InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Black Cherry ❯ Kidnapped? ( Prologue )

Disclaimer: I will never own Inuyasha. It will always belong to Rumiko Takahashi.

 

 

Prologue

 

Kidnapped?

 

 

Wearily, I looked up at the pair of green, rectangular, street signs pointing down a barren road on my left and down an ominous stretch on my right. Maine St. and Central Rd., they read in dull, dirt-speckled white.

 

I sighed and folded my arms across my chest to bury my numb fingers underneath my armpits, trying my best to force off the chill nipping at my flesh.

 

I hate Stiletto heels, I thought grimly, watching as my breath spiraled up into the air in a tendril of white vapor and quickly withered away into the darkness. I hate the cold. I hate this skimpy, leather skirt, tank top, and jacket. I even hate…

 

I stopped thinking for a second, letting my eyes drift down to the sidewalk. Snow coated it like dust meant for a mystical, fairy-tale world, yet the dead weeds that hung in despair over the blanket of white trimmed down what little beauty that my eyes could savor. However, a spark of gold that entangled itself with the snow restored it suddenly. Instantly, I recognized its origin as being the cheesy lighting that illuminated the rundown strip joint called Joe's Place behind me.

 

I turned around slowly to stare at the unsightly door just barely hiding the sinful deeds that lay beyond it. It was made of glass smudged messily in dirt and iron bars crisscrossed along its stained face, making a wild stampede of shivers run down my spine. In my so-called “humble” opinion, I thought it was better to have the door donated to the package/liquor store down the street. It didn't have a door at all, mostly because the storeowner couldn't afford one.

 

Joe's Place didn't deserve a door. And even though I detested liquor with an ardor, the other store was the only one closest to my apartment complex that always had my favorites in stock, such as Buffalo Rock in a 1 Liter bottle and those addictive, Hershey candy-bars called Whatchamacallits. Joe's Place didn't own anything I wanted or the least bit desired…other than money.

 

“And warmth…” I murmured softly, maybe even longingly.

 

I took one step forward towards the bar, stopping abruptly once I remembered the man I worked for, the place that practically used me to help function itself financial-wise.

 

Joe, I thought. I work for him and him alone.

 

Tiredly, I turned back around and returned to my station near the curb.

 

I didn't know how long I had to stand there, but I recalled Joe demanding quite firmly that I refill the spot as the street-side hooker from 8 to 11 PM, 5 days a week, especially since Arlene oh-so-eloquently “excused” herself from the premises last Friday. And when she left, the cash flow slowly began trickling in because she had more men drooling over her than anything…or anyone.

 

Fortunately, I wasn't all that popular and I didn't look at myself as being more beautiful than all of the models (or hookers) on this earth combined. I was a plain Jane and, hopefully, nothing more. I worked at Joe's Place, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, because the pay was good, way more than just decent or permissible.

 

Once again hunching my shoulders and deeply curling in on myself, I sat there near the curb, shivering wildly, relentlessly in the cold. I sunk willingly into the appeasing embrace of silence, closed my eyes, and mentally pictured myself in a tubful of steaming-hot water…

 

I didn't get a chance to dream any farther than that. Before I had a chance to dodge it, a large, calloused hand seized my arm in a firm, unyielding grip that had my muscles squalling out in agony.

 

I whimpered, making many pitiful and fruitless attempts to claw the hand off from the owner's arm. No sooner had I tried to pull of such a maneuver did I realize that that was quite foolish of me. Like a bullet hacking through the darkness, another hand grabbed my other arm and reared me forward into what felt like a very warm plate of steel. I couldn't pillage the chance to use my hands as cushions to soften the impact, but I did, however, own enough common sense to twist my head around and let my right cheek represent as a thin pillow.

 

“Take her…” I heard a deep, bone-chilling voice rise up behind me, “She shouldn't be a part of this.”

 

“Right.”

 

That reply knocked me slightly off-guard as apprehension began to engulf my entire chest. As subtly as humanly possible, I tried to lift my head up only to feel a gush of wind collide into my face and a careless jolt cause my knees to malfunction and my feet to melt away into nothingness. But I didn't fall. Oh no. Instead, a burly arm foiled my grim expectations of plowing face-first into the cement and, inwardly, I happily patted myself on the back for not going through with the plan of amputating its hand.

 

But such a feeling was soon devoured whole by an emotionless void once Joe's Place infiltrated my view.

 

People were flooding out of the small building as if a flock of demons were nipping at their heels. Their screams filled the night as if I was watching a black and white horror film burst into color and bloom fully into life, yet that wasn't the only thing that snagged my attention. I just barely picked up on the thunderous blast of gunshots roaring inside the structure.

 

I gasped, eyes wide, and that was all it took for my level-headedness to suddenly become unbalanced. That feeling never left me even as I was hurled into the back of some foreign vehicle and a gentle wave of whispers began to wash over my ears even under the din of the engine and the screeching of tires against gravel.