Indebted (HayleMary & Storiwyr)
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Storiwyr on 18-10-2008, 21:39:12</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Indebted (HayleMary &amp; Storiwyr)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>18-10-2008, 21:39:12</strong>
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				The girl had the coat hanger in her hand when she stepped out of the alley and into the dimly lit city street. It was getting late, the sun long since gone down, and the street-lamps on. She skirted the pools of muddy light, already breathing raggedly. It was early winter, the air crisp enough to almost burn in her lungs. Or maybe that was just nerves. Her deep green eyes were on her goal, a line-up of cars parked up against the curb. <br><br>She shot a look around, but there was no one in sight except for a homeless man stretched asleep on a bench. She knew him. All the street-rats did. He was loud and often angry when he was on his feet and begging. But usually, if he was reclined he stayed that way ... too drunk to be much trouble, and when he slept he was impossible to rouse. So long as he was her only possible observer, she'd get off with this one scot-free. Getting away with it was her main concern, as she sidled close enough to one of the cars that her shoulder brushed the frame. She should have been more selective, should have maybe cased a few of the other cars. But she saw a wallet on the front seat, and God, she just wanted to get out of here and back into the anonymity of rat-residence alleyways.<br><br>She was a small thing, carved into a petite and lithe frame by long years with too little food and too much exercise. Getting away with it, and getting by were the most important things to her. She was already calculating as she looked in. Her eyes snagged on the stereo, and then on the rest of the booty on the front seat. How much at the pawn shop? How long would it feed her? How long before she'd have to take this kind of risk again? She slipped the coat hanger between the window pane and the frame, fishing for the lock mechanism. A trick as old as time, but it usually still worked. She turned her head, resting her cheek against the frame as she worked. Still, no tell-tale click, her dark curls brushed her arm as she worked. She was dressed rather typically, considering what she was, raggedy jeans and a filthy sweatshirt that did nothing for her figure at all. It was best, on the streets, to look as undesirable as possible if you were young and female. But the clothing did nothing to detract from her huge green eyes set in a fine-featured face. Those eyes were currently narrowed in concentration, and she knew she was getting frustrated--losing her cool--she'd been here too long. It was asking for trouble, but she was also hungry and suffering from daydreams of a hot dog--or five--from the local convenience store.<br><br>She could smell her own scent, after all, and it was enough to remind her why she was here to begin with. She smelled of an odd combination of bleach and cinnamon. The bakery dumpster had been one of her favorites to dive, and she'd landed right in the middle of a healthy stock of day-old cinnamon rolls, her stomach grumbling with anticipation--and then she'd smelled the bleach. They'd done a thorough job of this one, and in the end she only dared a few bites, and even those tasted dangerously ... bleachy. And that had been yesterday morning. Seren needed food, and she needed it soon.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Indebted (HayleMary &amp; Storiwyr)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>HayleMary</strong> on <strong>18-10-2008, 23:07:15</strong>
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				<span style="font-size: 9pt;" class="bbc_size">Soft Hazel eyes traversed the night sky taking in the soft purples and midnight blues, perverted slightly by the soft orange glow peaking out from beneath the hats of the street lamps. Not finding rest or focus, moving to and fro as if attempting to find new focus upon the constellations in the night sky, though finding difficulty with the sky so guarded by the roof tops, as if they were mountain ridges bound closely and dragging into their midst the street as if it was a valley. But here, there were no such charms which were usually held, finally focus was returned to the street before them.&nbsp; Much like his eyes which had been so wondering, his mind had followed suit, his thoughts fluid and transitive, doing their best to dissuade his consciousness from dwelling upon the reality upon whose cobble stone street he tread. To be fair, there was nothing along this stretch of road, within the confines of this length of street which made for pleasurable anchors to the here and now, shops catering the same old wares, signs promising miracle cures to all of lifes ailment, providing a sharp and rather uneasy contrast to those whose grievances were beyond counting, and whose solutions had forsaken them after a cruel laugh and slap across the face. By comparison, there were few things which he could by right complain about, yet it seemed that his ever distracted mind was more for himself than for those whose plight were far graver than his. To a point he found himself musing about those who were so tied to the world which seemed to eager to drop them into the cracks, to what end would it serve them to be so conscious about it, things which were so easily broken, so easily discarded were not worth wasting breath upon, let alone thought. Unfortunately however, he was brought back to center as the sounds of his shoes making contact with the pavement finally reached his ears and reassigned his train of thought.