#ddcdevelopment1

[boundherinherbones]

Balance || Closed

For the first time in a long time, Tia wished she was home.

Nothing bothered her about the train or the people on it, it was just simply she wanted to go home; A pull back to the beaches and water and swamps that she adored. 

It was sort of like a game at the Carnival. Figure out which line the customers wanted to bite, feed it to them whether it be riches or love or fame or how special they were, and then give them all she could pick out just by looking at them, all wrapped in pretty paper, making them sound so much better than they were. And then once the game was over, she’d run back home like she used to when she was a child, barefoot with hair wild and ready to ramble off to her mother all she had done in great, excited detail.

Except this game was lasting longer than the others, much longer, and the rules weren’t as complicated as she liked

It wasn’t a bitter realization, it was simply fact. And if those facts were what was going to help her survive, then she’d accept it.

People were easy to read on their own. Most times, she didn’t need to read the bones or cards or palms. She hardly had to touch them to know what to give them, what they were after. What did it matter if it was a waste of what she had learned? As long as the money kept coming in, she had somewhere to stay. And she knew these circumstances were much better than the alternatives.

She was leaning on the railing at the very end of the train, watching the scenery of wherever they were go by.  Seven years in this country and she still wasn’t sure where she was off the top of her head when they traveled. Another thing to add to prove she was a foreigner, but that aspect of herself brought people with money and helped keep those she had in the Carnival around her.

She’d been taught from a young age to use what she had to get by. Adapt to what there was, figure out how to talk to people, find what they kept secret and keep it close in case it was needed.

“Not many can be trusted, Tia.” Her mother had told her.  

Tia felt the involuntary smile on her mouth but couldn’t make it go away. Drumming her fingers on one hand on the railing, she played with one of her necklaces idly with the other.

She wondered if maybe soon she could go home. If she just decided she’d had enough and left one night. The only thing keeping her here was herself, it was the only thing Scar had against her if she ever acted out to the point of being a problem. But if she left voluntarily, there was nothing they could do, there was nothing to hold her against her.

The problem was, herself was what got her in this mess in the first place and returning home, even after seven years, was still a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

She scoffed. Her practice was her practice, just because others didn’t understand it – but that was always the thing. The unknown was terrifying. If a person couldn’t grasp it, if they couldn’t understand it right away, it was a threat. And he had used that against her and it had cost her more than she’d been willing to pay.

She sighed, already pushing those thoughts away. Now wasn’t the time to feel sorry over it. What was done was done and all she needed now was to be patient.

As she twisted the wooden ring around her middle finger, she remembered how her mother had given it to her for her birthday the year before Tia fled. The hand carved etchings in it were meant to symbolize life and balance, something very important to her mother and in time, very important to Tia.

“We cannot go t’rough life expecting ta get only our way an’ give nutting in return.” Her mother had told her. “We be good peopal, we be kin’ to othas, we do what we mus’, and life will work out in our favor. Dat is dee only payment we need from de spirits.”

Her mother had been a beautiful woman. Tall and graceful, with dark, soul seeing eyes that saw past the lies and the hatred in the world. “Der is always somet’ing more ta see in a bad time, my littal one. We only hafta look.”

Tia tapped her fingers on the railing again. If she was more like her mother, she’d probably be a better person, but if she had been without her mother, a lot of things would have turned out differently.  Mm. At this point, she didn’t know which she preferred.

But to be fair, Tia had grown into what her mother had helped mold. She’d inherited her mother’s quick mind and strong spine. Both were natural flirts, a curse of the women of the family, and both had the gift of seeing people for what they really were. They had worked together to help the people of Barbados and those who had come to them from across the sea. Tia had learned the basis of everything she knew from her mother, a strong foundation of how to heal with one hand and curse with the other.

Balance.

She glanced around her surroundings, the world still flying by in greens and browns, surrounded by earth with no bodies of water in sight. No comforts at all.

Her mind idly wondered how long it would be before things began to change. For her or the carnival or the people she now shared air with. Things never stayed the same. Get comfortable, get used to things, and then life decided everything needed to change. Or perhaps it was the decisions people made. Both were equally intertwined.

