9Okay, I have GOT to recognize those amazing people who have kindly taken the time to compose a review of my story's progress.
RedHeadWonder, you were the first to give your thoughts on this story, so I shall recognize your bravery; it takes courage to be the first to put down your thoughts (at least, that is how it feels to me). It really warmed my heart when you reviewed my story, for I had enjoyed your stories after reading them.
Somebody Random, thank you for the encouragement. I had to decode a little bit, but I figured it out (just kidding, I understood it and liked it 😊). Thank you for the inspiration though, I actually started thinking of something by reading your review (will clarify later).
Cressida123, I have to thank you for the evaluation of Rowan; don't worry, I will evolve his character a bit more. And about the comment about my writing style…I actually like that description. I wasn't really trying to do that, but hey, it works. It is much more pleasant than being described as leaping from one time point to another. And also, thank you for the criticism concerning the similarities between Rowan D. and Sophie F; I will try to mend that in this next chapter.
WARNING: PLOT TWIST STRAIGHT AHEAD.
I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE KEEPER OF THE LOST CITY BOOKS OR THEIR CHARACTERS; THE ONLY CHARACTER THAT I OWN {SO FAR} IS ROWAN DRYADALEM.
Chapter 2
Wow, this story sure was short, right? I fall down, get squashed to a pulp, and you never find out what happens next in the story that you were hoping to read. Nah, that is just my obituary.
Well, sucks to be you, right?
Huh, I wonder what they put on my tombstone. Wait, what did they plant on my grave? Perhaps…dandelions? Weeds? Those annoying abominations that people call Creeping Myrtles? (You will never understand unless you try to get rid of one.)
🎵The tree came ba-ck, the very next day. The tree came ba-ck, thought it was a goner, but the tree came ba-ck the very next da-eay-eay-ay🎵
Anyway, back to the tombstone. They probably wrote "Sucks to be you", "Another one bites the dust", or "So much for that kid".
Wait, my personal favorites that I ever seen are probably "who was this?", "I told you I was sick," and "Bye."
Well, so long folks, and that's the…
…PSYCHE! I suck as a person, but that was too tempting to resist. I'll give a shout-out to whoever can guess what the song was a parody of. Doesn't matter what time you figure it out, I'll recognize you in my latest chapter.
Okay, here's the real chapter.
Crash!
At first, I wonder why I don't feel any pain. Then, I realize that my vision is dark, and panic, but then I open my eyes. Wow, how the supposedly intelligent fall.
I discover that the truck had missed me by a mere five centimeters, for Mr. Jameson had swerved and hit the light pole next to my house. However, I don't stop to contemplate either the stalker, my idiocy, or my luck, for the said light pole starts to fall on top of me.
Well, I think. This is anticlimactic. Then the most important issue comes to mind as I face death. I suppose they don't have any Flat Stanley knockoff sneakers at the clothing store for the severely crushed at…wherever people go when they die.
While I am debating this conundrum, I notice that my muscles hurt, as though I had run five blocks…because I did.
I scrape my forearms when I wrap them around my instrument case, trying to protect it from my fall. It somewhat works, but my body twisted right on impact so that I land on my back. Ouch. My glasses fly off as the back of my head hits the asphalt.
Great. I apparently am not allowed to even see the cause of my demise.
I quickly put my instrument case to the side, hoping that it doesn't get crushed.
But I hear humming, as though someone had turned on one of those confounded Tone Generators. Feels like about 2800 hertz, for my eyesight goes grey.
After several seconds, I wonder why I'm not dead yet. I open my eyes, and I see that the stalker that I was trying to evade earlier was staring at something.
Well, like any other sensible human being, I look as well. Hmm…I guess the saying "monkey see, monkey do" really is plausible. I probably should write that down. Then I notice that something blurry is currently above me.
However, my eyesight is so bad that I could mistake a red apple for a watermelon without my glasses on.
Stupid eyesight.
Suddenly panicking, my arm fumbles around on the ground until I find my glasses. I put them on, almost stabbing myself in the eye in the process due to my trembling fingers. I really hate these things. Finally, I look up, still sprawled on the asphalt.
Wow. Whoever made the 'nutritional' substance at school today must have been crazier than usual, for the pole is hovering over my chest. THREE. CENTIMETERS from crushing my ribcage.
The side of my brain that evaluates my observations pipes in. Huh. Apparently when I encounter life-threatening situations, my brain goes metric on me. Who knew?
The part that has always been intent on keeping me focused {The one that I have been ignoring lately} slaps the former and gives its typical response: FOCUS. I decide to humor it, for once.
I look back at the teenager, trying to determine if I am finally going crazy or not. It is soon apparent that either I am not crazy, or we're both destined for the pre-booked padded rooms, with complementary strait jackets.
The stalker is currently focused on the said lighting structure, staring at it as though someone's life depends on it.
My sarcastic part pipes up. Duh, yours is the only one in danger right now.
She mutters under her breath. Something along the lines of "Get out from under the 400-pound apparatus, dimwit."
Well, that sure sounds like sage advice. I shimmy out from under it, both confused as to what in the heck is going on and glad that I decided to continue gym class. I scramble up to my feet immediately, strapping my oboe case across my chest and clutching it like my life depends on it.
(Yes, I love my instrument. Fantix also does, too. OBOE, not clarinet.)
