The Story of Rose Finch
- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:16pm
Thread Topic: The Story of Rose Finch
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The postcard finally came today. Just one, a soggy one, laying flat in the kohl colored mailbox.
The colors of Paris were smeared like a rainbow took a dump on it, and didn't care to clean it up.
I wiped the rain-water off on my jeans and loped back to the house, swerving around famished potholes looking for a foot to swallow.
Once inside the dark, cool cavern of Richard's house, I took out the card. The picture was smeared, and unfortunately, so was the actual letter.
I could only make out a few words, but that's was enough to start my journey, and eventually have me here, telling this story.
Can't say.....watched...shouldn't....left....help....bye..... -
that's all i got write more latah
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o___o shizz we used teh same last name for our main charries in diffferent stories sowwy!!!!
but this ish really good!!! :D -
I like it so far
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I didn’t tell him I was leaving. I simply packed a rag-bag of most of my clothes, the rest I left where they lay, peeping out of a shackled bureau, strewn across the moldy carpet, or in his bed, next to his bare sleeping form.
In the fog of the dew coming off the grass and smog broiling in the city, I walked down a cracked sidewalk next to Burlesque lounges and medieval-themed hotels were last night love-makers and crack-heads crashed.
No one was out this early. The sun hadn’t yet come over the hills that cupped the cities in a humid basin, and no one would probably be out until ten, exception of bright-eyed tourists and homosexual men looking for an open café.
At the bus station I waited for it to open, then bought a ticket. It was one to the airport, to which I’d already purchased a one way ticket.
I would not be coming back to Hollywood. Even though it was my childhood dream. A place of dazzling lights advertising strip clubs and casinos, vividly painted hotels themed in different eras, and not so civilized civilians dressed in vintage cocktails dresses and tweed suits.
On a clammy bench that stuck to my legs, Richard sat down next to me. I had expected him to find me, since he needed a why.
“My mother, in Paris,†I said, looking into the smoky eyes I had once fell for many months ago.
He nodded into the Styrofoam cup that held his first of scores of coffee he would sip throughout the day.
I leaned against his shoulder, pretending I wasn’t about to go find my own mother, held hostage. I would gladly stay here, in the magical metropolis. Mother had left so long ago, I had forgotten about her. She had back-stabbed my father by running off with a fair-skinned, brunette haired Parisian.
Now I was going to find her.
The bus sped in, screaming to a stop and its brakes slowed the metal behemoth. In the mist of gas and the aroma of a caramel-macchiato, he grabbed my arms and pulled me to him. We kissed for the last time, and I climbed the bus steps. -
The next 10 hours were spent on travel.
When I finally arrived in "the city of love", I found a hotel, and slept away the last three hours until morning.
A crack in the drapes awoke me. Hot sunlight poured in my eyes, making my pupils shrink in protest. I shielded them and closed the drapes, looking at the hotel I hadn't really studied until this morning.
I had slept in a queen sized bed, pushed up against the wall opposite the window. The bathroom was on the other side of the wall that the bed was against and my rag-bag was thrown on the desk next to the bed.
I grabbed out one of my vintage slip dresses and went to the bathroom to take a shower.
As the water heated up I slipped the poctcard out of a pocket in my bag.
It was still smeared, but I could still see the letters that had brought me here in the first place.
Luckily, there was an adress.
Easy as...as....a murderer killing a baby? No, that's not it....stealing candy from a baby, yeah there we go....I like the murderer one better....
Finally, the water was warm and I stepped in, letting it run off my skin and warm my blood.
Walking down a city sidewalk, trying to find someone who knew a thing or two about this city. Smelling the grain and yeast of bakeries, seeing the infamous Eiffel tower, scraping the sky and lumbering over apartments and cafés.
And that's where I saw him, in a café, buying a coffee and sitting down at a metal table that wobbled on an uneven concrete block.
I approached him, hiding my face behind a pair of Aviators.
I couldn't believe I was feeling this way; nervous, like I had a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
I swallowed hard once, then twice to push away the feeling. It didn't work, so I approached him.
