A/N: This is quite possibly the most pathetic "short" story I've ever written. I guess you could say...writing with a time limit (and a word limit) is not good for me (and I wrote most of this the night before I handed it in to my teacher). It was supposed to be between 600 and 800 words. Oops... Note-to-self: Never, ever, try to weave two stories into one again. It just doesn't work.
See what you think of it anyway :D

Belonging

The house is white – too white. Not a blemish on its walls, not an uneven spot to be seen in its perfect flowerbeds. It stands far above the ground, intimidating the smaller houses that it has pushed aside with its vast expanses of grass.

I feel ashamed – guilty, even – at the knowledge that this massive thing belongs to me, and only me. How unfitting, when I haven't any need for it at all.

Eager to get inside – not for anticipation, but for fear of being seen with this monstrosity – I hurry along the gravel drive. The woman I've been traveling with opens the door for me. The moment I step inside, I want to scream – the hall along swamps me completely, much too spacious for comfort. I can only imagine how I'll feel when I venture further into the house.

“Your aunt will be here in an hour or so,” the woman tells me in a sickly sweet tone. I nod minutely and turn on my heel – I will go and take refuge in my bedroom. Only I've no idea how to locate it in this immense place.

“Er...” I begin.

“Up the stars and through the door to your right.” A forced smile is plastered across her features.

Again, I turn away with a nod. My footsteps echo off the faraway walls in the most displeasing manner – it gives the place an altogether empty feel.

I stop in front of the door. Should I enter? I'm afraid of what I might find inside. Cautiously, I peer in – into a room at least five times the size of my previous bedroom, which I could hardly have said was small. I fear I will get lost in its emptiness. Order once pleased me – now, I find that I miss those out-of-place objects that were signs of inhabitance.

A book will be a nice escape; I traipse slowly across to the tall shelves – the top level of which I may not be able to reach – and pull out the first thing my fingers find. It leaves a pleasing gap in the ordered volumes.

The bed is soft, but, even nestled under the covers, there is no real warmth, no cosiness – it is too large by half. I may live here now, but it certainly doesn't feel like home. I curl up to make myself as small as possible, taking only as much space as I require.

I begin to read. The words are no comfort to me no; their rhythmical sense only reinforces the feeling of unnecessary order that is swallowing me. I was never bothered by it before – only now, when I've lost everything I once had in return for this inherited treasure. Treasure, my foot. I only want it to go away.

OOOOOOOO

The street is damp and dim – only the day's leftover traffic lingers on the roads, and, by the store fronts, people like me sit slumped against the wall. Dirt-smudged faces, ruddy clothes – my kind. The defeated expression is part of our genes, too, I have to think.

I'm the only one on my feet – the others are not so bold as to frighten the citizens still in town. As I walk, hands stuffed into my pockets, I hear the locks contract inside the car doors, their drivers eying me doubtfully. I wouldn't hurt them; I wouldn't so much as go near them. But they don't know that. They don't know anything at all.

As I round the corner, darkness floods over my eyes – but it doesn't take my night vision long to set in. I'm used to this.

I measure my paces, knowing exactly how far I need to walk until I find it – and there it is, so discrete that only one looking for it would take any notice. It's a sign I've gazed upon too many times before, but only now do I not ignore it.

Marinth Rodd – Loans and Debt Collectors.

I heave a sigh. The door – a metal hatch in the concrete – is the only one unlocked. I quietly slip through, knowing there is every chance I will grow to regret this.

OOOOOOOO

Night falls, and still I am awake. My aunt has arrived, intent on making me follow every rule in her book, forcing me to do her bidding – were I not so reluctant to acknowledge my ownership of this estate, I would certainly use that against her.

But instead I lay here, wondering if I'll ever break free of this torturous cycle.

That's when something hits the window – hard.

Bits of broken glass scatter across the floorboards, and though I'm too alert already to be startled, I fear my aunt may be awoken by the noise.

But I can hear her rhythmical snores, and they remain steady. What luck.

Slowly, stealthily, I creep across the the window and peer out into the dark. I'm just in time to catch sight of them – two boys and two girls – making their quick escape by scaling the back fence.

My heart leaps – is this my chance? Well, cliché as it may sound, there really is only one way to find out.

First, I give my appearance a quick once-over; white singlet, blue shorts, slippers – no, not nearly grungy enough. I pull the elastic out of my fiery hair, toss the slippers aside, and retrieve my most tattered grey jacket from the suitcase my aunt brought upstairs. It's not much better, but it'll have to do.

