YOUR HEART HAS BROUGHT YOU TO THIS LAND —// A TRIGGER WARNING TO OUTSIXE READERS: This thread will deal with death, as well as mental illness, child abuse, and crimes such as robbery. If these disturb, please do not read!
[member=12]Sympathy[/member] [member=3448]A. MORGAN[/member]
Kicking in the spurs of Elvira, her trusted black and white American Painted Horse (well, it was her grandfather's, but he didn't deserve a horse), Amelia rushes through the trees. When the horse naturally begins to tire, she leans down and whispers, "Only a little bit further, Elvira. Then it'll all be okay." Her voice is calm, kind, and gentle. Blue eyes drift down the horse, making sure she was clean and not too badly injured.
Amelia herself was another story. Her grandfather's abuse escalated past verbal. So far past that. Instead of the insults about her supposed father -- his line of business, his destiny, his calling-- whatever one wanted to call it, he saw her father in the young girl. Her brown hair and blue eyes... She wasn't more than thirteen when her grandfather pinned her down, attacked her with fists and legs and broken bottles. His voice rose. He was angry.
"You're just like your good for nothing father!" He had hissed at her, holding her by the collar of her shirt. His breath was sour with the scent of alcohol, and that's when she remembered to be scared. That didn't stop her from back talking.
"Yeah? Maybe I want to be like him! He'd be a better role model than you!" She replies. His eyes unfocused, and blankness covered his face. He let's go of his own grandchild, a turbulent universe in his expression.
"Grandpa? What're you doing?" Amelia asks. He walks over to where he has stored some brass knuckles. "Y-you don't need those!" She calls out. When he walks over again, she hurriedly Scott's under a table.
At first, he rams the brass knuckles into the table, over and over. Splinters of wood come flying off. Amelia's eyes widen and she goes pale grasping onto the table. Her grandfather seemed to be in some sort of trance, and soon enough, his blows focused on what he could attack-- her face, her arms. The pain rushed through, no broken skin, but enough to cause bruises. It almost felt burning and stinging and...
His eyes snapped back into focus. They were no longer glazed over, and her grandfather was slowly regaining his color. "Amelia?" He asks, looking at the girl, who was obviously scared.
She tried to remind herself that it was okay. That he didn't mean for this to happen. He was just angry. "Amelia? Sweethear, don't look like that. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. You know I love you. I don't wanna see you turn out as a failure like your father, that's all." His voice was sickly sweet. "Amelia? Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. You know I love you. I love you more than life. You know I wouldn't hurt you. I would never."
Without a word, she gets up. He stretches his arms out for an embrace. Amelia looks at him, face hot with tears before running out the door. She gets on a horse, and runs off, hearing the cries of her grandfather in the distance.
That night, his anger felt like gravity, but she escaped the grasp. It'd only been a couple of days. She was now on the hunt for her father, hoping he'd take her in. Do something. She notices a broken tree and steers her horse in that direction. "Good job, Elvira," she says, patting her horse gently.
She stops when she hears a call, of an older man. "Who is it?!" His voice is not angry, though it sounds like a warning and commanding. She hitches Elvira to a nearby tree, getting off of her and looking for the source of the voice.
Looking around, she begins. "My name is Amelia-" she was cut off, being barreled into by Bill. His eyes held suspicion, and she took a mental note of what he looks like. He grabs her by the shoulder and yanks her up.
"O'Driscoll!" He screamed, shaking Amelia harshly. "O'Driscoll! O'Driscoll!" His voice was booming, as loud as thunder as he grabs Amelia further, shoving her into camp and pointing his gun at her. Her stares through the scope.
This could have gone infinitely better, Amelia thinks. She backs away as the veteran keeps screaming their enemies' name over and over. O'Driscoll? Were they another group? Sounded Irish. Amelia tries to shush him but he keeps going. Finally, she looks up and yells, "I'm not Irish and I'm what? Thirteen! Quiet down with that!"
He keeps screaming anyway at the top of his lungs. He seems very, very, angry. "You're just a Dirty O'Driscoll!"