Suddenly, the pole comes crashing down, and the stalker who just saved my life collapses. I stand there, unsure as to what I'm supposed to do. I finally tip-toe over to see if the said individual is injured, and crouch to the left of the torso (I had noticed that the person was right handed when she tried to grab me).
During my visual scan, all I notice are slight exhaustion depressions right underneath her eyelids, what others call sleep circles.
Bio-Med muses about her condition. When did this person get enough sleep? No wonder she collapsed.
But right as I get out my phone to call my parents, her eyes blink. She gets up quickly, which Bio-Med doesn't like. Yes, I separate my thoughts into different categories, get a grip. I do not have multiple personalities, I'm organized. Major difference.
She seems steady, for someone who's suffering from a severe case of insomnia. Even though this person had freaked me out earlier, I can't help feeling concerned.
At least, that was what was going through my mind until she abruptly starts walking towards me. Fast. She tells me to stay put.
At first, I am confused, and start speed-walking towards the sidewalk. Then I turn around and start running, all the while thinking, not making that mistake again.
The stalker who saved my life {I think} starts to run in pursuit, so I run across the street, cut through my neighbor's backyard, cross the man-made creek that is behind it, and take several turns down back alleys, side streets, and between houses.
You can probably tell that I've done this before, but enough on that.
As I jog around the tenth block, I reflect upon the other times that I had to do this. People can be severe pains in the Gluteus Maximus.
Even in my brain, I refuse to use what most people call 'curse words'; it is not that I don't know any profane terms, it is just that I consider it a sign of a limited vocabulary and a lack of self-control. The closest I ever get to foul language are 'crud', 'darn', 'freaking,' and 'heck'.
Okay, fine, sometimes I curse in Italian, but it's not THAT often. I picked it up from my dad, who lived in Sicily for a while when he was a kid.
Back to the now, Focus tells me. After a while, I remember when I last had to use this maneuver. I haven't used this route since that time that Kyle tried to-
I stop. About five-and-a-half meters away, the teenager stands in front of me. What the- how did she get here so fast?!
I watch as she calmly, too calmly for comfort, reaches into a backpack, which I hadn't noticed before because Panic decided to run around earlier. She pulls out something that suspiciously looks like a knife.
She starts running towards me. "You need to come with me, Rowan A. Dryadalem," she says with a now prominent scowl on her face.
(BTW, my middle name is Aster. And yes, my initials spell, "RAD." No issues? Good. Continue reading my bio; I am working hard on it even while being chased by psyco people.)
Oh crud. This situation is definitely out of control.
I run back the way I came, stopping at one of my parents' associates' houses to see if I could get some backup. But no, Fortuna hath forsaken me, so I continue running, my umbrella STILL in hand despite my having almost being squashed by a freaking light pole. I run through the various weak points of the human body, just in case the psycho-stalker catches up to me.
After about five minutes, I reach my house. Since our front door lock is warped and unusable, I head towards the back door, my breath now catching in my chest.
However, right before I reach the backdoor, and safety, I feel a sharp pain in my skull. It feels even worse than the busload of screeching elementary students that passed by earlier.
My brain fogs up, but I push the pain aside and get out the key-chain so I could unlock the door and get inside. But the key is gone.
Oh no, my panic-filled brain supplies. I forgot it in my backpack, which is now about one-and-a-half miles away.
By the way, I normally walk about 1.75 miles to get to the bus stop because I walk my little brother to school.
But then I remember the spool of wire that I always keep in my pocket to pla-I mean, experiment with. I get it out and start unraveling the knots that I had made in it over the past couple weeks. Heart, and head, pounding, I insert it into the lock, and start to move it around.
My stomach {figuratively} falls back down into my lower torso when I hear the lock click. But just as I start turning the door knob, something hits me on the back of the head, barely missing the kill spot at the base of the skull.
I fall down, fazed by the blow. However, I do not go unconscious, for my skull has grown to protect my brain from the various basketballs, Frisbees, four-square balls, footballs, volley balls, the occasional bowling ball, and other random hard objects that my head has made the acquaintance of throughout my school years; in short, I really do have a thick skull, about ½ an inch thicker than most.
Eyes refocusing, I see a pair of immaculate white-and-black tennis shoes, either women's 7 or men's 5 ½. I look up and see those same gold-flecked brown eyes; however, the brown, which would otherwise be considered a warm color, feels cold as liquid nitrogen. Scratch that, it is WAY COLDER.
The teenager stares at me and drops the flower pot into the grass. I wince as I hear it crack, hoping that my parents won't need it later.
Then the creeper launches herself forward, and I feel something pressed against my face. Scared out of my mind, I open my mouth to get the attention of any neighbors that might be home, only for a sickly-sweet damp cloth to be shoved in, similar to a gag.
I realize too late what the substance is. The taste spreads, even after I spit it out of my mouth, spreading a fuzzy cloud over my mind. I struggle, but it's all futile.
Finally, my body collapses, hitting my head on the doorknob, then the ground, as I go down.
The last thing I see is the frayed aglet on her white tennis shoe.
When my eyes shut, my brain is left to contend with the now rapid wave of numbness. One by one, the different aspects of thought shut down, leaving the sarcastic one behind.
He feebly inquires, now what...? But I don't hear the rest, and I don't answer.