Tia’s own decisions had caused plenty of problems and had solved many problems. Lessons in each decision, more words her mother had told her. Tia scoffed softly. If she had listened more to those words, maybe she’d still be home in Barbados, doing what she had been born to do rather than selling her gods given talents to people who didn’t believe.

This could be punishment, she thought, and that was about as far into that train of thought as she’d go. 

[theoogieboogieman]

Perish the Thoughts || Closed

Oogie didn't reminisce. A lot. Sometimes when he had spare time he'd think about how it used to be back home and how much better it was to be here, even if surrounded by idiots. Everyone else here seemed to have people that they cared for. The only person Oogie cared for was himself. That's all he had to look after. His own ass. Everyone else could fry for all he cared. He did what he had to, stayed out of Scar's ass and kept to himself.

Okay so he sold drugs sometimes....and he took it upon himself to smack sense into the others. But they were young...stupid. Very stupid. It was laughable.

Sometimes when he thought about it, New York wasn't too different from the Carnival. It was busy. Messy. Someone was always getting hurt because they'd fucked up somewhere down the line. Drugs got passed around like candy and he wasn't going to say no if someone needed their fix. Scar didn't have to know. He'd managed to keep that Lucifer bitch off his trail.

The real difference between then and now is the experience he had and the jobs he was expected of. Back home Oogie didn't have spotlight. He didn't have cheers and applauds. He'd had his shitty apartment and a group of guys that he'd occasionally wander down into the alley to see. They kept him entertained. They kept him from digging into his merchandise. Blowing his money off on some pointless shit. But he couldn't say they were his friends. He didn't have friends. Friends gave you weaknesses. Friends got in the way of your own success.

But his distaste for them didn't mean that he'd never had any. Oogie had had only person he could ever admit that he'd been close enough to call a friend. He'd been maybe fourteen. Sitting on a park bench with a bloody nose and a black eye, picking out the blood from beneath his nails. Bullies. Something he didn't tolerate but he'd had to deal with. From nowhere a kid, older than him, dressed in dirty and baggy clothes. Passed him a joint and a lighter and said he'd looked like shit.

Name's Roach. He'd said. Roach. Fuckin' dumbass. Couldn't tell an ounce from a God damned pound but he knew a thing or two about how not to fuck yourself over in a business. He'd taught Oogie pretty much everything from how to roll a joint to how to shoot a gun. The first time he'd ever rolled in a drive by, Oogie could remember how the gun recoiled in his hand. How it'd hurt but he'd hit his target straight between the eyes. Roach had been proud of him then, clapped him on the back.

Roach had even given him his own fucking nickname. The Oogie Boogie Man. Oogie could remember he'd started calling him that from the way he'd tuck himself under the bed whenever he'd stay the night at Roach's house. But it hadn't been long after that he'd started living up to the name. He was a cold salesman and an even colder murderer and Oogie hadn't given two shits who's blood had spilt as long as he was alive and he had Roach to look up to.

Oogie leaned back on his bed, the train silent for the evening. How long had it fuckin' been since he'd thought about that asshole? Since his funeral? Sometime after that? Even now after some fourteen years after Roach's death it still stirred some sort of sick feeling in his stomach. But now the nausea was mixed with a sort of self loathing. Fuck him. Roach had died and Oogie had lived on with that fucking nickname he'd given him. Oogie couldn't even remember what his real name was.

"Christ." He mumbled into the dark, hands rubbing at his tired eyes and after a few more minutes he gave in and reached under the mattress, a bag of pot in his hands. He couldn't risk the heavier stuff while they were stopped but he only needed something to get his mind back on other things. He didn't need this shit.

But he didn't reminisce.

[stealingeveryonesright-shoe]

Process of thought || Closed

Leroy had never been a pleasant child.

A factor which he took great pride in. Nothing in his memory proved that he had been or ever would be a good person and if it didn’t bother him before then it fucking wasn’t gonna bother him now.

Except it kind of did and he couldn’t understand for the fucking goddamned life of his why.

He was twenty – maybe twenty one... nineteen?– when was his birthday again? Either way, he’d had all this time in his life to build that firm foundation of badassery with a giant wall of ‘fuck you’ for good measure. But, as of now, he’d fucked himself over.