<br><br>Things most certainly could have gone better that day, the events slowly flooding his minds eye sporadically, not adhering to the typical chronological demands of the days passing, as if they were dreams, scattered by nature after the conscious mind attempted to reclaim them. There was one thing which remained clear and shone brightly, drawing his attention to it for the moment. He found himself within an office, the soft color of the wood walls dismissively comforting, the desk before him nearly dwarfing the man who sat comfortably in the great arm chair. A small plaque upon the desk, held within it's black boarders softly colored gold letters, carved shallowly into the surface, expressing the difference in position and authority between himself and the man behind the desk, even though stature would have made any logical mind arrive at a completely opposite conclusion. The small man spoke to him, it was nothing new, nothing important, just the same rhetoric he had been fed since he was young, and even though with passion sustained the mans words into the air, there was no retention on his part. Some would have found that speaking to a wall would have been a more worthy pursuit of time. Though it was not that he did not respect the man who sat before him, speaking at him rather than to him, it was just that with time, things had changed. As most things did within the walls of the city, things had changed much like it had, becoming darker, withdrawn and concerned only of things that were within his control. Within the grasp of his hands, within reach of his voice, and confirmed by the gaze of his eyes. The meeting ended as it had begun, in silence, two pairs of eyes locked upon one another, one filled with concern, the other simply functioning as a mirror. And as quickly as it had began, it was gone, the memory carried away by the cool breeze which passed about him.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>His attention was then drawn to something else, a sight which was rather comedic and at the same time it perturbed him slightly. There was a young woman, no older than eighteen he surmised, trying to break into his car, however it seemed that his old Model-T Ford was giving her a good bit more trouble than she had bargained for. He paused for a moment watching her, it was the first time he had ever come across someone who had been so desperate to acquire something that they had resorted to stealing from him, by contrast to all of the other vehicles which passed along the street his was a relic. In the back of his mind, gently pressing upon his amusement was the fact that he was indeed in the process of being robbed, and while for some reason it was not upon the front of his mind, he did not readily question the order of his thoughts. He instead approached her silently, doing his best to conceal his foot steps, walking from heal to toe, distributing his weight as evenly as possible, as if their roles had been reversed, that she was a woman simply doing her best to unlock her car, though having a devil of a time with the keys, while he was the criminal, moving through the night which many successfully commited crimes had allowed him to claim as his own. And to his great pleasure he felt that he was successful, finding himself leaning upon the trunk of his car, her attention still focused upon her coat hanger and the troublesome lock inside. He began to think about all the things he would have done if he was in her place, perhaps not trying to break into the car, but perhaps robbing her of her own belongings. He chuckled silently and gently brought himself to stand, taking a few steps towards her before speaking, <br><br>"Even with keys I find myself standing outside of this old hunk of metal, I can just imagine the trouble you must be going through to get in. There's not much inside there you know, everything is the same as the day that it rolled off the factory lot, it still stalls out every now and again upon a hill, rather frightening if you think about it, but if you have the stomach for adventure in danger it's nearly akin to that of free falling, just letting go and falling weightlessly through the air. Except instead of it being your own body, it's a few tons of metal barreling down a hill, to the shock and horror of all those upon the street. It's strange you know, when I saw you here, the first thing that came to my mind was that I might have to pay you for your time if you managed to open the door before I got here, the second thing was how hungry you must be if you were breaking into this old thing. Seems that everyone here falls upon hard times, even those who have homes, wives, children, they aren't comfortable in their own skin anymore, they aren't satisfied with the money they make, the sex they have, the drawings their children present to them. And while they continue on in their remarkably depressing lives, here we are before a car that has bore no children to or from school, hasn't seen a good time in the back seat, and doesn't even have a good radio. And I wonder, are they more pitiful than we for having such things yet cannot bask in the joys of them, or is it we, who may only live to dream?"<br><br>Reaching into his pocket he placed upon the hood of the car the key which had before then had rested comfortably within his jacket. He watched her with a smile upon his face and wondered what she would do next, truly he had left the door open, and with his long winded monologue he was sure that if anything she would be willing to respond, to perhaps engage him in conversation. In truth, it was one of the few things he had been looking for that day, he was tired of being talked at, hearing the same old same, and this young woman presented the probability of variation. Though it was entirely possible that she would simply take the keys, open up the car and take whatever it was that had caught her eye, but for some reason the prospect of that did not bother him, not nearly as much as simply returning to his home, returning to routine, he saw what was before him as a new adventure of sorts, as fragile as the situation was, he seemed to revel in it.&nbsp; </span>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Indebted (HayleMary &amp; Storiwyr)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>19-10-2008, 00:42:56</strong>
