Problematically Quixotic
By Midnight Excursions
Summary: She's never met him before. He's affiliated with her no-good, annoying sister. Not to mention the first thing she did when they met was chuck a clock at him. So what's he doing confessing his love to her?
Prologue: The Problem with Darcy
See, there's one thing I don't get.
Any girl that ever gets her hands on a copy of Pride and Prejudice seems to love it immensely and almost immediately, gushing over the pages with relentless glee. They fantasize about their own Mr. Darcy, they laugh at Elizabeth's wit, and they marvel at the wholesome feeling of fulfillment at the end of the novel where they draw the book to their chest and let out a heavy, dreamy sigh. Granted, there are also those—having only watched the movie—that are still lost in translation, knitting their eyebrows in frustration as they figure out what the hell everyone else is laughing, crying, or swooning over.
Then, they put down the book, head out into the world in search of that one special person that will treat them just like Darcy would—and hence, here, I am lost. Completely, and utterly lost.
Have I missed something; isn't this book fiction? Why do people keep on looking for some kind of modern form of this seemingly perfect partner—rich, handsome, daring, deeply in love with a common girl, not at all stuck up but, in fact, misunderstood, unable to convey his feelings upright, yet all the same a sweet, heavenly man.
Don't people realize that kind of man doesn't exist? Perhaps I'm being too hasty by making such a statement. Sure, I haven't met every single man in the world but, come on people! Can't we be a bit more realistic?
"Realistic about what?"
Huh?
"Are you talking to yourself again?"
Blink.
"Thinking aloud?"
Twitch.
"Laura?"
"AH! There're voices in my head! Get 'em out! Get 'em out!"
The girl stopped in her tracks, letting out a sigh as she slowly shook her head. "And people wonder why I still hang out with you…"
I spun around; my arms spread open as I grinned. "Aw, that's because you love me, Bethany!"
She shrugged in response, a small smirk surfacing on her face as she walked past me to the curb of the side walk.
"Whatever you say…"
I frowned, feeling that odd stirring in my stomach as she kept her gaze strictly on the street light. I caught up to her, my feet shuffling through the warm colored leaves. Strangely enough, I felt a calming feeling from the crunch beneath my feet. "Don't be mean now, Beth, it's only the second week of school and I'm already depressed as it is."
She laughed before patting my head gently, as if she were the older one in this conversation, not the other way around. "So, isn't Devon working late tonight?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Well, didn't your parents go on that vacation?"
"Oh, don't remind me," I groaned as I rolled my eyes, "They're all into the idea of a second honeymoon. But really, it's like their fifth."
"Um…okay. But still, that'll mean you'll be home by yourself for a while, at least until your brother gets home."
I pouted, crossing my arms as we finally came into our neighborhood. "Hey now, I can make it on my own—for the night at the very least. Give me a little credit here." Gosh, you'd think my best friend would get the point that I'm seventeen and fully capable of taking care of myself.
"But…you can't cook to save your goldfish's life," Bethany remarked bluntly, "plus there's the fact that you're a slob."
"Uh…duh. That's what takeout is for. And since when did I have a goldfish?"
Bethany glanced at me for a second before returning her gaze to the front. "Right….I better go call Devon."
"Oh please, that's just another excuse to talk to him. That's sick, you know that?"
Bethany gave me a sideways glance, which always made me feel like there was an inside joke I wasn't aware of or in on, before waving good bye. Giggling at my bewildered expression, she added, "don't tell me you can't even recognize your own home."
Hey, look at that. She's right; I am home: which means stalling on the computer, which means doing homework, which means eating at ten, which means I'm going to be screwed for my History exam tomorrow. Yippee.
Plop.
I blinked, turning around to find that Beth had already deserted me. I glanced up at the sky and made my keen observation of the day—it's gray.
Plop. Plop.
And dark.
Plopplopplopplopplopplop.
And…wet. Enough said.
I sprinted into the house, my clothes soaked at the random occurrence of a freak thunderstorm. Did I mention I hate thunderstorms? I mean, it just so happens that freaks, and psychopaths and rapists come out during the rainy, dark nights (even though right now it's late afternoon) with chainsaws or axes ready to scare the hell out of…well, me. Plus there's all that creepy music that gets louder and louder and you just know that he's behind the bathtub curtain—but you scream anyways when he jumps out. I mean, with that kind of evidence, who wouldn't be scared of the ominous thunderstorm?
