I have received apart from the indignity of being touched by that worthless thug. Who knows what they really wanted from me. Maybe mug me or rape me. It doesn’t matter now. As leave slowly walking away letting the one still conscious see the back of me for as long as possible. Let him know that I know he can’t and won’t come after me. Night or day. He wouldn’t have recognized me if he saw me again. I might recognize him. But it was too dark and too brief a meeting for future recognition.

As I turn on to friendlier streets near by that I could have taken early I hear the conscious one shout after me in what was probably a hoarser more slurred version of his normal voice, “Mother fucking bitch!”

Smugly, loudly I shout back, “You know it!”

Knowing that the acoustics of the alleyways would take it back to him.

Frankly, I had been rather disappointed by the fight. I hadn’t even broken a sweat or even a nail. Rather pathetic for two nearly grown men.

‘Mother fucking bitch’

If someone had seen they might have thought so too. That I was the kind of mother fucking bitch who goes out at night looking for fights. Really I’m not. Not completely anyways. The only way I ask for it, is by walking through dark alleys in bad neighborhoods, which to some might be looking for a fight.

For me its not a matter of looking for a fight, just the right one. I’m no bully I wouldn’t hurt someone unless I was sure they had hurt someone in the past or were planning too in the future. If that makes a mother fucking bitch, then I’ll proudly be one.

People would be surprised, maybe even shocked if they looked at me and knew how I could fight. I’m small, very small. I haven’t even been fully hit by puberty yet. I’m as flat as a washboard and not much taller. But I am quick. And I am strong. And I am tough. And I will be the first to admit I have a major attitude. If that makes me a mother fucking bitch, then I’ll proudly be one.

But I hardly take information I get from street scum seriously. Beside how would the bastard know who the hell I am when I hardly know who I am these days. I know I used to be Snow Red Deluca, but now I don’t know who I am. I haven’t since the change and its been four extremely long years since then.

I’ve just gotten more and more distant, with the people around me as well as with myself. More and more wild and aggressive. More angry. I’ve changed. And I know it. I know I wasn’t always this way. But somehow it just feels so natural, like this is how it has always been. But it hasn’t. And I know it. If I didn’t it might be easier. Not that its hard. I guess I’m just a natural at this sort of shit. Which is exactly what this is, shit. But I’m good at it. I even enjoy it sometimes when its an actual challenge. Hell, I’d probably be doing this if I hadn’t changed. But I have changed and I know it.

But then again, maybe I didn’t.

Maybe I just noticed for the first time how different I was from the others.

Maybe, but it doesn’t really matter. None of it does. The only thing that matters is that if I don’t get myself out of this limbo I’ve been in for these past years It will just get worse and worse if I don’t do something soon.