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				Seren, child of the streets, should have heard him coming no matter how quiet he was. It was important to have a sort of sixth sense about approaching danger, and while it would have taken more digits than she had to count up how many times someone had attempted to sneak up on her. But she could count on one hand only the number of times it had been successful. Chalk up another point for this man, though, because Seren was completely oblivious. She was mouthing words that were certainly not acceptable in mixed company--or any company, really, save perhaps a convention of sailors and longhaul truckers. Her hunger was singing in her ears, in a dubious choir with her frustration and desperation. Still no click, and really it was the intensity of her focus on that one, sought after sound that kept her from noticing she'd been caught.<br><br>The first sign that she wasn't alone ... or rather, that she had more company than the snoring bum ... was a voice that was not hers. She jumped with an oath that would have made a sailor-trucker convention blush, her scalp tingling as she whirled to face him. Her dark curls flew in an arc to whip against her opposite cheek, the hanger in her hand forgotten for the moment. She gaped at him, her dark green eyes seeming overlarge in her pale face. For a moment, she lost track of what he was actually saying. His voice seemed to entrance her, and she just stared as wave after wave of words washed over her. But as he painted a picture of a normal family, it started to seep through, and her eyes--shockwide and bright, seemed to go slowly cold and calculating. By the time he was done speaking she was carefully trying to unhook the coat hanger from the door without revealing what she was trying to do. Had she been a little less distracted by her hunger, perhaps it would have occurred to her that she did not need the coat hanger in order to survive, and that she should have left it behind and run. <br><br>Just as he plunked the key down between them, there was a loud click from the door. The sound of mission accomplished much, much too late. But she was too busy staring at the key, and then up at him, incredulous,<br><br>"You're fucking crazy." She said into the silence, tensing a little as she planned a flight into the dark night.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Indebted (HayleMary &amp; Storiwyr)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>HayleMary</strong> on <strong>19-10-2008, 02:19:28</strong>
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				<span style="font-size: 9pt;" class="bbc_size">He watched her with measured amusement, being careful not to wear his feelings too much upon his smile or within his eyes, her reaction was above and beyond what he could have expected and or hoped for. The soft glow of the streetlight reflected gently off her hair, casting a shadow about her eyes, but the color still shone through, almost as if the dark green had been illuminated by her curiosity amidst her confusion, and while she was most likely guarded from her time upon the streets fending for herself, he did not see this in her eyes any longer, it was as if his words had perhaps had lowered them, and even if it was just for a moment it kept her there, which was perhaps more important than anything else. He began to wonder how she had taken what he had said, even he would admit that some of the things he had said were rather lofty ideas, things which to some would be considered a tactical jab at how things were, and perhaps more pointed at those who were content with leaving things as such, but then again the young woman who stood before him, was perhaps one of the last who would lay down her mind for the sake of the status quo. The simple fact that she had been so laboring to break into his car made it clear that the concept of ownership was as transient to her, as the need for grounded reality was for him. Even when the sound of the car door opening did not bring his attention away from her, he followed her eyes as she looked to the key and was rather pleased that she did not take it, and instead that her attention returned to him, and while her response might have offended another he found himself rather pleased, and laughing, <br><br>"Fucking crazy? I wouldn't see myself as such, fucking delighted is perhaps more accurate to my state of mind. You see, everything that happens here, in this place, in the shops, on the streets, it is all victim to routine. You and I even, even if we would not admit it, our lives are dictated by the daily happenings we have come to accept and to a certain extent embrace as what defines us. You see, no matter how much we try and reject it, no matter how much we detest the very thing which has become such deplorable habit, we do nothing to derail the train which we've come to name complacency. Yet more often than not, when the one thing stands before us to save us from it, the one thing that if we just seize it with our two hands, comes before us and presents itself, we do our very best to quash it and we go about along the same road that we've been walking. But today, we've taken a step in the direction which we've so desired but have let slip by time and time again, for isn't it odd that you not run from the one you are trying to rob, and for I to not be vocalizing empty threats? In your eyes I may be Fucking crazy, but in your eyes, I see you are fucking curious."