City of IF

[HiddenHeartsCry]

Here we go.... more of my RP Charries :grin: To explain this SG a bit... to sum it up, it's going to be a complicated write. The story is written in three parts (not including the prologue and epilogue) Book 1-2-3. The first is tells the story of Rosaline. The second tells the story of Train. The third, we meet them together again. Incase you don't figure it out -not to imply anything- the prologue's first section is Rosaline, the second is Train. I made this pic from stock images ^_^ That tattoo on his shoulder and inner arm and her lip ring were all my doing -snidely takes a bow- It's taken me a while to get the courage to put this one up. Enjoy.
Oh, and it's: Roz-uh-lynn.
OH AND ALSO Title Credits to the awesomesauce Kalanna Rai. Thanks for the halp ^_^

Warning: Contains some mature scenes and language.



PROLOGUE
~*~WEIGHT~*~
**Nothing, nothing at all fell into my gaze, nothing more than pure black, no sounds, no smells, no memories or thoughts. Was this what death felt like? Nothingness? Black? If this was death then it had rolled in upon me far too quickly. I wanted life back, my breath, and more than anything else I wanted Trace, my baby but where was he? No, he couldn't be gone. No, he couldn't be sharing the same darkness as I, he couldn't be floating in this abyss with me...no! I had to find him, I had to go back, someone had to call me back! I wanted to scream, wanted to open my eyes, my mouth and call out for him, but there was a heavy weight upon my chest, one that was doing far more than simply compressing my breath. I needed to hold his hand, feel the touch of his ragged, warm skin once more, just one more time, before this toxic pressure stole my ability to feel and my ability to weep. . .

"Rosaline. . . Rosaline baby, wake up... please." Never once in my entire life did I believe I could cry like this, tears drenching and staining my bloody face, catching the ruddy streams that leaked from places where blades had split my skin in a while frenzy of hatred and mock. I was forcing breath in and out of my lungs now, such a strain that my entire body trembled from the effort. I couldn't move from where I lay, my entire body seemed frozen to the ground below, the pool of blood the sickening tether, a weight upon me unlike any other. Was this binding heaviness the guilt that coursed through me? Was it the pain and twisted feeling of death creeping upon me like an arachnid in the night? Or was it the fact that my baby, my only lover, the only reason I had to end my pathetic existence and chart a new course was slipping into darkness before my very weeping eyes? She wept as well, I could see the dirty tears staining her perfect face, and in a last attempt to remind her that she was not alone, that her baby, her Trace, her guardian angel, or demon, was here, even as we both lay dying, my hand rose from the blood below, trembling and shaking and locked with hers, my fingers intertwining with her own, so cold and limp. Slowly the world was drawn from my eyes, pulled into a black hole, leaving me in a lonely vortex, Rosaline's chilled fingers still in my own, bloody and battered. I managed one last look at the dark angel before me, and managed one last painful breath, the words that rode it out soft, true and my dying request. "Rosaline... R-Rosaline. I l-love you. Wa-wait for m-me." Ah, just my luck they would be broken. "P-please." . . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BOOK ONE
Dark Angel
Silent Peace
A small girl with a bouncing step, a head covered in golden tinsel that curved and bounced in tiny waves, cascading over smoothly sloping shoulders and outlining a round, olive face. Tiny blush lips pulled into a soft smile, all the features along her facade bright, a wrinkled nose scrunching soft blue eyes that glittered a gentle bottle green in the light that poured through the windows. A soft giggle crept through the air within the New York apartment, the tone of which high-pitched and young, light hearted and carefree. With the tiny girl, played a young man, no more than the age of fifteen, shaggy sunlight locks and dark eyes that could seduce an entire a back alley dance club if ladies be abundant. The rubber echo of a squeaking ball filled the air, the cheap, dumpster stolen toy reverberating from one rough set of hands to a far more delicate set, deep chuckles clashing with tiny giggles, the sounds of angry cars and fighting gangs following the light in.
The hours passed with the ball, never ending, only a few words exchanging here and there, the laughter still passing until the curiosities of a young child became too much for the silence the hold off, "Brother Marcus," she began, the tone and pronunciation she managed that of her age, lips not yet mature enough to form the R’s within the phrase which sounded far too much like a monk of sorts. "When is mommy coming home?"

Ah, how innocent a question yet still just as difficult to answer as any other, even by a hardened teenager. "I, uhh..." his voice stuttered and faltered lightly, filled with nervousness and uncertainty. “Soon, Roz, soon."

"Oh," she responded, the ball still passing, tiny lips unable to form the H, twisting it into a W. "Well, when is soon?" How could one expect a child to simply give up until her desired answer was brought forth?