Then, just as silently as before, I return to the window and pull it open; some of the crumbled glass falls with a tinkling sound to the floor. It's lucky I took gymnastics lessons for so many years as a child – climbing out the window isn't easy at this height, but the tree nearby helps considerably. I earn myself a couple of scratches on my legs and some twigs in my hair – this, I hope, will add to the effect I am trying to create.

I hurry to the back fence, climbing over like they did – it's not as easy as they made it look. Not at all. But again, I make it over, if only with a few new scratches to show for it.

They've almost reached the corner of the street, where they'll soon disappear from my view. I want to call out to them, but I decide against it – better to remain silent, while I'm still within earshot of my aunt. So I sprint, as hard as I can, after them.

They round the corner and head toward the little wood to the east, turning back every now and then as if to check for pursuers like me. Each time they do this, I duck behind a hedge or a mailbox, hiding myself completely.

Then, when they've nearly reached their destination, one of the boys turns around for the umpteenth time. Oh, drat. There's nothing to hide behind. He sees me, of course, and stares with wide eyes.

“Wait,” he tells the others. My heart starts pounding. Why have I come so far? It was a stupid idea to follow them. My parents didn't die just so I could get myself killed by my own stupidity.

But I'm not turning back now. Do I really have a choice, anyway?

The foursome clears the distance between us in an instant. I notice now that the girls are both brown-haired with rampant freckles – sisters, I guess. One of the boys is defined by his bulk, the other lanky with windswept hair. They all have the look that I know can only be obtained by spending a considerable amount of time outdoors; I feel a pang of jealousy at this thought.

“Where did you come from?” the tall boy asks cautiously, standing almost protectively in front of the others.

I'm stuck for words. “I...err...well, you threw a rock at my window.”

“Did I, now?” His eyes are suspicious, though I don't understand why. “So what? Do you think I'm going to apologise or something?”

I swallow hard. “Well, no, it's just that...”

“What?”

What can I say? “I'm only trying to...get away from my aunt, actually.”

“Jemima Baker?” he asks suddenly, his eyes snapping up to my face.

I blush, but at the same time, I'm surprised. “Yeah. You know her?”

“We all know her around here. We've been expecting her return for a while.” He rolls his eyes, and the others make muffled noises of consent. “So what, you're her niece, then?”

I nod. “Nora.”

He regards me with curious eyes. “Well, it's nice to meet you, Nora. I'm Eric.”

I start to smile, but I'm distracted by a high pitched scream from nearby. It sounds as though somebody else's home has just been hijacked by this rock-throwing gang, or at least some of their friends. I jump, startled.

Eric shakes his head with a knowing smile. “Darn those fools,” he says. “We'd better get out of here. You coming, Nora?”

“I...what?” I blink, dumbfounded.

To my surprise, Eric grabs my hand with his own dirt-covered one – it feels nice, for some reason unknown to me – and then pulls on it, towing me off into the forest.

OOOOOOOO

The underground chamber is dark. It's almost frightening, how well they set the mood down here. It's almost as if they intend to give the enterer one final warning - “Are you sure you want to be here? Are you sure you're that kind of person?”

I've asked myself those questions a million times. I've finally come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter what you want, and it doesn't matter what kind of person you are – there comes a time when desperateness rules over everything. That realisation was the turning point, the final straw – it's what made me pluck up the courage to come down here, at long last. I can't tell whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I approach the rotting door, and hesitate before knocking. The voice inside is too quick for me.

“Come in.”

I adjust my jacket and push open the door; it groans in complaint on its rusty hinges, but creaks open all the same. I step inside. He's there, wearing a black bowler had that casts a shadow over his bespectacled eyes.

“How can I help you?” he asks, almost kindly.

“Mr Rodd,” I greet him uneasily. “I...I was looking for...work.”

“Ah.”

He appraises me silently for a few seconds – I can see the squint marks around his eyes – and then says, “You sure?”

I nod – that nod, though only minute, is the determining factor of my fate.

“Alright.” He fishes around in his desk drawer for a moment, pulling out a stack of papers – then, as my heart gives a nervous stutter, he reaches into the other drawer and pulls out something made of black metal.

I've known for a long time that my life would reach this stage, and still, I'm not ready for it as he hands me the gun.

“These are the lists of...rule-breakers,” Mr Rodd says darkly. “I trust you'll be efficient.”

“Efficient. Of course.” The word takes on a different meaning in this new context. In this new life.

