Who is Miranda Clark? (Part Three)

In the beginning, my days trapped in this prison were like my worst nightmares. They constantly jabbed me with needles, taking blood and testing the effects of various sedatives on me. They kept me restrained constantly because I had no desire to stay locked in this lair full of kidnappers.

Every time they left me alone, I would fight against my bonds but all I ended up with was bloody wrists and ankles. But before long, they just sedated me until I would calm down. Having your strength taken away so easily by just the prick of a needle really erodes your will to keep fighting.

Every time they sedated me, my mind couldn’t filter or compartmentalize all the information stored and it would rapidly jump through everything. All the masses of thoughts crowded in and I couldn’t even keep my mind on a linear track. It started to make me crazy and eventually I gave up resisting. I calmed down and let them believe I would bend to their will. For ten years I have been waiting for my chance to escape.

Once they had run all their tests, they discovered I wasn’t influenced by any outside factor. I was just born this way. I was solely unique and that made me more valuable to them. They couldn’t risk letting me go.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (In The Midst)

I stand in the middle of this crowd of humanity. They pass me by with barely a glance as they move along to the rest of their day. They bump into my still form and don’t stop to acknowledge me.

The crowd continues to thicken.

My mind clutters with frustrated thoughts at how invisible I have become. Boiling blood pulses through my veins and my eyes burn with white-hot anger. I desire to lash out at the carless bodies around me, but I can’t seem to move.

My mind is a cauldron of irritated contemplation, but my body is as frozen as an ice cube. I try to reveal my annoyance, but I can’t. I just can’t move. I can’t show them how they torture me. I just physically can’t.

I plaster the fake smile on my face and they don’t even take a second glance. They only worry about themselves, they are only human.

The crowd swarms like buzzing bees, but I fade into the background in the midst of all these people.

Daisy in the Black Abyss (Part Two)

My survival instincts are kicking into over-drive. I force my hands in opposite directions. The rope stretches a fraction of an inch. Hope flares but is quickly extinguished by the burn igniting on my wrists. Rubbed raw, my arms weaken. I feel the oozing of blood from my tender skin and my strength begins to die once more.

 Tears fill my eyes again and I start to wonder what I had done to land me here, where I will surely die…

A few hours earlier…

Wide awake in the middle of the night, I decided to take one of my customary walks in the dark streets. Adrenaline pumped through me as I stepped out into the alley behind my apartment complex. Deserted and eerie, the alley beckoned to me to take a visit because of the dangers it could hold. Excitement rushed up my spine and I gladly took a step from the safety of my home.

I aimlessly walked from alley to alley and street to street. I took in the sight of the city with the glow of a few street lights. The orange glow illuminated my path and how quiet the streets were.

I kept up the same steady pace until I stumbled upon the first real sign of danger I had seen that night…

Photoshopping

Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Find A Voice)

I write in the hope that I will impact someone. If I only managed to reach out to one person, I would be satisfied. I just want to mean something to someone.

I want to leave a mark. Start a legacy. Leave a trial.

Just do something.

But in the end, isn’t that what we all want? How do I have any right to think that I am so much better than the next guy and that I should be known for something? There are tons of people out there better at anything I could do, so why do I try? Why do I think someone could care?

Nonetheless, I keep trying. I will keep pushing forward, trying to perfect my work, just so maybe, on the off-chance anyone is paying attention, I could make a difference.

No Way Out (Part One)

A scream ripped through her lungs. Her throat burned. Her vision started to fade. Fear permeated every fiber of her body. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Her voice wavered. The scream emanating from her lips was cut off suddenly.

The sharp blade pierced her delicate skin. The warm trickle glided down her pale neck. The blood stained her skin. Her life poured out from the wound.

Black spots dotted her sight. Her head felt increasingly heavier by the moment. Her eyes slid closed. Her head drooped. Consciousness abandoned her.

Her pale skin lost all of its vibrancy. Her light hair mingled with the sticky blood rushing out of the deadly cut. Her clothes soaked up the thick liquid like an arid sponge. One last breath escaped from her lips in a shallow burst. Her body crumpled in weakness.

The sharp blade slipped from his hand. The noise of it hitting the floor vibrated the silent room. His satisfaction slipped around him, warming his bones. A slight smile slipped across his face. He couldn’t stop starting at her stiffening form.

The sirens wailed in the distance. They didn’t break him from his trance. His mind had twisted into insanity and his common sense had long since abandoned him. He heard the police break down the door, but it seemed so far away.