Alright, comfort food, comfort food. Yeah! Chinese and ice cream, screw homework. Now where'd I put that number…?
I have proclaimed many times "screw homework"; however, I suppose my brain never quite comprehends that. Sitting hunched over the island in the middle of our kitchen, my legs dangling over the sides of the wooden stool, I tapped the eraser of my pencil against the marble. I sighed, trying once again to make it spin on that end as I idly looked over my government notes. The wet hair that hung against the nape of my neck in a messy, black, bundle of joy annoyed me to no end. This was useless…and where was my food?
As if on cue, an incessant knocking brought me out of my slumped position as my gaze flashed to the front door. I stared at it for a second before I realized I couldn't just wait for someone else to open it; moreover, it's an excruciatingly long walk (I'm not kidding!) from the kitchen to the main hallway where the front door was. Normally my brother, who always seems to be able to watch TV, hang out with his friends, go to practice, and miraculously finish his homework, opens the door.
Shuffling towards the door in my beloved baby blue fuzzy slippers, I couldn't help but get annoyed at how impatient the delivery boy was. My brother could have easily been the culprit but work didn't end for another hour, so…
Knock. Knock. Knock. Ping. Ping. Knock. Knock.
"Alright, alright! I'm hurrying; will you be patient, please?"
Ping. Knock. Knock. Ping. Ping.
What, are they making a song out of the sounds from their knuckles and my door bell?
Knock. Ping. Knock. Knock. Kno—
"Alright, jeez, I'm here!" I grasped the money for it in my right hand as I shoved the left out into the crisp fall air. Not feeling the weight of the anticipated white plastic bag, I lifted my gaze to see some dark clothed person leaning over the frame of the door. His breath sounded ragged as he leaned into the sleeve of his jacket, his face completely hidden from view…
"AHHHHHHH!"
"Um…wait…"
"AHHHHHHH! You're not Kiley from the Palace! You're a rapist! A Psychopath! A FREAAKKK!"
He shifted a little, the water droplets falling rapidly from his hair onto the carpet. "No…uh…"
"AH! Rain's an omen! Rain's an OMEN! You! Don't move! Or I'll be forced to…forced to…"
And then I saw them. His eyes. These warm, enchanting, dark hazel brown eyes that were…that were…the bait! He's going to kill me! His hand reached forward, as if groping for the other side of the door frame.
Instead, it landed on my right arm.
Letting out a piercing scream, I grabbed the closest thing to me and chucked said item, a lovely miniature clock that rested on the wooden table by the door. It was perfect too, with just the right size and weight to at least cause some pain.
And I missed.
And…this freak of nature didn't seem to notice.
"I…I love you."
What the hell? Since when did that ever happen in horror movies?
Can an umbrella do a lot of damage? Or maybe a pen…yes…a pen.
"Look, it's true…and I know it's taken me a while to—"
"So you're a stalker!"
In my hysteria, I slammed the door shut (why hadn't I thought of that before?) and frantically moved away from the door. I began to search for a phone when the pounding on the door picked up once more.
"Damn it, just open the door! Listen to me!"
What's the number for the police? 9.
"I went through all this trouble and went all this way to find you! Come on, just—"
"You are a stalker! Jeez, get a life!" Okay. 9-1
The knocks and screams kept coming. Surely the neighbors will notice and hopefully help me. Or my brother…it shouldn't take long. Oh my gosh, just call the police!
"Anna!" he croaked. "Anna, open the damn door! You're too stubborn, you know that! Too fu—"
The phone toppled to the ground beneath me when all I could do was stare ahead, dumbfounded. All of a sudden it didn't matter who it was, what he wanted, or why he was here; all I cared about was the satisfaction of knowing. I swung open the door, my heart racing so fast I thought I wouldn't be able to catch it. The sudden opening of the door must have caught him off guard for we simply stared at each other for a solid minute or two. However, when he tried to open his mouth and say something, I beat him to it.
"Who are you?" I demanded. "And what do you know about my sister?"
A/N: Alright! Thanks for reading and please don't forget to leave a review. I'm in the midst of writing the future chapters of this story and you cannot believe the wonders a couple of reviews can do to quicken the pace. Yet, as always, the things I write are for my writing pleasure and, hopefully, an enjoyable experience for you readers. Now, as required I don't own Pride and Prejudice as it is Jane Austen's; however, the rest is mine. YAY!