 Push a kid out of a two story window? Not a problem. Flood the hallway and trap people to open their doors and answer to a face full of questionable substance he found in the garbage? Not even an inkling of remorse. Blow the windows out of the old, abandoned might he add, building in Honolulu? That shit was fucking great, the explosion was phenomenal, who cares the damage he’d done?

Apparently the police, but they were uptight fuckwads anyway.

The list went on for ages, a glorious track record that spanned years. Incident after incident, torment and pain he’d enjoyed causing. So why the fuck was now the time he wanted to pick apart everything he had done to make her look like that? Why did he want to fucking know why there was this stupid ass gape under his sternum?

He stood, agitated as hell, pacing his empty car. It didn’t make sense, what was the point? He did something, it went to shit, get over it, it had happened before. Remember that time he had gotten caught spray painting his masterpiece on the wall? With spray paint and a lighter? Yeah, they put him in jail for that one. Still couldn’t believe he’d been caught. It was lucky he’d been able to break out - okay, luck was giving them too much credit; who left the key in such easy reach? - otherwise the train would have left him behind and his brothers would be dead meat without him.

Though, those were the small things. Obviously, he didn’t need to feel bad about those because those were nothing. Other things, eeeeehhhhhh, psychology said he should feel bad for pinning a stupid bitch against a wall, this close to breaking her collar bone to teach her a lesson and because he could. It also said he should have felt bad for wanting to snatch another girl’s (yeah, girl. Bitch should have known better than to have spread her legs without protection) baby and smash its head in because it wouldn’t shut the goddamn fuck up. He probably should also feel bad for frightening another girl by swiping his blood (that she had made him bleed when he hadn’t fucking been doing anything to her and that was God’s truth) across her cheek and threatening to hold her underwater in the ocean so the sharks would eat her. They could smell a drop of blood in the water anywhere from one to three miles away, you know. The second sandbar wasn’t even a mile, she’d have been put out of her misery soon enough.

So then why the fuck truck was he feeling sorry about hurting some girl’s feelings?

This was ridiculous. It was stupid. They came and went. They liked the bad boy, they got their attention or their sex and then the itch had been scratched and they left which was how he liked it anyway so there wasn’t a big deal to make about it.

So what if Roxie had been around longer than them. She was forced to, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Well, she could go home, but who the fuck wanted to go back there? They were all on the train for some bullshit reason or other, most of which involved running away from something, cops, enemies, family –

Son of a bitch.

He turned around and swiped everything he and his brothers had piled on their meager dresser and sent it all crashing to the floor.

Son of a goddamn bitch.

She had no connection to this. None. Fuck you. She wasn’t here, she had never been there, she wasn’t a part of this –

Leroy slammed his hand against the wall and left behind a dent. Fuck it.

She had never been there. She’d left him alone with one brother and then two and hadn’t given him a backwards glance since he had been five.

He had cooked for his brothers burnt and shitty meals until he could bully Reu (who had a knack for it) into cooking. He’d been the one to get him and Reu ready for school. He’d been the one to get Reu to school. He and Reu had kept brat boy the third under lock and key for when their dad’s experiments went wrong and he turned his attention to Mistress Bottle. He had been the ones to protect his brothers, to get between them and whatever threatened them with teeth bared and stupid threatening noises guys do. She hadn’t done shit. She let it happen. Cos she was never around. Only when they had been young, each of them in turn, and then she was gone again and fuck.

He threw punches at the walls of the car, one after another, until he couldn’t feel his knuckles anymore and they were a bloody mess.

Fuckin’ bitch, fuckin’ everything up, even when she wasn’t around. It would have been too much to spend time with her children, her boys as she called them to other peoples’ faces but when they turned away all that was left was Leroy with a brother in each hand and a never motherfucking ending stream of thought that wondered why the fuck he couldn’t make her stay.

It had been a constant battle with himself that he could never win.

He had done something wrong.

She never cared.

Maybe if he had not thrown that tantrum.

Stupid bitch was flighty.

Was it some weird test?

Yeah, real smart of her, leaving three young boys by themselves. Real responsible, cunt.

Was it too much to ask for his mother to be there like she had when he had been younger?

He picked up the first breakable thing his hands could find and he threw it at the wall. It didn’t even break, the goddamn asshole, just bounced off the wall and onto the floor. So much for this fucking strength he had built and relied on.

