#ddcdevelopment1

Nothing bothered her about the train or the people on it, it was just simply she wanted to go home; A pull back to the beaches and water and swamps that she adored. 

It was sort of like a game at the Carnival. Figure out which line the customers wanted to bite, feed it to them whether it be riches or love or fame or how special they were, and then give them all she could pick out just by looking at them, all wrapped in pretty paper, making them sound so much better than they were. And then once the game was over, she’d run back home like she used to when she was a child, barefoot with hair wild and ready to ramble off to her mother all she had done in great, excited detail.

Except this game was lasting longer than the others, much longer, and the rules weren’t as complicated as she liked

It wasn’t a bitter realization, it was simply fact. And if those facts were what was going to help her survive, then she’d accept it.

People were easy to read on their own. Most times, she didn’t need to read the bones or cards or palms. She hardly had to touch them to know what to give them, what they were after. What did it matter if it was a waste of what she had learned? As long as the money kept coming in, she had somewhere to stay. And she knew these circumstances were much better than the alternatives.

She was leaning on the railing at the very end of the train, watching the scenery of wherever they were go by.  Seven years in this country and she still wasn’t sure where she was off the top of her head when they traveled. Another thing to add to prove she was a foreigner, but that aspect of herself brought people with money and helped keep those she had in the Carnival around her.

She’d been taught from a young age to use what she had to get by. Adapt to what there was, figure out how to talk to people, find what they kept secret and keep it close in case it was needed.

“Not many can be trusted, Tia.” Her mother had told her.  

Tia felt the involuntary smile on her mouth but couldn’t make it go away. Drumming her fingers on one hand on the railing, she played with one of her necklaces idly with the other.

She wondered if maybe soon she could go home. If she just decided she’d had enough and left one night. The only thing keeping her here was herself, it was the only thing Scar had against her if she ever acted out to the point of being a problem. But if she left voluntarily, there was nothing they could do, there was nothing to hold her against her.

The problem was, herself was what got her in this mess in the first place and returning home, even after seven years, was still a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

She scoffed. Her practice was her practice, just because others didn’t understand it – but that was always the thing. The unknown was terrifying. If a person couldn’t grasp it, if they couldn’t understand it right away, it was a threat. And he had used that against her and it had cost her more than she’d been willing to pay.

She sighed, already pushing those thoughts away. Now wasn’t the time to feel sorry over it. What was done was done and all she needed now was to be patient.

As she twisted the wooden ring around her middle finger, she remembered how her mother had given it to her for her birthday the year before Tia fled. The hand carved etchings in it were meant to symbolize life and balance, something very important to her mother and in time, very important to Tia.

“We cannot go t’rough life expecting ta get only our way an’ give nutting in return.” Her mother had told her. “We be good peopal, we be kin’ to othas, we do what we mus’, and life will work out in our favor. Dat is dee only payment we need from de spirits.”

Her mother had been a beautiful woman. Tall and graceful, with dark, soul seeing eyes that saw past the lies and the hatred in the world. “Der is always somet’ing more ta see in a bad time, my littal one. We only hafta look.”

Tia tapped her fingers on the railing again. If she was more like her mother, she’d probably be a better person, but if she had been without her mother, a lot of things would have turned out differently.  Mm. At this point, she didn’t know which she preferred.

But to be fair, Tia had grown into what her mother had helped mold. She’d inherited her mother’s quick mind and strong spine. Both were natural flirts, a curse of the women of the family, and both had the gift of seeing people for what they really were. They had worked together to help the people of Barbados and those who had come to them from across the sea. Tia had learned the basis of everything she knew from her mother, a strong foundation of how to heal with one hand and curse with the other.

Balance.

She glanced around her surroundings, the world still flying by in greens and browns, surrounded by earth with no bodies of water in sight. No comforts at all.

Her mind idly wondered how long it would be before things began to change. For her or the carnival or the people she now shared air with. Things never stayed the same. Get comfortable, get used to things, and then life decided everything needed to change. Or perhaps it was the decisions people made. Both were equally intertwined.

Tia’s own decisions had caused plenty of problems and had solved many problems. Lessons in each decision, more words her mother had told her. Tia scoffed softly. If she had listened more to those words, maybe she’d still be home in Barbados, doing what she had been born to do rather than selling her gods given talents to people who didn’t believe.

Sometimes when he thought about it, New York wasn't too different from the Carnival. It was busy. Messy. Someone was always getting hurt because they'd fucked up somewhere down the line. Drugs got passed around like candy and he wasn't going to say no if someone needed their fix. Scar didn't have to know. He'd managed to keep that Lucifer bitch off his trail.

