How you wish this story could've began with grandeur, a proud and free young woman setting about on her own quest. Something invigorating and refreshing for these times.
Yet it begins with a chopping board and winter vegetables.
Isolated from the rest of the community, your childhood home - a log cabin just north of Strawberry, was bitterly cold this one February afternoon. The wind outside was relentless, howling like a pack of rabid wolves - it's biting jaws freezing, and would gnaw at the skin of those who dared to work outside in it.
You had often found yourself staring through the window situated by the kitchen sink, the bleak and white winter sunlight offering some kind of dull, but natural light that contrasted with the harsh, dark interiors of the cabin.
Sometimes that house felt like a coffin, as if you had been boxed up and ready to be put six feet under since the age of 10. When your mother had left.
In some ways you hated the woman, despised her for getting away from all this - from this miserable existence and your father. Yet all the same you missed her terribly, and understood the reasons she left you be. She had no money, no idea where she was going and didn't want you in danger.
Yet was living with a man who's temper was worse than a grizzly any better than the fear of the unknown?
Sighing, you had sliced through the next vegetable aiming to play it's part in the soup. You recalled distinctly setting eyes on the small dirt track that led from the main path and up to the patch of land the cabin sat on - laying your (eye colour) eyes on the figure of your father, leading his Black American Standardbred horse Zeus up to the tethering post outside the home. His several rifles and shotguns hanging from his back, a mean and angry look on his weathered face as always was. His 6ft 3 bulky figure made even the more imposing in a thick leather and sheepskin lined coat, dark jeans and boots with spurs that jangled - the sound of it often bringing a sense of dread and anxiety to your gut.
That image of your father trekking up to the house stuck in your mind over the thousands of times you'd looked at his disgruntled mug... but this instance had prevailed so well because, not that you knew at the time, but it held a significance.
As he entered the cabin that afternoon, the hefty sound of weapons sounded on the table behind you. There was no polite greeting or friendly exchange. You were no more his daughter than you were his housemaid.
"When's dinner?" He barked, not so much a question and more of a command.
"Soon." You replied bleakly, the sliced carrots sliding from your palm and into the large pot sat upon the stove. Your eyes didn't dare to look back as you had felt your father take a seat at the table behind you. He sniffled occasionally, a runny nose from the harsh cold outside and the smell of outdoors - crisp air, earth and sweat prevalent about his person. He didn't feel human to you most of the time, with the way he acted and treated you - it was more reasonable to associate him with a bear or a wolf.
You'd prepared the soup in silence, chewing your cheek and going over the bitterness of this situation as you often did every few weeks.
You were practically a spinster now, at the age of 23, having being kept at home and forbidden to leave unless it was a trip to Strawberry for grocery shopping. Even then - you were accompanied and not allowed to talk to anyone. Your father had a strange and delusional fixation that if you knew the world beyond Strawberry, you would do as your mother did and take off.
With this hefty sadness and realization you were no free than a slave or a prisoner, you felt unable to obtain any sort of hope or happiness for the future. You had always been too scared to run, scared you would not know what to do or that your father would hunt you down - and if that happened, you might as well of kissed goodbye to your very existence.
-
You'd set the soup out at the table no more than half an hour later when your father informed you of a job he had tomorrow, riding out with some other men to protect a coach transporting a lockbox full of money to the bank. He conveyed this information with little enthusiasm or tone to his voice, and you listened as you always did, but uttered no word.
The only good thing about your father, it seemed, was his calling was in the industry of 'security'. He was a 'gun for hire' man; and the meaner they could get them these days - the better.
Your father often grizzled aggressively about the lawless criminals still clinging on the fibres of the old west - outlaws shooting down innocent folk in cold blood. It was a topic of rage for the man, and you often felt intimidated when he'd had a few whiskies and was barking out his distaste for the men who made his job what it was.
Things had felt no different that night, as the grouchy old git grumbled his way into his bed and disappeared into a deep snoring slumber that you had rather just gotten used to blocking out.
The dishes clinked in the soapy sink water, as your booted feet remained firmly planted on the wood floor, a few wet splashes from the dirty water on your wash skirt and simple white blouse. A silent chore, but none the less it offered time for your mind to think all the things it lost in fear when your father was around.
The day had felt like every other day, wishing and wondering and holding onto hopes that didn't really exist anymore - fumbling over the 'what ifs' that tormented you like badly behaved children. Yes... it all felt much the same, the cyclical motion of this torturous Merry-go-round.
But little did you know of how this life was about the turn; and how violently you would be thrown into the wheels of life.
And that's where the story really began.
A/N: sorry this is only short! It is only the Prologue and just for some context really but it took me a while to get into gear to start on this story.... I almost canned the idea as of last night but after playing RDR2 today I feel much more focused and inspired on what I want to do!
Once again I'm sorry this part is only short but more will be coming soon! ❤️
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Lift Your Eyes {Arthur Morgan x Reader}
Fanfiction(Red Dead Redemption 2 Story) '𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 - 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.' - From the author that brought you 'Playing Dangerous' You are the daughter of one of the most brutal, sought after 'Guns for Hire'...