He sat back on his bed, curling over himself and yanking at his hair as he squeezed his eyes and tried to get his thoughts under control. They were going so fast, fucking couldn’t keep up but he could and what was going on?

Roxie was angry with him. He’d fucked up. The last time he had fucked up. He’d been alone. Fend for yourself. If he keeps fucking up – there’s no point. Might as well stay away. Business. As usual. That’s all anything ever was. But Roxie was angry. She’d get over it and move on. Everyone else did. Because that’s the way life works. And the world keeps on spinning round and round and who cares if any of us fall off.

Go outside, face people. Stay inside, face everything else.

There were things to consider, to think through. There always was if you wanted to make it through anything. He had a job to do. Brothers to care for.

He ran his hands through his hair a few times. There was practice to rehearse – not on the train. Something might catch fire and that would be a swell thing to talk to Scar about. And Zira. Ha, Zira, bet he could take her in a fight.

He looked up and focused on dark flecks in the wall and could feel his brain shutting down, the train of thought slowing until there was nothing but his own pulse in his ears.

And then he got up and stretched, scratching at his stomach and leaving out through the door, jamming his hands in his pockets as he strode with an easy jog through the train cars for the lounge car. Maybe he could get the PS3 working. 

[stealingeveryonesleftshoe]

Drowning || Closed

The room was dark, he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. Outside he could hear shouts, things breaking. Through the tiny slits of light from the outside room he could watch large objects or people moving around. He couldn't tell which they were. The sounds from outside sounded so muffled, the silence inside the small space he sat in nearly deafening. What was going on?

The world outside the dark room - which had turned out to be a closet - was not as bright as he had originally thought it to be. There were no windows in this room but oddly there seemed to be some light source coming from somewhere that he couldn't see. It was.... Stitch whimpered softly as he recognized the room. It was his old bedroom back on Kaua'i. He could remember the placing of the beds, what little toys he had as a child strewn about the room, the bookshelf, the closet. Glancing over at the beds he found that two of them were messy, unmade. The bed which had been his own was still neat. What chilled his very soul was the splotches of red across the room. The sharp, coppery smell was pungent in the room, like cooking blood, tainting his memories in a way that made him want to sob.

Stitch had never been squeamish, nor did he have a problem with blood but the smell of it, the way the trail seemed to look as if something had been dragged along the floor. He wanted to crawl back into the closet but something pulled him forward. Something told him to continue on and it wouldn't let him go. His breath quivered, steps ever hesitant as he neared the door to the bedroom. It opened with the same terrible sound that had come from the closet door and it did nothing to quell his growing sense of dread. He could remember this space. Barely. Their home had been two stories. Three rooms at the top floor. A bathroom, one for the boys and one for..... He avoided looking down towards the other door, afraid he would find it open. Instead he neared the staircase, using one hand on the banister, the other stiffly at his side as he descended, cautious. He was in the lions den and he was very aware of it. With each step his bare feet stepped into some thick substance that felt sticky and wet on the bottoms of his feet. He didn't dare look down to see what it was, keeping his eyes closed and feeling his way down. The metallic smell had not yet cleared the air.

At the bottom of the staircase his feet hit wet carpet. It was soaked though he didn't really want to know with what. His eyes cracked open and he was nearly relieved to find that the white carpet had not been turned to maroon, but rather a moldy grayish green colour. The blue wallpaper was peeling before his eyes, the wall rotten and expelling a stench that didn't quite mask over the metallic one. From the ceiling came the dripping of water, the leaks dotting in random spots and on himself, making him shiver. The couch was torn to shreds, the coffee table completely smashed in half as if something heavy had come down upon it. Stitch tried to keep his breathing steady as he studied the room. Whenever he breathed out a puff of smoke would appear, like he was freezing. As if crossing a mine field, his steps were slow. Cautious. He inched his way towards the front door, the rotten wood giving in a little when he pushed against it, but not opening for him. This wasn't the way out of here. "Shit..." The sound of his own voice nearly made him jump. It felt out of place in this room where the only sound was the 'drip drip drip' of the water falling from the ceiling. "Get a hold of yourself." He mumbled, fists clenching as his words formed smoke in the cool air of the room.

