Unwanted Cupcakes

Chapter One

Now's as good a time as any, I decide, bounding to my feet and heading towards the door. And where I was thinking on going? Well that seems like a problem to deal with once it actually is a problem--all that mattered currently was actually getting out of the house.

Putting my ear up to the wall, I listen for any sign of human activity. When there's no noise on the other side, I take that as my cue to leave. Since the walls in this house are very thin, it makes it a whole lot easier to hear anyone talking or moving around (it also makes it very hard to ignore the constant fighting between my parents, but that's not something I should be thinking about right now).

Shutting the door behind me as quietly as possible, I tip-toe down the stairs, being extra cautious about the second-to-last step that has the tendency to make an extremely loud and annoying 'creak'-- and that was not something I learnt by chance.

Once I had avoided making any noise and was down the stairs, I slip my (thankfully socked) feet into whichever pair of shoes I'd left strewn near the door yesterday, and make my way towards the front door. I strain to hear upstairs one more time, nodding my resolve when it's still only silence, and open the door.

I don't give myself time to think about how in a mere couple of hours I'm expected to be at school, or how it's fucking freezing out and I'm only wearing a black long sleeve and jeans with no idea where I'm going. I should probably care more about whether or not I'm going to be patrolling the streets of London at night aimlessly, but anywhere suits right now--and anywhere doesn't include here.

It's nice, the breeze. Bitingly cold, too, but nice nonetheless, I think, breaking out into a run. I speed up a little, feel my hair hit against my neck every time I move, feel my heart increase rapidly, my breath quicken. I'm reminded how incredibly out of shape I am, how I really cannot spend the whole night running, but I just don't care.

I don't stop. I won't stop. Not until I reach where I want to be, and I've figured out where that is.

...

I stop long enough to take in the sight of the familiar alleyway, seemingly uglier than the last time I saw it. Covered in discarded cans, half-finished cigarettes, and whatever it was the next person decided they couldn't hold long enough to deposit it into a bin, it's a sight I welcome wholeheartedly.

The one abandoned light, always flickering, always on the verge of giving out completely, guides my way through the rubbish to the little hole carved into the wood. I manage, like always, to squeeze through gracefully, dusting off my clothes once I've stood straight.

A smile creeps up my face as the one place I love most in the world comes into view. With a heavy heart I walk closer, throat tightening with emotions and memories and fuck do I love this place.

On first glance it would appear to be nothing more than a haggardly-looking shack, but to me it's the closest thing to home.

A small, one-story wooden structure that belonged to my grandparents, left to me and another (don't think about him, Faye, not now), beautiful in its simplicity and everything that I needed to see.

The cabin was exactly how I left it last time. Door locked and secured, flowers watered and healthy, grass lusciously green and so, so soft, I'm tempted to reach out and stroke it.

An ease I haven't felt in a while washes over, everything negative doesn't seem like a problem anymore--and all because of four walls and a roof.

Alas, perfect doesn't last forever.

I'm snapped out of my short daze, head turning to the right where two large figures, obviously male, are shouting at each other. And, for fucks sake, really? What the hell are they doing here? This is private property.

Obviously unaware of my presence (I was only one out of two people who knew about the unofficial back entrance), I shift closer, ensuring I'm kept out of sight and behind the cabin.

Leaning forward as much as I can, I struggle to make out the conversation. "Don't even try to deny it! I warned you before," yells the one standing. Though he's shouting, he speaks slowly, enunciating every word. My heart hammers at the intensity, more than glad I wasn't the one on the receiving end of it.

"Look, man, just tell Damon the money'll be on his desk by tomorrow!" Pleads the guy on the floor.

To put it simply, I wasn't the logical, think-things-through one; more the reckless and spontaneous, which explains why I stupidly decide to creep forward. I stop short though, eyes widening, when I see the man standing pull something out of his coat.

A gun. He'd pulled out a goddamn gun.

My eyes widened comically big, all but bulging out of my head as I struggle to keep silent. Was I about to whiteness a fucking murder?

The man with the gun (Gunguy, I had not-so-creatively decided on), points it at the man below him, who was begging, "One more day and I swear it! I'll get the money!"

I squint slightly, uncertain if Gunguy's hand had just raised to cover a yawn, as if threatening--and/or actually taking--lives was a normal occurrence for him. I'm about to go and ask the fucker himself (like I said, not exactly the logical one) when the unmistakable sound a gun going off rang out, incredibly out of place in the quiet environment.

Tense silence fills the air as the now-deadman's pleads end. I bite my hand to keep from screaming out because one) I did just witness a murder and two) I just witnessed a fucking murder. I must have let out a noise or something, because the next thing I know, Gunguy's staring directly at me, eyes widening.

I debate making a run for it, deciding my chances are pretty great. He was too far to get a clear shot and seemed way too big to fit through the hole in order to chase after me. A smart plan, yet not one the incredibly stupid and proud side of me (and maybe one that was a little fucking terrified) let me go through with.

Rooted to the spot, I only watch as he walks closer, closer, closer, until he's directly before me; armed with the weapon and motive to kill me where I stood.

I hadn't gotten a proper look a him until now, and really, should I be surprised that he looked like someone I wanted to stare at the rest of my life? Of course the fucking murderer would be attractive--'attractive' being the biggest understatement of the goddamn century.

Soft, incredibly fluffy looking, brown hair was held back by sunglasses (what asshole wore sunglasses at two in the morning?), allowing only little wisps of curls to escape. The darkest eyes I had ever seen, reminding me of the sky as it looked now, pierced as if going through me, curious and alluring. Below them, pink, rosy lips, curled up in an arrogant smirk.

It was cruel, unfair, completely against my morals, but I wanted to fuck a murderer.

A/N

Heyyyy! Chapter One is completed. *jiggles around out of happiness* Yes, indeed I just jiggled.

So, what did you guys think about gun guy? Eh, eh? Faye's recklessness got me wishing I was that awesome. Sike, I'm already that awesome. (Not really.)

Make sure to vote and comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts. 'Til next time,

-S