Caught In The Ashes

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  • Published: 7 Jun 2013
  • Updated: 2 Jul 2013
  • Status: Complete
Desma Lee is dead. She died for being a witness to something so controversial that the authorities would kill for it to stay hidden. *For the Inspired By A Song competition based on the song Pompeii by Bastille*

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4. Chapter 3

I lied.

I did live in Los Angeles, however, not in the traffic-filled center of it. I lived in the smaller, far-off district of Los Astres, west of the big city. Still technically part of the city, but big enough to have its own police force.

Crazy, huh?

At my school breaking into that police department was like a rite of passage. Official cool kid zone. It’s not like I wanted to be a popular, I was perfectly content to be a no-one, but something dangerous had seeped into my veins that night. Something that propelled me to want to enter that forbidden department.

And like you already know, I got what I wanted.

*

Lucien and I had gotten rather close after our meet-and-eat at McDonald’s. We lived together, scavenged together, and if it was necessary, killed together.

Yes, I committed the act of murder. So in a roundabout way, I deserved to die.

Anyway, we always stayed in Paris. Never had we left. We sat by the TV at night, waiting for our faces to appear on the news, waiting for our signal to run. But it never came.

“I was so sure they’d put our faces on the news,” Lucien breathed after the eleven o’clock news concluded weeks after we met. He switched the set off, the dark swirling around us. The Parisian lights twinkled below us, their brightness rivaling the stars’.

Their brightness rivaling my inner fire, my need to live.

“Me too,” I agreed, “Especially after-“ I didn’t finish the sentence. Lucien’s arm wound my shoulders protectively and I buried my head in his shoulder.

That day we killed for the first time.

It was sunny, the sun casting a protective net over Paris, over us, as if it wanted to shield us from whatever was around the corner.

We were running. Again. The world seemed to stop as we sped by harmless Parisians, the cold, clammy sweat clinging to my body. Lucien dressed up as a bellhop, me as a maid, and we had coaxed a wallet from a drunken man. A fat millionaire, nonetheless, his wallet bursting with French Notes.

I stabbed him. After I had made a quick swipe for his wallet in his back pocket, he himself made a grab for my chest. I will never forget the rage inside me. That fire. For a brief moment, once I held the knife and twisted, killing felt good.

Of course, not when it happens to you.

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