The real difference between then and now is the experience he had and the jobs he was expected of. Back home Oogie didn't have spotlight. He didn't have cheers and applauds. He'd had his shitty apartment and a group of guys that he'd occasionally wander down into the alley to see. They kept him entertained. They kept him from digging into his merchandise. Blowing his money off on some pointless shit. But he couldn't say they were his friends. He didn't have friends. Friends gave you weaknesses. Friends got in the way of your own success.

But his distaste for them didn't mean that he'd never had any. Oogie had had only person he could ever admit that he'd been close enough to call a friend. He'd been maybe fourteen. Sitting on a park bench with a bloody nose and a black eye, picking out the blood from beneath his nails. Bullies. Something he didn't tolerate but he'd had to deal with. From nowhere a kid, older than him, dressed in dirty and baggy clothes. Passed him a joint and a lighter and said he'd looked like shit.

Name's Roach. He'd said. Roach. Fuckin' dumbass. Couldn't tell an ounce from a God damned pound but he knew a thing or two about how not to fuck yourself over in a business. He'd taught Oogie pretty much everything from how to roll a joint to how to shoot a gun. The first time he'd ever rolled in a drive by, Oogie could remember how the gun recoiled in his hand. How it'd hurt but he'd hit his target straight between the eyes. Roach had been proud of him then, clapped him on the back.

Roach had even given him his own fucking nickname. The Oogie Boogie Man. Oogie could remember he'd started calling him that from the way he'd tuck himself under the bed whenever he'd stay the night at Roach's house. But it hadn't been long after that he'd started living up to the name. He was a cold salesman and an even colder murderer and Oogie hadn't given two shits who's blood had spilt as long as he was alive and he had Roach to look up to.

Oogie leaned back on his bed, the train silent for the evening. How long had it fuckin' been since he'd thought about that asshole? Since his funeral? Sometime after that? Even now after some fourteen years after Roach's death it still stirred some sort of sick feeling in his stomach. But now the nausea was mixed with a sort of self loathing. Fuck him. Roach had died and Oogie had lived on with that fucking nickname he'd given him. Oogie couldn't even remember what his real name was.

"Christ." He mumbled into the dark, hands rubbing at his tired eyes and after a few more minutes he gave in and reached under the mattress, a bag of pot in his hands. He couldn't risk the heavier stuff while they were stopped but he only needed something to get his mind back on other things. He didn't need this shit.

 Push a kid out of a two story window? Not a problem. Flood the hallway and trap people to open their doors and answer to a face full of questionable substance he found in the garbage? Not even an inkling of remorse. Blow the windows out of the old, abandoned might he add, building in Honolulu? That shit was fucking great, the explosion was phenomenal, who cares the damage he’d done?

Apparently the police, but they were uptight fuckwads anyway.

The list went on for ages, a glorious track record that spanned years. Incident after incident, torment and pain he’d enjoyed causing. So why the fuck was now the time he wanted to pick apart everything he had done to make her look like that? Why did he want to fucking know why there was this stupid ass gape under his sternum?

He stood, agitated as hell, pacing his empty car. It didn’t make sense, what was the point? He did something, it went to shit, get over it, it had happened before. Remember that time he had gotten caught spray painting his masterpiece on the wall? With spray paint and a lighter? Yeah, they put him in jail for that one. Still couldn’t believe he’d been caught. It was lucky he’d been able to break out - okay, luck was giving them too much credit; who left the key in such easy reach? - otherwise the train would have left him behind and his brothers would be dead meat without him.

Though, those were the small things. Obviously, he didn’t need to feel bad about those because those were nothing. Other things, eeeeehhhhhh, psychology said he should feel bad for pinning a stupid bitch against a wall, this close to breaking her collar bone to teach her a lesson and because he could. It also said he should have felt bad for wanting to snatch another girl’s (yeah, girl. Bitch should have known better than to have spread her legs without protection) baby and smash its head in because it wouldn’t shut the goddamn fuck up. He probably should also feel bad for frightening another girl by swiping his blood (that she had made him bleed when he hadn’t fucking been doing anything to her and that was God’s truth) across her cheek and threatening to hold her underwater in the ocean so the sharks would eat her. They could smell a drop of blood in the water anywhere from one to three miles away, you know. The second sandbar wasn’t even a mile, she’d have been put out of her misery soon enough.

So then why the fuck truck was he feeling sorry about hurting some girl’s feelings?

