Fan Fiction ❯ Dead Fish ❯ Sarah Adams ( Chapter 1 )

I never liked carving even when I placed my mother's butcher knife into his face.

Truly, it had been his fault. His name had been Justin; he had been dating a sixteen year old girl by the name of Sarah Adams (that would be who I used to be). I wasn't very pretty, nor was I unpleasant to eyes. I had a few friends who were very close to me and a whole pack of girls and boys who were nice to me because I was nice to them. I was a normal human girl.

But . . . I had this hobby. And every girl has a hobby, whether it's reading or daydreaming about their future husband . . . but my hobby was just a bit strange. I wouldn't say it was as strange as girls who pierced their nipples and other body parts for pleasure, but it could have been on the same level. I had always wanted to be an archeologist . . . so I collected bones. Fish bones, exactly. I would buy a fish from the market and slowly peel off the skin and meat until I got to those lovely slick bones. I would recreate the fish; glue the bones together and then hide my art underneath my bed so mother wouldn't find them.

One day, Justin found them. And he, being the normal young boy that he was, told me that I was a freak. I was young and foolish then; I took his words to heart. "Don't you dare come near my house!" he yelled as he threw each and everyone one of my fishes on the ground, smashing them. I think I cried then; not because Justin was gone, but because my fishes were dead. "I will call the police on your freaky ass if you come near me!"

I wanted new bones to make up for my loss. This time, a stinky fish would not do the trick.

I waited for Justin after his football practice. He panicked, tried to call the police, screamed for his friends who were too far away to help . . . I plunged mother's knife into him. I kept stabbing and stabbing until I was sure he was dead. The second I placed my shaking fingers under one of the holes I had made, I fell unconscious.

I did not fall unconscious because I was scared with my new reality or I suddenly realized that I had killed my ex-boyfriend. Someone had hit me on the head. At the time, I thought it was one of Justin's friends or a police man. When I woke up, I fantasized that I was in jail.

That is not the fate for us.

I woke up, on a torn burgundy couch, facing a broken window. My first instinct was to chew on my long brown hair. As I tried to find a lock, I understood then that my hair was now reasonably shorter than it had been before. I felt the top of my head-my hair had been shaven off. My clothes had been replaced with a blue hospital gown.

I placed my bare feet on the cold wooden floor; how had I been transported to such an ugly place, so different from my old home? Where was my father, too busy to spend time with his wife and daughter? Where was my mother, wasting her life as a house-wife? What had happened to the dream world I had lived in? Where was my room, my bed, my clean clothes?

"What did they call you?"

Instantly, I spun around, fearful of my new surroundings and an unfamiliar deep masculine voice. He was much taller than my father, with a long and unruly black beard. His hair, graying at his roots, was held back in a braid. My father had been a well-kept business man. He always told me to avoid men with dark tans. "They are workers. We do not waste our time with workers."

If father knew that I was trapped in a room with a tall, dark-skinned man with scars littering his arms and face, what would he have said? He probably would have told me that he was disappointed in me; those were the only words he could conjure when punishment was at hand.

"I said, `What did they call you', babe?" By babe, I was hoping then that he meant to refer to me as a child and not a sexy woman.

"S-Sarah . . . Adams, you know like the TV show . . . where am I? What am I doing here? Who are you? How did I ever get here?"

The man laughed; loudly at first but eventually it died down to bitter chuckling. "You're just like all the other babes. Don't know where you are . . . scared as hell. Sarah . . . that's not a very intimidating name, you know?"

"To be honest, sir, I'm a sixteen year old female. I'm not very intimidating at all." I was surprised that the words flowed so easily from my mouth. I made him laugh again, though. Slowly, he regained his nonchalant appearance once again and looked me up and down. If I were egotistical, I would have said that he was eye-raping me.

"At least you're not one of the boys. They always want to fight with me, always want to argue. `I am scary, when I want to be', the last one told me. He was a shrimp, too. It's amazing how big some people's egos are. I hope you aren't like that. If you are, I'll eat you."

I gasped in fear; finally, next to one of my people, I found myself afraid of what this man could do. I, who had killed my own boyfriend and still felt no remorse for my actions, was afraid of a man who would probably do the same to me, given the chance. But my curiosity was stronger than I thought it was.

"If you do eat me, then please tell me where I am beforehand. I'd really like to know what I'm doing in a run-down apartment."

He smiled calmly and said to me, "I was just kidding about eating you. Boys, I can stomach. Girls . . . girls give me indigestion. You, my dear, are in hell. This is where they put all of us: criminals, murderers, psychopaths . . . we all end up here. This is a training ground of sorts for a group of specially trained policemen, the `good-guys', if you will. We are the villains. Either they kill us or we kill them. You'll be lucky to survive the first month."

"But what am I doing here?"

"I don't want to know. It's rare for me to see a girl down here so sane. And just to let you know, that barcode on your forehead will keep you from the outside world forever. There's no escaping this hell. You have to live or die. If you would like to die now, I could find some men outside who are starving."

I placed a hand to my forehead, wondering if I could feel the barcode. Without a mirror, I would never know what it looked like. "I'm going to live", I told him sternly. "I don't care what it takes. I'll live for as long as I can."

"Good. If you're willing to survive, then the only things you'll need are a weapon and a name."

"Which is more efficient?"

He burst out into laughter once again, presumably at my question and not at my austere tone. "I'd say a weapon. Unless of course you have long pretty nails, like the other girls. I've seen some vicious bitches out there. Tell you what-if you promise to find me food everyday, I'll take you in and show you the ropes. How would you like that?" He must have noted my now colorless face. To know that the other day I had been sleeping in my warm bed with my satin pajamas on and to wake up in an unknown world with an unfamiliar man was possibly one of the harshest realities of my life.

I eyed my nails, crimson nail polish still gleaming off of them. "I already have a name . . ." I muttered.

"Not anymore. We all have names on the outside. But once you're inside . . . you're not the same person you used to be. Everyone calls me Bones now."

"I like being called Sarah", I growled, flexing my fingers and watching my knuckles move readily.

"As I said before, it's not a very intimidating name. I've always wanted to have a son. I'll call you Nick. Does that suit your preferences?"

"Is there a reason why you want a girl to be your son?" I rarely glared in high school. I found myself glowering with each word I said.

"You're the only one I've found who's actually wanted to live. I'll take what I can get."

As he grinned, showing off his brown crooked teeth, I pondered vaguely on whether I could trust "Bones" or not. How had he came upon the name Bones, anyway? He was a cannibal; that was my only clue. In exchange for his protection, he wanted me to find and kill humans for him. Too bad I couldn't bring Justin's body for him.

"I have a few clothes in the back", he continued when he knew a reply would not come. "They may be too big for your girlish figure but who the hell cares. Also, if you're going to be my son, you'll have to loose a few feminine assets."

I wasn't sure what he had been talking about. I agreed and didn't care. Now, looking back on my life, I know I should have protested or told him that my breasts were important for procreation or something rather feminist. But I just wanted to sleep in my bed again. I wanted Bones to magically take me away from this place. When he asked me to kill for his protection, I wanted that promise to bring me back to my mother and father.

As his knife disconnected my left breast from my chest, I screamed as loud as I could, glad to feel some sort of pain. No, there was no going back to mother and father now.