UNSCATHED

Chapter 1

Dedicated to the real Pique Venganza, (the actual 'Plague of My Life')  and the real Greg. The books Tasha loves and collects 'The Time Crystal' and 'The Sound Sorcerer' are not real. Pique's band is not real but several bands inspired them

THERE was a young woman, who'd lived somewhere for a long time. She thought of it as a sort of warehouse, where goods were put when faulty or no longer needed; goods that nobody wanted or knew what to do with. How long had she been here? Days? Weeks...years even. She shuddered. Years!

     Someone cried out, reminding her of a cat she'd once had, who had been her best friend in the whole world.

    "Tasha?" asked someone. "That you?"

     She called back, "no".

It wasn't that the Warehouse was bad; far from it; she'd been in places a lot worse. She'd been in so many they had all begun to roll into one. But by all the gods that existed, and some that didn't...it was so boring.

The same thing every day; the problems there would be if someone's day did not run exactly how they thought it should.

    The odd thing was, from what she could see, the worse someone's behaviour was, the better they were treated; the more stops were pulled out to make sure everyone rushed to do whatever he or she wanted. A form was filled out in an orange folder, but that was it. Nothing was usually done; you couldn't turf someone from their home.

There was other housing she could have moved into by now. Some would tell her she should have. She had heard of this; constant care was never truly constant; those who lived in other housing often rung their parents up multiple times a day, for a chat, or more often to give them the care they weren't getting.

The Warehouse had this type of housing. It wouldn't work for her for she was unable to do all the things that meant one could move in.

As it was, she stayed thirsty until drinks were made, hungry until food was prepared, though her clothes were tight from her intake of dried pork and confectionery.

She felt lucky she wasn't in the same situation as most inmates; unable to even ask for either.

Luckily she could occupy herself, and she did, with doorstep-sized books, usually set on worlds with funny-coloured skies and several moons; books with titles like 'The Time Crystal' or 'The Sound Sorcerer'.

It was getting to the point where the size of the font in the books was more important than how good the book actually was.

    She'd had a male carer for five years, who had many tattoos, played her heavy metal and teased her about how much she loved to read. He'd disconnect her wheelchair in the middle of the road, then shout "I have the power!" as he re-connected it. He'd make her jump and then laugh.

      She had seen a documentary about a place like the Warehouse which was very bad and most staff who worked there had looked like him. If he'd been that bad at caring for her, why would he have stayed on to care for her for that long? Why had her parents loved him? Her mum cried when he left.

     She'd been to respite care. "Respite" meant short break. There, men had come with strange pictures on their arms and hairy faces, to talk of groups they had seen as hairy as they were –- groups that she loved –- of the things they had done that she'd never do; of all the illegal substances they had taken at her age.

     She had never seen the point of living in the flats; they were all self-contained, with kitchens she could never use; most occupants never needing or wanting to have any contact with those who lived in the main part of the Warehouse.