"In a while, just a little while." What more could he answer than that for even he knew not when their mother would return. From morning until twilight she was none other than the lovely and well liked Mrs. Lacy Tawny, kind and willing to help any who may cross her path, not a harsh tone or word to her tongue, but from the time she sun began to melt behind the buildings, casting a reflection across the water that cut through the city she was known as the infamous Chastity, a working woman as some might call her… a ‘dancer’ or sorts. Though prancing across polished stages, stripping herself almost bare and slinking up, down and around shimmering silver poles, all the while men whistling, whooping and catcalling to her wasn't the most desirable occupation, it was all the poor woman knew. She knew the risks and the names that would be given to her, but she also knew it put bread on the table for her children, and that was all that truly mattered. Her eyes never once met the men that stood around, she never once spoke to them, only took the money offered and went about her merry way, for she was a married woman, and though she had most certainly bargained into cruelty, she seen it as bargaining into loyalty.

"Umm, brother Marcus," she began again, the curiosity in her voice melting into a slight longing, hidden within the depths of it, a tone of slight heartbreak. She was missing her mother, you could hear it in her voice, though she had now become well accustomed to hiding it from her face, and was damn good at it. "When is a little while?"

"I don't know, Roz, honey." His tone was a bit more frustrated this time, words spilling quicker. "A few hours, minutes, morning. . ." never; He wanted so badly to finish on that word but saying such a thing to one but the age of four would do little more than raise more questions and possibly bring forth tears, and to his little sister Marcus could do no such thing. "Just keep... passing the ball, Roz." The tone he was using was so, worried, so, hesitant that the child began to slow her movements, obvious contemplation stretching across her face. The ball eventually stopped and dropping to the floor, a loud, rubber echo drifting away as the light through he windows faded, melting down the outside wall and crawling along the pavement before the beams sank back into their master sun, leaving the children in a dimly lit room, nothing more than the left over rays lighting their way.

"Marcus, what's wrong?" Always so concerned with others, this child was, always so compassionate, her own well being and worries of very little meaning to her.
Face to the floor he spoke, long dirty locks of glittering gold hiding the expression of anxiousness and dread on his face. "Nothing, Roz." He fought to keep his tone level and the shaking out of it. He worried like this most every night for both his mother and little sister, too small for her age, though on many occasions he need not do so, and yet he always did. "Look, umm, you hungry, or something? You want a sandwich," he began to move across the kitchen, weaving and winding past the table and chairs, bare feet sticking to the old linoleum floor below. A brawny hand gripped the textured handle of a rather aged refrigerator, yanking it open quickly, the sounds of glass and tin smashing into one another and hard plastic lining the interior of the appliance. He half kneeled before the agape door, left forearm resting on the corresponding knee while he piddled through the contents of the fridge. "Or a grilled cheese?"

Ah, but not like mindless ponderings could hide his worry, they couldn't make it disappear. Though most adults would have paid it little to no mind, the selfless concerns of a child could not cloud out the worry and longing he withheld. With little more thought and Marcus still kneeling, she ran for him, arms outstretched and eager. She crashed onto his back, delicate arms flinging around his ribcage, though not one finger, even when outstretched to the fullest extent could even dream of touching one another, only tapping his chest, the tips of her fingers barely pressing his flesh. "It's ok brother Marcus." She cooed, soft notes trickling from her mouth, quiet and soothing as a woodland brook cutting through the night.

She held him in this embrace for quite some time, olive tinted digits still striving to reach one another around the muscles that tore across his chest. Her face buried itself into him, soft cheek pressing lightly against his warm back, locks of silken gold sprawled out and trailing down both her back and his, eyes the color of a warm sea stain slammed closed with nothing less than a pure, silent compassion that was so often expressed through this child. Her body rose and fell in a lightly shaking motion, his breath pushing her upward then letting her fall softly with the exhale of the unwanted air within his lungs. Though the sigh was contented, there was still a hint of worry and dread that seemed to foretell the night to come, though none could be perfectly certain. A rather toned arm reached around to grasp the child, thick forearm sliding beneath her rump and pressing against the backs of her legs, exposed now by the slight rising of the silken raspberry dress she wore, sparsely dusted with a lighter tint of scarlet lace, a few bows strewn about the piece. After his tender grip had been formed, Marcus stood, knees popping with a slight stiffness that they so often felt, though he paid the sensation little mind. He held her gently against his back, hoisting her tiny form upward enough so that her delicate arms could grip his neck, keeping a firm grasp on her place. The smile on his lips was apparent in his voice which was now far less shaky, a bit more comforted. "Grilled cheese?" he asked once more, head flipping over his shoulder to meet her nose to nose, the rough tip of his taping against her own,

She nodded briskly, cushion skin sliding up and down the bridge of his nose. '"Mhm." she mumbled, cheek still pressed into the stone that was his back, arms length grasp snug around his neck.

"Alrighty then." Swift steps carried both he and Rosaline to the long table that cut through the center of the room, the finish chipping away while the rest of it cracked and wobbled. He slid out a chair at an angle, turning his face away as he did and leaned over so that his back bent over the seat, curls slipping from their place atop Rosaline's arms. "Hop down."