This was ridiculous. It was stupid. They came and went. They liked the bad boy, they got their attention or their sex and then the itch had been scratched and they left which was how he liked it anyway so there wasn’t a big deal to make about it.

So what if Roxie had been around longer than them. She was forced to, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Well, she could go home, but who the fuck wanted to go back there? They were all on the train for some bullshit reason or other, most of which involved running away from something, cops, enemies, family –

Son of a bitch.

He turned around and swiped everything he and his brothers had piled on their meager dresser and sent it all crashing to the floor.

Son of a goddamn bitch.

She had no connection to this. None. Fuck you. She wasn’t here, she had never been there, she wasn’t a part of this –

Leroy slammed his hand against the wall and left behind a dent. Fuck it.

She had never been there. She’d left him alone with one brother and then two and hadn’t given him a backwards glance since he had been five.

He had cooked for his brothers burnt and shitty meals until he could bully Reu (who had a knack for it) into cooking. He’d been the one to get him and Reu ready for school. He’d been the one to get Reu to school. He and Reu had kept brat boy the third under lock and key for when their dad’s experiments went wrong and he turned his attention to Mistress Bottle. He had been the ones to protect his brothers, to get between them and whatever threatened them with teeth bared and stupid threatening noises guys do. She hadn’t done shit. She let it happen. Cos she was never around. Only when they had been young, each of them in turn, and then she was gone again and fuck.

He threw punches at the walls of the car, one after another, until he couldn’t feel his knuckles anymore and they were a bloody mess.

Fuckin’ bitch, fuckin’ everything up, even when she wasn’t around. It would have been too much to spend time with her children, her boys as she called them to other peoples’ faces but when they turned away all that was left was Leroy with a brother in each hand and a never motherfucking ending stream of thought that wondered why the fuck he couldn’t make her stay.

It had been a constant battle with himself that he could never win.

He had done something wrong.

She never cared.

Maybe if he had not thrown that tantrum.

Stupid bitch was flighty.

Was it some weird test?

Yeah, real smart of her, leaving three young boys by themselves. Real responsible, cunt.

Was it too much to ask for his mother to be there like she had when he had been younger?

He picked up the first breakable thing his hands could find and he threw it at the wall. It didn’t even break, the goddamn asshole, just bounced off the wall and onto the floor. So much for this fucking strength he had built and relied on.

He sat back on his bed, curling over himself and yanking at his hair as he squeezed his eyes and tried to get his thoughts under control. They were going so fast, fucking couldn’t keep up but he could and what was going on?

Roxie was angry with him. He’d fucked up. The last time he had fucked up. He’d been alone. Fend for yourself. If he keeps fucking up – there’s no point. Might as well stay away. Business. As usual. That’s all anything ever was. But Roxie was angry. She’d get over it and move on. Everyone else did. Because that’s the way life works. And the world keeps on spinning round and round and who cares if any of us fall off.

Go outside, face people. Stay inside, face everything else.

There were things to consider, to think through. There always was if you wanted to make it through anything. He had a job to do. Brothers to care for.

He ran his hands through his hair a few times. There was practice to rehearse – not on the train. Something might catch fire and that would be a swell thing to talk to Scar about. And Zira. Ha, Zira, bet he could take her in a fight.

He looked up and focused on dark flecks in the wall and could feel his brain shutting down, the train of thought slowing until there was nothing but his own pulse in his ears.

The world outside the dark room - which had turned out to be a closet - was not as bright as he had originally thought it to be. There were no windows in this room but oddly there seemed to be some light source coming from somewhere that he couldn't see. It was.... Stitch whimpered softly as he recognized the room. It was his old bedroom back on Kaua'i. He could remember the placing of the beds, what little toys he had as a child strewn about the room, the bookshelf, the closet. Glancing over at the beds he found that two of them were messy, unmade. The bed which had been his own was still neat. What chilled his very soul was the splotches of red across the room. The sharp, coppery smell was pungent in the room, like cooking blood, tainting his memories in a way that made him want to sob.

Stitch had never been squeamish, nor did he have a problem with blood but the smell of it, the way the trail seemed to look as if something had been dragged along the floor. He wanted to crawl back into the closet but something pulled him forward. Something told him to continue on and it wouldn't let him go. His breath quivered, steps ever hesitant as he neared the door to the bedroom. It opened with the same terrible sound that had come from the closet door and it did nothing to quell his growing sense of dread. He could remember this space. Barely. Their home had been two stories. Three rooms at the top floor. A bathroom, one for the boys and one for..... He avoided looking down towards the other door, afraid he would find it open. Instead he neared the staircase, using one hand on the banister, the other stiffly at his side as he descended, cautious. He was in the lions den and he was very aware of it. With each step his bare feet stepped into some thick substance that felt sticky and wet on the bottoms of his feet. He didn't dare look down to see what it was, keeping his eyes closed and feeling his way down. The metallic smell had not yet cleared the air.