He had to try somewhere else.

He didn't want to be here anymore.

The carpet squelched under his feet, his stomach turning as he spotted the red footprints in the ruined carpet that could have only come from his own feet. The carpet gave way to hardwood as he stepped into the hallway. In front of him was the kitchen. To the left another bathroom. To the right, a hall closet and a spare bedroom at the end. Maybe he could try the back door through the kitchen? Perhaps it would still be open for him. The state of the living room did not seem to follow in the rest of the house. Nothing was rotting in here except whatever meat was in the fridge. Stitch could hear the buzzing of flies. He crossed in front of the island counter, towards the back door, insistent on trying it for himself. Of course when he turned the knob it did not give in the slightest. The house seemed to be taunting him. "Please..." He whispered, his forehead resting against the door. He stayed there for what felt like hours before he heard it. Something falling to the floor behind him. He jumped, turning in fright and he pressed his back against the door. In front of him was what looked like a body. Squinting through the darkness, whose body it was was very clear.

"Reu?" His voice broke as he called for his brother. There was no movement from him. "Reuben?"

Stitch's hands shook as he neared the body and as he turned his brother over. Reuben looked swollen, bloodied, his skin black and purple in various places, teeth chipped. He felt like a limp ragdoll as Stitch pulled him into his lap. "No. No no no no, don't do this to me, asshole." His brother's skin felt like ice as Stitch cradled him in his lap and it made him sick. He wanted to scream, cry, anything but it wouldn't come. This couldn't be real. He could close his eyes and when he counted to ten everything would be normal again. But no matter how many times he tried this he'd always open his eyes to Reuben's corpse in his arms. Stitch's eyes burned looking at him. He was sorry he wasn't there for him like he and Leroy had always been for him. They were always his shields and this is what had become of it. This was his fault.

"Leroy!" Stitch called out for his eldest brother, his voice coming out in a broken sob. He received no answer. It made his skin crawl but he carefully set his brother back down on the floor. He had to get to his feet. He had to keep moving. At that moment a rumbling sound came from the living room and Stitch raced forward in time to watch the body of his eldest brother tumble the rest of the way down the stairs and land at his feet. His breath caught in his throat as he pushed back, against the rotten wall, a scream on his mouth that wouldn't come out. His eyes flicked up to the top of the steps. A shadow cloaked figure stood at the top and oh so casually began making it's way down, towards him. He couldn't move.

"Y-you....Y-...." He stammered, frightened.

"The beds were not made." The voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

"You killed them..."

"They deserved to be punished." The figure stopped in front of him, glaring at him. "And you." It spat. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your fucking room clean?"

"I-I'm sor-" He was cut off mid sentence as the figure before him backhanded him across the face. Only when it grabbed him by the hair did Stitch start to struggle, wanting to fight back, wanting to avenge his brothers. But every shot he took, every bite, they seemed to go right through the thing holding him. It tossed him aside like he was trash and he landed on his hands and knees, to his horror, in water that was already up to his elbows. He was frozen until a kick to his side sent him rolling. In fear he kept his head above the water until hands came down around his throat to hold him under. The water was freezing but his lungs burned with the need for air. His hands grasped at what they could but ultimately were useless in trying to pry anything off of him. His eyes wide, watching the figure above him. Watching as it killed him. He couldn't breathe. Vision fading....

He jerked awake, sitting up and gasping for air. A cold sweat covered him but it wasn't the cause of his shivers. His hands came up to his face, over his arms and his chest to make sure that yes, he was here. Not in a pool of rotten water. He rested his face in his hands. The dreams weren't getting any better. How long would he keep having to do this? He felt wetness on his hands and as he pulled up a little he could tell straightaway it was from tears. Shit. He quickly swiped them away as if they were acid and glanced beside him.

His brothers were fine. Sleeping. They were all fine and far away from his nightmares. Stitch took a heaving breath and with some difficulty, managed to loosen himself up enough to lay back down. 

He wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

[itstherightalice]

Photographs|| Closed

Alice sat in her car, relieved to be on her own for a bit. She loved hanging around with everyone, especially Sulley or Kronk - they were pretty cool guys - but right now she just needed to sit and think. She knew she was going to have to call her sister sometime, she just didn't know when would be best, or what to say.