"Um....would you know were this place...er, address is?" I hated the way my voice sounded: shaky, like my knees.
It still astounded me, I was normally the outgoing, loud-mouth, who was always hitting on boys.
But this one was different, and I wasn't a little silly girl anymore.
I was 19, in Paris alone, practically an adult-
"Yes, but you'll have to have dinner with me first." I blushed, and hoped he didn't see it, "Met me back here at seven, yes?"
I nodded, then bought a coffee and sat with him for a while before I left to go sight-seeing.
It seemed wierd to be non-chalantly meandering around the city, acting like a happy tourist, and going out to dinner with a guy I just met, when my mom was probably tied up in a basement somewhere.
For chrissake's, I even left my soul-mate just to come here.
I sighed, and tossed a nickle into the many fountains I'd seen here, and wished that I'd easily know what was the right thing to do at a moment like this. -
It was 6:30, and I was getting ready in the bathroom at the cafe I had met him earlier today.
I had decided just to have dinner, then find my mother, and go home. Where-ever home was after this...
I swiped red lipstick across my thin lips, as was a fad here in Paris, and wiped my eye-lashes with charcoal mascara.
I tried to fluff my straight blonde hair, but immediately my brain screamed, Fluff, what?! You're hair doesn't fluff? Stop it!
I sighed and instead brushed it out with my fingers, then dug around in my bag to find one of my black satin dresses, full of little dangles and fringes.
I slipped it on then sat on a bench outside the cafe.
Five minutes later, he arrived. -
"Hello," he said, smiling down at me. Then he extended a long, tan arm, and I took his hand, grinning back. But on the inside, I was nervous, and my intestines were jumping around like frogs with hot sauce sprayed into their eyes.
We walked, and the frogs seem to quiet a bit. The lamp-posts were lit and it cast a warm glow and the street.
"So, we would you like to eat?" He looked down at me, his face clean-shaven and radiant, like their was a glow from inside him somewhere.
I shrugged, "I dunno, I just got here a day ago."
His French accent had me distracted. I was trying to dissect how someone could have an accent, and if I had one.
"Where do you-"
"Do I have an accent?" I blurted, then blushed. I probably was not a good foriegn date, and was not giving America a good reputation.
He laughed instead, "Yes, all of you foriegners do."
I was surprised at how good his English was, but we stopped.
We were in front of a large white stone apartment, dotted with windows and patios.
He pointed to a patio with a red pot and a bushy green plant growing in it.
"That one's mine," he said.
We walked inside a cold, marble lobby and took an elevator up to the fifth floor and walked down a long, dimly lit passage to his apartment.
That's when I saw it, the address. It was the same one on the postcard.
I froze, and he smiled.
"Come in, now." The French accent was gone, and his American tongue spit out words, hard and flat.
That's when I screamed, and I heard a door opened, but he grabbed me and pulled me into the dark and cold.
For the first time, I realized just what was happening. -
I cursed myself for the rest of the night as I sat there in a closet, my ankles tied to my wrists.
How could you be so stupid!!! My common sense screamed.
I have no idea...
The space was large, I had caught a glimpse of it before he threw me in here.
It was practically as large as my bedroom at the hotel, and I'm sure he could be hiding another body in here.
My mom's body.
"Mom..." I whispered. My voice was hoarse from shrieking two hours straight.
I heard momvement. The sound of heavy breathing, then the quieter sounds of beads clacking together.
It had to be her, she always wore neckalaces and slip-dresses full of silver beads and metallic dangles.
But she had always been healthy, how could she be breathing so hard.
As she crawled up from the back side of the closet, slowly to where there was some light by the door (which was where I was sitting) I saw her face.
It was like Picasso's Scream.
Her face was long and gaunt, like it had been stretched out over her stay here. Here cheekbones protruded out of her face like dangerous cliffs casting shadows on her sunken cheeks.
Her lips were barely distinguishable, hadn't it been for their slight tint of rose and flaking skin.
Her eyes were the worst. They sat under a dark overcast of thin eyebrows. Their blue waves were tossing and turning like in a hurricane, but all that was turning was sadness...
"Oh, Jesabelle," she gasped,pulling me into a hug.