At the bottom of the staircase his feet hit wet carpet. It was soaked though he didn't really want to know with what. His eyes cracked open and he was nearly relieved to find that the white carpet had not been turned to maroon, but rather a moldy grayish green colour. The blue wallpaper was peeling before his eyes, the wall rotten and expelling a stench that didn't quite mask over the metallic one. From the ceiling came the dripping of water, the leaks dotting in random spots and on himself, making him shiver. The couch was torn to shreds, the coffee table completely smashed in half as if something heavy had come down upon it. Stitch tried to keep his breathing steady as he studied the room. Whenever he breathed out a puff of smoke would appear, like he was freezing. As if crossing a mine field, his steps were slow. Cautious. He inched his way towards the front door, the rotten wood giving in a little when he pushed against it, but not opening for him. This wasn't the way out of here. "Shit..." The sound of his own voice nearly made him jump. It felt out of place in this room where the only sound was the 'drip drip drip' of the water falling from the ceiling. "Get a hold of yourself." He mumbled, fists clenching as his words formed smoke in the cool air of the room.

He had to try somewhere else.

He didn't want to be here anymore.

The carpet squelched under his feet, his stomach turning as he spotted the red footprints in the ruined carpet that could have only come from his own feet. The carpet gave way to hardwood as he stepped into the hallway. In front of him was the kitchen. To the left another bathroom. To the right, a hall closet and a spare bedroom at the end. Maybe he could try the back door through the kitchen? Perhaps it would still be open for him. The state of the living room did not seem to follow in the rest of the house. Nothing was rotting in here except whatever meat was in the fridge. Stitch could hear the buzzing of flies. He crossed in front of the island counter, towards the back door, insistent on trying it for himself. Of course when he turned the knob it did not give in the slightest. The house seemed to be taunting him. "Please..." He whispered, his forehead resting against the door. He stayed there for what felt like hours before he heard it. Something falling to the floor behind him. He jumped, turning in fright and he pressed his back against the door. In front of him was what looked like a body. Squinting through the darkness, whose body it was was very clear.

"Reu?" His voice broke as he called for his brother. There was no movement from him. "Reuben?"

Stitch's hands shook as he neared the body and as he turned his brother over. Reuben looked swollen, bloodied, his skin black and purple in various places, teeth chipped. He felt like a limp ragdoll as Stitch pulled him into his lap. "No. No no no no, don't do this to me, asshole." His brother's skin felt like ice as Stitch cradled him in his lap and it made him sick. He wanted to scream, cry, anything but it wouldn't come. This couldn't be real. He could close his eyes and when he counted to ten everything would be normal again. But no matter how many times he tried this he'd always open his eyes to Reuben's corpse in his arms. Stitch's eyes burned looking at him. He was sorry he wasn't there for him like he and Leroy had always been for him. They were always his shields and this is what had become of it. This was his fault.

"Leroy!" Stitch called out for his eldest brother, his voice coming out in a broken sob. He received no answer. It made his skin crawl but he carefully set his brother back down on the floor. He had to get to his feet. He had to keep moving. At that moment a rumbling sound came from the living room and Stitch raced forward in time to watch the body of his eldest brother tumble the rest of the way down the stairs and land at his feet. His breath caught in his throat as he pushed back, against the rotten wall, a scream on his mouth that wouldn't come out. His eyes flicked up to the top of the steps. A shadow cloaked figure stood at the top and oh so casually began making it's way down, towards him. He couldn't move.

"Y-you....Y-...." He stammered, frightened.

"The beds were not made." The voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

"You killed them..."

"They deserved to be punished." The figure stopped in front of him, glaring at him. "And you." It spat. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your fucking room clean?"

"I-I'm sor-" He was cut off mid sentence as the figure before him backhanded him across the face. Only when it grabbed him by the hair did Stitch start to struggle, wanting to fight back, wanting to avenge his brothers. But every shot he took, every bite, they seemed to go right through the thing holding him. It tossed him aside like he was trash and he landed on his hands and knees, to his horror, in water that was already up to his elbows. He was frozen until a kick to his side sent him rolling. In fear he kept his head above the water until hands came down around his throat to hold him under. The water was freezing but his lungs burned with the need for air. His hands grasped at what they could but ultimately were useless in trying to pry anything off of him. His eyes wide, watching the figure above him. Watching as it killed him. He couldn't breathe. Vision fading....