 Frustrated, she flopped back on her bed. That's when she caught it - the little white corner of an old Polaroid photograph sticking out of one of her books. She hadn't read the book in ages - it was too full of words, no pictures at all - but it was one of her mother's books. She never realised the photo was in there.

 She reached over and opened the book gingerly, as if it could burn her. It was one of the few things she had to remind her of her parents - thankfully kept at her grandparents' house at the time, so it avoided being turned to ash in the fire. Alice felt a tear slowly running down her cheek as she opened it to the first page. Property of Lorina Reeve, it read in beautifully neat handwriting. 

 Alice huddled up as she flicked through the book, taking in the smell of the pages until she reached the one where the photograph was the bookmark. When she found it, she took it out. It was one of those ones which had printed the minute it was taken - the ones where you had to shake it and wait for the picture to develop. 

 When she saw what the picture was, she smiled weakly. It was Charlotte, about eleven or twelve years old, holding a baby Alice whilst both her mum and her dad surrounded them. It must have been taken not long after she was born, Alice reckoned, possibly taken by a family member, seeing as the background was the old house. The one Alice still called home, even though it had been reduced to cinders ten years before.

 She couldn't believe that it had been carried around with her for this long without her realising. It was amazing how these things could turn up. Almost like fate, except Alice knew that wasn't completely true. The idea of some outside force seemed... illogical. But what she did know was that it turned up just at the right time, reminding her that no matter what it seemed like, she and Charlotte would always be this close.

 She stared at the photo for a little while longer, letting herself relive the memories she had, and recounting the things Charlotte used to tell her when Alice had nightmares about the fire. She took out her notebook - the one with all her dad's stories in them - and placed the photo inside, knowing it would be safe with the rest of her memories.

[eveningstarwishes]

Mama's Pearls || Closed

Charlotte closed the door to her train car softly behind her. It was dark inside and she felt a little bit of relief when the lights came on and no one else was inside with her. She didn't want to be a bother to Jasmine and personally, she felt a little claustrophobic with both of them in the car at once. With a soft sigh she let herself drop onto her bed, rolling over onto her side and pulling her knees up a little. It was far less comfortable than the practical cloud of a bed she had at home and the sheets were made of some material that irritated her skin but she was strong. She could get used to it. Eventually.

She glanced toward the few boxes stacked in the corner. She was still green here. All of her things weren't even unpacked yet. Though to be honest she had probably packed more than was necessary. Charlotte assumed Jasmine to be a shopper too because between the two of them there wasn't much closet space. It was easy enough to tell clothes apart though seeing as most if not all of hers was a shade of pink.

Big Daddy had always said that her mama's favorite colour had been pink too. The thought of her daddy made her heart ache a little. She missed him. She missed waking up and having breakfast with him. Taking him shopping with her. Talking to him about everything. But she supposed that the heartache would eventually ease with time.

With a sigh Charlotte pushed herself up and off the bed, brushing her clothes before she walked toward the stack of boxes left to be unpacked. Might as well finish it up. Nothing else to do with her time while the train was rolling. She didn't think anyone would be up to talking to her at this time of night either. The top box was a few of her outfits, all pink as per the norm and with some difficulty she managed to fit them into the closet. Charlotte tied up her blonde curls before continuing, using some scissors to cut through the boxing tape. Once it was open she paused, looking inside. It was her jewelry box. Handcrafted. Oak. A small picture of her mama sat in the small picture slot. She lifted it out of the box, her fingers stroking over the polished wood before she set it on the small desk in the room.

Charlotte sat down in the chair before she opened the large drawer at the bottom of it, a string of pearls lying in the satin lining. With a soft smile she picked them up, gently as if they would break in her hands if she held too hard. "Mama's pearls.." She whispered, fondly. Big Daddy had given them to her before she'd left to join the carnival. The way he'd held them was exactly the way she held them now, as if all of her mama's love for the both of them was held inside each little pearl. This was a special necklace. Special to her daddy. Special to herself. Even if she had never gotten the chance to meet her mama she could still feel some sort of warmth from the string as she fastened it around her neck.

If Big Daddy were here, he would say she looked just like her mama.