~~~~~~~~~
I won't go, I won't sleep, I can't breathe
until you're resting here with me
I won't leave, I can't hide, I cannot be
until you're resting here with me
~Dido, "Here With Me"
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a weary woman of about 25. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but she was tired and the hairstyle hurt, so as she walked out, she pulled the rubber band out and shook her hair free, sighing as fuzzy headache lightened a bit.
Walking down the hallway, her black heels were muffled by the thick carpet on the floor. As soon as she got in her apartment, the first thing she would do was kick off those painful things. Then, she thought, a nice bubble bath to ease her strained muscles. A night at clubs with her friends was fun, but wearing tight party clothes and stilettos until 3 a.m. was not.
Stopping in front of a door marked 12E, she lifted up her bag and dug through its contents, frowning tiredly as her key eluded her. Finally, her fingers brushed against the cold metal, and she brought it out with relief. She inserted the key, turned, and pushed open the door.
Plunk, plunk. Her shoes, tossed immediately into the air, landed with muffled noise on the couch. She rubbed one aching foot, then the other, before reaching a hand out to the wall beside her in search of the light switch. She found it, and clicked it up, but nothing happened. Groaning, she clicked it down and up a few more times, still with no effect. Brow bunched in irritation, she walked a few steps ahead and groped around, eventually coming across a lamp. She pulled the metal chain, and the living room was illuminated in the lamp's cozy light. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned--
--and screamed. Her bag fell to the floor, contents spilling everywhere. In front of her, the wall was covered in deep red paint, still dripping. "FRAUD", "FAKE", "LIAR", written everywhere. Her kitchen was a mass of broken dishes and more paint. Something warm splattered on her forehead--shaking, whimpering, she raised a trembling hand to the moist spot, then looked up. The entirety of the ceiling was covered in the thick, dripping letters of one message: TIME TO PAY. She opened her mouth to scream again, and felt her breathing trapped as a large hand appeared from behind, clenching down over her nose and mouth. She tried to squirm away, to kick her assailant--a flailing arm knocked the lamp to the floor, drowning them in darkness. She continued to fight, but was stopped abruptly with a heavy blow to the head.
A thud echoed through the dark apartment.
~~~~~~~~~
She always ran, had been for nearly every day of her adult life. Technically it was a way to keep in shape--in reality, it was an hour-long escape from life.
Her posture as perfect as ever, all muscles working in unison to give the appearance of a sleek black bullet racing down the road. She always wore black when running -jogging was hardly appropriate for the workout she put herself through every day- and kept her dark hair in a ponytail tight enough to prevent any strands of hair from escaping.
This was the only time when she didn't have to think. Her father, the Centre, the newest scheme for capturing Jarod, all memories and worries were washed away. When she ran, there was no room for thought.
It was the only time when her usually acute senses were allowed to relax. It was the only time when she became oblivious to her surroundings.
Which is why she never realized that today, she was being watched.
He kept his distance, always making sure that his dark car blended in with whatever traffic there was, or walking in the trees, careful not to step on noisy dried leaves or fallen twigs. She'd been running for 40 minutes now, and though her face was beginning to sweat and her breathing was heavy, he knew she wouldn't stop. Not yet.
Her blue eyes gazing steadily forward, but obviously concentrated on something else, and her body still in perfect form, Parker turned, and ran off the country road, across a small meadowy area, and onto the beach. The sun had just risen, but it was already quite warm. They had the beach to themselves, just the seagulls, Parker and Jarod.
He'd known for a few years now that she needed this time away from the demanding Centre world, from her cruel family and the Ice Queen mask that she wore for protection against emotion. She needed it to survive the life they'd forced on her. And he knew that though she always began the same way, as if in attempt to follow a path, her mind would soon wander; then, there would be no set direction, and never a destination. The only constant, he realized, was that she never ran towards the Centre, always away from it.
~~~~~~~~~
She pushed through her front door, panting heavily, and slammed it shut behind her. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, she plopped down on the sofa, pressing the cool bottle against her forehead and neck, and relaxed.
Her cellphone rang.
Parker growled, ignored the shrill noise, then finally gave in to its insistent ringing, and answered with a snapped, "What?"
"Miss Parker--"
"Jarod, I think you're off. It's not two in the morning."
"This isn't a pleasure call."
"With you, is it ever? What do you want, Wonderboy?"
"We need to talk."
"Wrong. You need to come back to the Centre where you belong, and stop making my life a living hell."
"This is not the time to argue!"
"I agree," she declared firmly. "In fact, this isn't the time to talk at all." Without waiting for a reply, she deactivated the phone and tossed it aside, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. If this was a sign of things to come, today was not looking promising.
The phone rang again. She pointedly ignored it, standing and walking into the bathroom.
~~~~~~~~~
She walked out, a billow of steam following her, drying her hair with a thick towel. In her bedroom, her sight blocked by the towel, Parker began to get into Centre mode, thinking of the paperwork left over from last night. With a small disgruntled moan, Parker lifted the towel, brushed a hand through her wet hair, turned to throw the towel on the bed, and froze. "What the..."