<br><br>Taking the keys from where he had laid them, making his way around the other side of the car he opened the driver side and slid inside, the springs audibly squeaking. Inserting the key into the ignition he turned the car on, but made no move which would give her the idea that he was going to drive away. Instead he reached over to the radio, and began to fuss with the dial, a crackle came out across the speakers which were as much a tribute to the age of the car as the squeaky seats and the fussy lock. The sound of a piano came out across the speakers, weakly at first, but as the dial became more sure as did the sound, yet it for some reason retained the same olden feel as if instead of listening to contemporary pianist, they were listening to the old jazz hall records which had so populated the airwaves when the car was still very much popular and sought after. A smile came across his face as he settled upon the station for a moment, snapping his fingers in time with the rhythm, and while he continued with it he turned the dial again, still snapping as if he had never turned the dial, through the static his smile remained, and as soon as words came across the speakers he quickly adjusted the dial, the news now coming through loud and clear, gently rattling the frame of the car. Leaving the radio on and the keys in the ignition he stepped out of the car, still snapping his fingers, <br><br>"Everyone's lives, everyone's actions, the words they speak, the sway in their hips, everything, it can all be set in time. Like music with time signatures, beats, rhythms, all of it can be set to the passage of time. And how do we choose to move through it from here, do we keep with the rhythm, do the time signatures of our past dictate our future. From this moment in time will we simply part ways, you back to the life which brought you to break into my car, and will I return home to what I've been so accustomed to, or will we adjust from what fits so well? Is it too much for us to adjust the time signature of our lives and reassign them? Theater and Band stands call it improve, one person starts, and the others choose to follow, well enough keeping pace with the first, but with more than enough innovation and feeling of a self that it could very well stand on it's own. So, what happens next, where do we go from here, you've already opened your door, all you have to do is walk through it."&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br>As soon as he finished speaking he moved back into the car, leaning over turning off the radio and as soon as the sound went dead he stopped snapping. His eyes remaining on her, wondering if she would take him up on his offer. Though at the same time he knew that if she did not take it, it was well within her rights, and it would have just served as another opportunity missed. But he had a feeling that she would join him on the passenger side, other wise there would have been little sense in her remaining there. But anything was possible, he was more than well aware of that fact.&nbsp; </span>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Indebted (HayleMary &amp; Storiwyr)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 03:51:38</strong>
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				Her face settled into the aspect of a mask, but there was no way she could strain emotions out of her large eyes. They were expressive of everything she thought, and anyone with a little sensitivity could read her like a book. If they wanted to look that close. Most people didn't. Anyone with the ragged clothes and hungry hollows in their cheeks became invisible to the majority of the population with houses, respectable jobs and nuclear families. And then he was talking again. Christ, the man could go on. She found herself lost in his words which made sense in a way that frightened her a little. Words and words. He was like reading a book. <em>No one really talks like that,</em> the girl thought. She was used to clipped conversation that said only what had to be said. She was used to threats, demands, and ribald humor at her own expense. A monologue rife with ten dollar words? This was new, and she was stymied by it.<br><br>She stood there, rocking a little in the waves of words he'd sent her way, trying to process them as he clambered into his car and fiddled with the radio. The first burst of static and sound made her jump, and that kick-started her brain into function. Routine? What the fuck did he know? Her life was anything but routine. <em>You wake. You survive. You try to find food. You sleep. Variations on a theme that hasn't changed in years, who the hell are you kidding?</em> One hand was still grasped around the hanger. She wrenched it out of the door and threw it into the grass of the park in a fit of frustration that bordered on despair.<br><br>By the time he exited the car again, she was standing there, something dead about her eyes. Her hands hung limp by her sides. <em>Why aren't you running?</em> And then the echo in her head, <em>Run, Seren, run.</em> Overlapping other memories, <em>That's right ... run little girl, run.</em> Yet she didn't move. She was suddenly tired. Exhausted. She could feel the energy leave her, flee down the sidewalk without taking her with it. She could hear the soft rattling of each breath. She'd been sick a few weeks now, racking coughs that kept her from sleeping well. <em>Goddammit. Run.</em> And that voice was completely her own. And good god, the man was talking again. How did he find all the words? She stared at him as he rambled on, and yet every word had meaning. And ... did he just invite her into his car? How stupid did he think she was?<br><br>And yet still she stood there, arguing with herself inside her head. Though not nearly so eloquently as he was rhapsodizing at her. Finally the silence rose, he was back in the car. And she? She was still standing there. When she should have laughed in his face and disappeared into the night. <em>I'm so tired.</em><br><br>As she slipped into the passenger side seat and slammed the door behind her, she was numb from disbelief at herself.<br><br>"I am fucking crazy." She amended, "Please don't rape me and knife me and leave me an alley, okay? I've already had a shitty day." She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands.<br><br>
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