He jerked awake, sitting up and gasping for air. A cold sweat covered him but it wasn't the cause of his shivers. His hands came up to his face, over his arms and his chest to make sure that yes, he was here. Not in a pool of rotten water. He rested his face in his hands. The dreams weren't getting any better. How long would he keep having to do this? He felt wetness on his hands and as he pulled up a little he could tell straightaway it was from tears. Shit. He quickly swiped them away as if they were acid and glanced beside him.

His brothers were fine. Sleeping. They were all fine and far away from his nightmares. Stitch took a heaving breath and with some difficulty, managed to loosen himself up enough to lay back down. 

---

The door slammed, jarring him awake. He rubbed his face belatedly, groaning as he sat up, and ignoring his piece of shit brother lying in the other bed. He shuffled out of his room and into the hallway, pulling the ill-fitting pajama bottoms further up on his hips and re-tightening the string.

He mentally cursed himself as he shuffled out into the kitchen, leaning down and pulling out a pan from the cupboards next to the oven. He should have been up earlier. Should have started breakfast before Mother got home. He cracked the eggs into the bowl, pouring in the milk, and began whisking briskly, trying to get it at least on the stove before she finished getting off the whore makeup she wore in the evening and putting on the whore makeup she wore in the morning. Some of the mixture slopped onto the counters. He'd clean that. He just needed to get this done first.

He'd just barely finished pouring the start of the scrambled eggs into the pan and putting it in the sink when his mother sauntered in. Her hair was done, but messy. She probably hadn't bothered to fix it since last night.

She walked over, and he turned around, pleased to be able to tell her that he was making breakfast for her and that it would be done in a minute, pleased to say that for once, even though he'd fucked up, he hadn't really fucked up, when she reached over and ran her finger through the yellow liquid on the counter. "What is this?"

He hesitated, forgetting to remember to keep turning the eggs lest they burn, his heart rabbit-hopping in his ribcage. "It's...." He didn't finish, watching as she licked the mixture off her finger, suddenly hoping she'd get salmonella and die.

"You spilled."

"I was going to clean it up. The eggs are going to--"

"You spilled."

"I'll clean it up, I promise Mother."

She stared at him another minute, then violently wrenched the handle of the pan from his hand, and threw the entire thing at the floor. His eyes burned painfully and he almost choked as it hit his foot. But he shrank away, against the cabinetry.

"You'll clean it up now." Five calm words, then she was walking out the door in a dress that was far too short for a woman her age and heels that were fall too tall.

He didn't dare move until he'd cleaned it up, for fear she'd come back. Then he bolted to the bathroom, stumbling over the threshold and throwing his weight back on the door behind him.

His fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles as white as the porcelain, till he could feel the bile in his throat going back from where it came.

He  looked down, peeling the thin fabric up, the burning in his throat coming back at the red splotches from the not-so scrambled eggs.

He’d just tried to make the dumb slut breakfast. Stupid. It was fucking stupid. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. Why should he have to make her breakfast? Weren’t parents supposed to let the kids lie in bed till noon, then make breakfast for them? That’s what seemed the normal for the kids at school. Where was his normality? In having second-degree burns before breakfast? Yeah. That was pretty normal for him actually.

His gaze rolled up to stare at himself in the mirror, his expression dark, but he focused on something else. Her eyes. They were her eyes. Amber. He’d been born with her goddamn eyes, and yet Kovu was more of a son to her than him. So what if Kovu’s eyes were the same colour as the bastard’s that had pumped into her?

He didn’t realized he’d hit the mirror till it was quivering under his fist and his knuckles were sending sharp distress signals to his brain to stop hurting them.

He heaved in a breath, straightening his back, still staring at the mirror. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. His gaze locked as the skin peeled away. Rotted flesh. Ivory bone. The skin slid and slithered away from his flesh, revealing an open chest cavity. Dead, blackened heart. Eyes bulging at him. Amber.

---

He sat straight up, the curve of the train disorienting him in the dark. He squinted into the night filled car, not realizing for a moment how tightly tangled in the sheets he was. With some wriggling, he broke free from the sheets, feeling as if a frightened rabbit was pounding around in his chest, and he clutched at his chest, trying to grab it and hold it still for a moment.

He felt like he was going to vomit in the oppressive heat of the room. The car had to stop tossing him out of his bed. It wasn’t doing him any good.