— WHERE YOUR LOVE IS STRONG AND BOLDER
[member=12]Sympathy[/member] [member=3448]A. MORGAN[/member]
Kicking in the spurs of Elvira, her trusted black and white American Painted Horse (well, it was her grandfather's, but he didn't deserve a horse), Amelia rushes through the trees. When the horse naturally begins to tire, she leans down and whispers, "Only a little bit further, Elvira. Then it'll all be okay." Her voice is calm, kind, and gentle. Blue eyes drift down the horse, making sure she was clean and not too badly injured.
Amelia herself was another story. Her grandfather's abuse escalated past verbal. So far past that. Instead of the insults about her supposed father -- his line of business, his destiny, his calling-- whatever one wanted to call it, he saw her father in the young girl. Her brown hair and blue eyes... She wasn't more than thirteen when her grandfather pinned her down, attacked her with fists and legs and broken bottles. His voice rose. He was angry.
"You're just like your good for nothing father!" He had hissed at her, holding her by the collar of her shirt. His breath was sour with the scent of alcohol, and that's when she remembered to be scared. That didn't stop her from back talking.
"Yeah? Maybe I want to be like him! He'd be a better role model than you!" She replies. His eyes unfocused, and blankness covered his face. He let's go of his own grandchild, a turbulent universe in his expression.
"Grandpa? What're you doing?" Amelia asks. He walks over to where he has stored some brass knuckles. "Y-you don't need those!" She calls out. When he walks over again, she hurriedly Scott's under a table.
At first, he rams the brass knuckles into the table, over and over. Splinters of wood come flying off. Amelia's eyes widen and she goes pale grasping onto the table. Her grandfather seemed to be in some sort of trance, and soon enough, his blows focused on what he could attack-- her face, her arms. The pain rushed through, no broken skin, but enough to cause bruises. It almost felt burning and stinging and...
His eyes snapped back into focus. They were no longer glazed over, and her grandfather was slowly regaining his color. "Amelia?" He asks, looking at the girl, who was obviously scared.
She tried to remind herself that it was okay. That he didn't mean for this to happen. He was just angry. "Amelia? Sweethear, don't look like that. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. You know I love you. I don't wanna see you turn out as a failure like your father, that's all." His voice was sickly sweet. "Amelia? Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. You know I love you. I love you more than life. You know I wouldn't hurt you. I would never."
Without a word, she gets up. He stretches his arms out for an embrace. Amelia looks at him, face hot with tears before running out the door. She gets on a horse, and runs off, hearing the cries of her grandfather in the distance.
That night, his anger felt like gravity, but she escaped the grasp. It'd only been a couple of days. She was now on the hunt for her father, hoping he'd take her in. Do something. She notices a broken tree and steers her horse in that direction. "Good job, Elvira," she says, patting her horse gently.
She stops when she hears a call, of an older man. "Who is it?!" His voice is not angry, though it sounds like a warning and commanding. She hitches Elvira to a nearby tree, getting off of her and looking for the source of the voice.
Looking around, she begins. "My name is Amelia-" she was cut off, being barreled into by Bill. His eyes held suspicion, and she took a mental note of what he looks like. He grabs her by the shoulder and yanks her up.
"O'Driscoll!" He screamed, shaking Amelia harshly. "O'Driscoll! O'Driscoll!" His voice was booming, as loud as thunder as he grabs Amelia further, shoving her into camp and pointing his gun at her. Her stares through the scope.
This could have gone infinitely better, Amelia thinks. She backs away as the veteran keeps screaming their enemies' name over and over. O'Driscoll? Were they another group? Sounded Irish. Amelia tries to shush him but he keeps going. Finally, she looks up and yells, "I'm not Irish and I'm what? Thirteen! Quiet down with that!"
He keeps screaming anyway at the top of his lungs. He seems very, very, angry. "You're just a Dirty O'Driscoll!"
— WHERE YOUR LOVE IS STRONG AND BOLDER