Two tiny thuds hit the wood, slightly off beat from one another, not really in a perfect unison click. She hit the seat in silence, sliding down the barred back framing of the wooden chair until her feet slipped off and her rump was planted firmly in the seat. She gripped the edges of the panel, lifting and letting fall her grasp until the chair wobbled close to the table rim, head just barely popping above, and the beams of twilight still creeping through the dusty glass panes.

A smile followed Marcus as he traveled about the dine-in kitchen, pulling from a broken cabinet a pan, on the rather small side in diameter and a bit rusted around the handle joint. He placed the skillet on the front stove-top burner, having to take a few extra moments to steady it as it wobbled, threatening to slide off, just before pulling out two frostbitten slices of cheese and an almost disintegrated stick of off brand butter from the fridge. He worked silently, fingers fiddling about with a bread tie until the mouth of the plastic package slipped open, allowing his hand to slip in empty, and exit with two inner slices of bread.

He tied the bag back rather sloppily before slipping back to the heating skillet. Tiny dots of light followed every move he made in the eerie silence, darting just as quickly as the flexing of his fingers, working over buttered bread, flipping it as cheese melted and the smoke floated away to fill the room with the scents of what would be the child's only dinner. Though they both knew that a simple sandwich would leave growling stomachs in later hours, what was substance for a few hours compared to nothing at all? A whole damn lot, especially for a child, and this child to make matters clearer.

The youngster waited patiently at the table, miniscule digits curled atop and through one another, resting stone still, and a gaze of inquiry tracing the plate that floated through the air to her, the glass making a ringing sound that didn't linger for too long, "Order up."

"Mmm, yay!" he rubbed her hands against one another, filling the air with soft, ashy sounds before she finally dug into her meal, cheese and bread crumbs slathering her face; what a content sight.

Marcus took a seat opposite her, forearms flat against the table as he chuckled. "You don't seem too hungry there, Roz."

Her haste spoke otherwise, and spoke so clearly, but she played along with his sarcasm, grinning just as he. "Nope." She shook her head through the word, voice muffled by the warm bread and cheese that had long since began to cool, not that she gave it time to do so.

Another chuckle cracked the darkness before the clock struck nine. By now it was plenty dark outside and nothing lit the home but a dim glow from rather random night lights placed in outlets throughout the house and the television a few rooms from them, though no sound came from the muted box.

The less than suitable meal was scarfed down in little more than five minutes, filling a tiny tummy and triggering a response that most children succumb to at that hour and most certainly with a satisfied gullet. Rosaline's eyes began to slide shut, her head following them, drooping towards the floor rather than the table, always seeming to pop back open with a jerk and a slight shake of her head. "I'm awake." she would always repeat, only to have the action occur again and again.

"Not for long." he mused, a soft smile, more sympathetic than anything else funneling to her. "Come on." he heaved, sliding himself from his place and slipping to her side.

She gave up right then and there, arms reaching for him slowly and wearily, ready to be lifted which he did gently, hugging her close to him. His arms around her back, her own stretched around his neck yet again, together they moved through the kitchen and into the living room. Slithering to the well worn couch that sat before the TV, he lay her down gently, draping a cover that lay across the back of the couch over her delicacy before taking a seat himself in a recliner that sat just feet from the sofa. The foot prop jammed for a minute, demanding coaxing before popping out, Marcus' hands slipping back behind his head, content with the silent peace within the room, but that didn't last very long at all.

A loud crash of the front door jolted Marcus awake, legs kicking the foot prop back in too quickly, almost breaking it. Oh shit, he thought, leaping from the seat just before Rosaline woke, completely frozen, petrified by the slamming of boots against the floor and liquor sloshing in a tainted bottle. A host of terrors began to run through the child's mind, terrors all too familiar to her, triggering a sudden response to sink into the couch and blanket; not like it worked too well.

"Goddamn it, Rosaline, get your ass in here!" More thick sloshing of liquor, cutting off the husky boom. "I got somethin' for ya!" Oh and what a gift he had in mind.

[Fenris]

I assume this is just a into so no DP input needed.

Lovely story and I love your descriptions! Keep on trucking.

On a darker note, your demon boy reminds of the boys I used to take lunch money from Sophomore year. Oh, lord forgive my years of douchebagness.

[HiddenHeartsCry]

:rofl: I mean.. -ahem- :( Aww, poor boys.
Teehee. Train used to be more muscular until I smudged out two tattoos. They were rather ugly and just not Train.
I'm actually not too sure about the DP in this chapter, to be honest and I don't even have the slightest idea of a poll to put up, but I'll think of that later I suppose.
Thanks for the compliments as well ^_^

[DeadManWalking]

Phenomenal.

You really get into your characters, HHC. I wish i could do that half as well as you.

Looking forward to the next installment!

[HiddenHeartsCry]

8D -takes compliments.shoves them in a basket- Thank ye! I can't wait to put it up, actually. I'm just trying to think of a poll since, well, I'm sure we all kinda know what the gift is... or would be rather. ;)

[HiddenHeartsCry]

Heh, I just had to add the fact that I love DMW's new avatar

[DeadManWalking]

Thankee. I like it too.