It was surprising to hear my full name, let alone my name at all, for she had not said it in so long.
"How, what the hell are you doing here?" she asked, pulling back and wringing her hands, staring at the dark door like it might eat her alive.
"I came to save you," I said, a little to pruodly, and it fell flat, soundly like a childish TV show were everyone is saved at the end...
"Why?!" Her eyes searched mine for....I don't know what. A sense of sanity, or lunacy?
"Be-Because you sent me the postcard, remember?" I warmed my cold arms with my hands, rubbing them back and forth.
I hadn't realized how chilly it was in here.
Mom stared at me, here mouth agape. Then it morphed into a thin, hard line, and her hurricane eyes turned into a wildfire.
"That b------!" She screamed, putting emphahsis on the b------, "He sent you that postcard to drag you here! Now, we can't escape."
I fell silent.
How was I suppose to know?
Why is it always my fault?
How am I suppose to escape... -
"Rose Finch, Jesabelle Hawkings. Hmm, it semms you have two different names. Would you care to clarify on that?"
I was tied to a chair, seated in the middle of the room. It seemed he liked to give all his new victims an interrogation before he....what? I actually had no reason to be afraid, I didn't know what he was going to do.
Or maybe that was a reason to be afraid...
I decided that just answering would get me out of here faster. After, he wouldn't be doing this just to watch me sit here, silently.
I would probably get slapped, or spit on like in Western flicks or NCIS dramas.
"Rose Finch is my name I use in my band, Jesabelle is my real name."
Already I was sure I'd said to much. Now that he had my real name, he would have the information to find where I live...But he sent the post-card....
"Where did you use to live, before you came here?" He was pacing back and forth before me, twirling a pencil, which a found odd.
Aren't "kid"-nappers or serial killers suppose to be twirling something more scary, like a gun or knife?
But a gun would be pretty hard to twirl...
"Hm-hmmm, I'm waiting for an answer."
"Hollywood, California...uh, United States?"
He bobbed his head, then smiled a devilish grin.
"Before I get to the last question, would you like to play some games?"
It caught me off guard. Games? Like Candy Land, Scrabble, Parcheesi?
I nodded, another one of my futile mistakes.
"Okay," he said, grinning, "You are going to be the board, and I'm going to be the player..."
Then he stood over me and started kissing me!
I pulled back in my chair, but it was no good.
I screamed then, a loud piercing shriek.
And around the corner came mom, carrying a ivory-handle, silver-bladed knife.
I sighed relief and he thought I was actually like it! But then mom tapped him on the shoulder, and I smiled.
He would be dead, and we were saved!
But instead, he simply zipped up my pants and his, and took the knife from mom, whom he kissed in front of me.
And she didn't pull away.
It all came together then.
The postcard, how he knew me, my name.
My had told him, and now, they were going to kill me.
"Alright babe, let's get this over with," mom said roughly, holding the knife out to him.
I saw my reflection in the knife, a girl in a cocktail dress, straight blonde hair that didn't fluff and a failure of a life about to end now... -
It happened so fast. As his rough, evil hands reached up to take the thing that would end me, mom ended him.
She thrust in right under the bone in his left shoulder. Blood oozed from his nose, then from his mouth, onto the beige carpet where he lay. He shuddered for a moment, like he was having a siezure, and then he was still, he eyes staring straight ahead.
My mom was still holding the knife out in front of her, breathing hard.
And once again, I saw it all from a different perspecitive.
Mom had been trapped here, she brought me as bait and pretended to him to be his little partner and crime.
But when then time came to kill me, she had it all planned out.
"Mom, that was amaz-"
"I'm sorry, Jesabelle. I shouldn't have you, or your father. I wasn't fit to be a mother, even now I'm not..."
Then she took her own life. She plunged the knife into her heart, straight into it, with a wet thump.
I cried. Cried like I've wanted to all these years after mom left me, I left Richard, I had a dead-end job, and no one to hear my cries.
I got up then, wiped away my tears with my long fingers, and walked out the door.
I got a one way ticket back to Hollyway, where I started my new career....
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