They shoved him to the ground. Slapped cuffs on his skinny wrists. Forcefully they pulled him up. Dragged him into the back of an awaiting police car and slammed the door in his face.

Not until his line of sight to the massacre he had boldly created was severed, did he finally fight against his imprisonment. He allowed his spastic limps to pummel the cushion seats around him. His breath sped up and his heart raced in his slender chest. His eyes frantically searched for an escape, until they could find none. He gave up and snapped his own neck.

Adalia Zephan (from: No Way Out)

Adalia Zephan is the daughter of a wealthy Irish businessman. She has lived her whole life showered in everything she wants. Nothing has been impossible for her. She has some shallow moments, but she has a good heart. Her father instilled a set of high morals in her and she hates to see cruelty.

She is involved in a charity to help girls who have been forced into the sex trafficking business and she empathizes with people easily. She studied psychology in college and now tries to help the girls that were rescued from the imprisonment.

She is a risk-taker because she hasn’t really ever gotten into a situation that her father’s money couldn’t buy her out of. But she gets in over her head when she helped ruin the success of a few pimps and they want revenge.

Adalia has thick light blonde hair and green eyes. She has an easy smile and dimples on each cheek. Her skin is flawless and it’s a beautiful shade of ivory. Her nails are always perfectly manicured (one of the many perks to her father’s riches) and she loves to have them polished in any shade of pink (her favorite color). She is 5’8’’ and shaped more like a stick than an hour-glass, but she is very beautiful nonetheless.

She always wears a braided bracelet of yellow, blue, and green embroidery floss that her mother helped her make when she was a child. It is the only thing she has left of her mother, aside from the very few memories she has before her mother died. The bracelet is the most inexpensive thing Adalia owns, but it is her most prized possession.

When Adalia is feeling sad (even if it is feeling sorry for others), she fidgets with the fringe at the tied-off end of her bracelet.

Strengths: Empathetic, Confident, Kind, Trusting, Courageous

Weaknesses: Naïve, Impulsive, Spoiled

Photography

Baggage Claim (Part Four)

Chance ducked to avoid the fist homing for his face. In the same motion, he tackled his adversary. They both tumbled to the ground and Chance pinned the other man down. Not ready to lose the fight, the man struggled against Chance’s weight, but Chance threw a few disorienting blows to the man’s face. Bloodied and near unconsciousness, the man slumped under Chance and gave up the battle.

“Now that you’re finally ready to answer my questions, where is he keeping Genevieve?” Chance demanded.

“I’m not telling you anything!”

Chance back-handed the weaker man and tried once more, “tell me where they are keeping her or I will help your employer stumble on the drugs you have skimmed from his stash.”

A flash of fear crossed the man’s eyes and all the information Chance wanted to know poured out of him. Satisfied, Chance knocked the man unconscious and raced to rescue Genevieve.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Scream for a Voice)

Millions of people live in this world. They all have a voice. They all are shouting out to be found, just like me. They are all desperately searching for their niche.

I yearn to be an individual that can’t be identified with anyone else, but how can I? How can I be my best, but still be not as good as someone else out there? What do I have to offer? How can I change this vast world when I only have my weak voice?

All my intelligence will never be greater than that prodigy kid who outshines the whole nation. My artistic ability will never be considered comparable to any of the famous painters of the past. My musings and scribbles of stories will never be considered a great work of literature. So what can I do?

As these questions swarm my mind, I forget the vast majority of people living are thinking these same things. We all want to belong in this world that craves cookie-cutter-copies. Are we all just day-dreaming?

With all these lost people floating around, trying to flee their life, we all become so introspective and selfish. So often I can’t look past my own desires and emotions that I forget my calling to forget myself, which is the hardest thing that could be asked of me.

Baggage Claim (Part Three)

Genevieve jolted awake from her nightmare into another. Her face was pressed against the rank ground that smelled like a zoo. She cringed and attempted to push herself up, but her sore muscles protested.

Slow, distant footfalls grew louder until they stopped a few feet away from her cell. She heard his evil sneer as she squeezed her eyes closed, hoping he wouldn’t notice her consciousness.

“Ready to decide?” The voice spewed out.

Genevieve forced her fears away once more and opened her eyes to glare at him. “I would rather die than become your prostitute again.”

“Such a waste of a quality piece of meat...”

The pin-pricks of the Taser needles pierced her skin and the violent vibrations of electricity rocked her back into unconsciousness.