OOOOOOOO

“So, what made you want to run away from your aunt?” Eric asks casually, leaning against a fallen tree trunk. Here, I sit with their large group – at least fifteen teenagers – around a campfire, as they interrogate me and I ask them a few questions in return.

“I wasn't really running away from my aunt, specifically,” I answer in all honesty. “Just...life in general. I don't like that house.” I give a shudder. “It's much more pleasant out here.”

Laughs break out all over the place, astonishing me.

“Did you hear that?” Eric shakes his head incredulously, chuckling. “She doesn't like the Hillside Manor. What is wrong with this girl?”

I stare at me knees.

“Sounds like you belong out here with us,” one of the freckled girls tells me. I can't help but be elated at her remark.

“I wish I could stay,” I admit sheepishly.

The silence stretches out for a few moments.

“I have an idea.” It's a sandy-haired boy who speaks from across the circle. I've been lead to believe he was the one who caused that woman to scream, having thrown a rather large rock through her bathroom window whilst she was getting undressed.

“What is it this time, Ron?” Eric asks, rolling his eyes with a smirk.

“Oh, just a little test.” The boy named Ron gets up, turns, and walks several paces in the other direction. He comes back shortly after with a rock in his hands. My heart falls right through the forest floor.

Eric, getting the plan, takes my hand again and grins. “Don't worry. It'll be fun. Right this way.”

He and the others lead me a fair distance through the trees, until we reached residential ground again. Numerous lavish homes stretch up in front of us; their walls look impenetrable, but I knew these people have a different idea.

Not two minutes later, the rock is in my hands. We're standing at what Eric and Ron assure me is “prime shooting distance” from one of the spotless white houses. It feels heavier than it should.

“Go on,” Eric encourages. “It's not that hard. I promise.”

I force myself to believe him. Sure. I can do this. No problem.

Only...I can't.

I try to lift the rock and take aim, but there is no will in my hands. They refuse to comply, and I exhale heavily as I let the rock drop to the ground.

Eric turns to stone at my side. “Can't do it?” he asks, his words cutting into my chest like stabbing icicles.

I shake my head without taking my eyes off the ground. What a wimp I am.

Ron's harsh words hit my ears next. “They're still her people, Eric.”

“Yeah.” Eric's voice is colder than the wintry air surrounding us as he turns to me. “Go back where you belong.”

I grant myself one last glance up at him. His eyes are narrowed, more suspicious even than they were the first time he took notice of me. His mouth is a thin line, his stance so tense I might figure him a statue if I didn't know better. The faces behind him are equally as distrustful, and I turn away from them with sorrow.

As I walk away, back to the home I do not want, I hate myself for this. I hate myself for having the very thing that these people have longed for all their lives, but also for the fact that I can't give it up, no matter how little I want it.

I sigh in defeat. Maybe it is my place in life after all.

OOOOOOOO

There's blood on my hands. Ugh. Warm and sticky, I cannot forget its presence.

But I mean that in more ways than just the physical sense. For tonight, I've committed a terrible crime – one that I can never forgive myself for. I've killed a man. I've killed several, actually. And what's eating away at me is that I did it without remorse, satisfying myself with the knowledge that it's only my job.

I have to ask – what kind of a job is this?

I head straight to the river when my job is done. Deeper into the forest, a group of kids are having a campfire, and I envy them. If only life could be so simple; if only I could be so innocent.

I wash my hands in the running water, but no matter how hard I scrub them, I'll never get rid of the blood for good. There will always be a trace of it there, just as there will always be a memory of what I've done logged into my brain forever.

Forever is a very long time. How will I learn to live with myself again?

I return to Mr Rodd's office and collect my pay, returning the gun and the now blood-stained lists. He regards me with a curious, almost worried expression. How could I not have seen it? He doubted me from the start – I really wasn't the right kind of person for the job. Now I would pay for my ignorance, and relive those terribly moments for the rest of my life.

One thing was for sure – I was never going back to Marinth Rodd's underground office.

Back at the river, I cleanse my hands again. I feel like this might be the start of some long-term addiction – trying to get my hands clean of this crime, over and over and over again. I don't care what it takes to free myself of this memory that weighs on my conscience so. I will have to find some way to redeem myself. But I will never do that completely – that's the price I'll have to pay.

Before I leave, I toss the envelope Mr Rodd gave me into the water, and watch as the money that could have lasted me a year takes a trip down the stream. Maybe some more worthy person will find it.

I turn away from the river, toward the streets – the home I hated – and try to recall what was really so bad about that life in the first place. Perhaps it really is where I belong.

A/N: Don't forget to leave a review, no matter whether you liked it or not :P