No One's Girl

Status: Finished

No One's Girl

Status: Finished

No One's Girl

Book by: darkenedfairytale


Genre: Romance


A woman in desperate circumstances and a man in a life he can't see his way out of are thrown together. Both are just survivors who don't want to just survive anymore, but that could mean many good or bad things.


A woman in desperate circumstances and a man in a life he can't see his way out of are thrown together. Both are just survivors who don't want to just survive anymore, but that could mean many good or bad things.

Chapter1 (v.1) - No One's Girl

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: October 30, 2015

Reads: 1446

Comments: 2

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: October 30, 2015



Why did I stay? Was I even here by choice? Did I know anymore? I felt myself wake up for the first time in years and I don't mean in the way that Rip Van Winkle awoke. The kind where things suddenly click and whatever funk you are in, you snap out of, because I might have lived in this house for years by now, but I was doing wasn't living.

I was complacent. I looked at my circumstances and carved myself a comfortable place and I am using that adjective loosely.

I left the house. I did errands. I talked to the local business owners and just about everyone who came in and out of the house. Did that mean I could leave for good? But how? How would I just go? Would they let me? Would he let me?

In the interests of keeping up my morale, I like to think that I'm resourceful. Clever. Maybe I'm not the kind of book smart I wish I could be. I'm not really built for elaborate master plans and even though I'm just waking up, I'm also tired. When I first ended up here and realized escape was impossible, I fancied myself a mountain. They could do whatever they wanted, but I was standing yesterday, I'm still standing today and I'll be standing tomorrow. Turns out, mountains erode.

I grabbed a backpack and stuffed clothes inside. Not much, just enough clothes, money, and  a couple snacks I hid in the nightstand.

Then I walked down the stairs. "I'm leaving," I announced flatly.

"Can you bring back a candy bar? Something with nuts in it," he asked, sitting there, reading the newspaper. As if people read the newspaper anymore and he was actually getting anything out of the activity beyond normalcy. I bet he was reading an article about nut allergies, sadistic bastard. 

"No," I answered with a sharp, acerbic tone that he hadn't heard in a long while. It made him look at me, notice me and his eyes lingered on my backpack.

"So you're leaving to go the corner store or a little bit further?" he asked.

"Further," I answered flatly. I stuffed my feet into my sneakers. This was my master plan. Just walk out. If I came up with something so easy a couple years ago, would I have made it.

"Further as in you're staying with a friend for a couple nights or you're going on vacation without me?" he wanted to know.

Did I have friends, anymore? 

"Neither." My feet comfortably laced into my shoes, I stood, because like a six year old, I still had to sit to lace up my sneakers properly. I looked him in the eye and asked, "Do you even love me?"

Without hesitation, he answered, "Yes."

"Yes, because that's the right answer, the easy answer, or you actually do love me?" I wanted to know.

"You know me. I don't play games, I don't guess and I don't repeat," he needlessly reminded me. Then he asked, "Do you love me?"

"No," I responded with such definitively.

"You're lying," he answered with that same, annoying definitively. How did he know?

"This isn't love. It's stockholm syndrome. I'll get over it in a couple days," I told him. Or years, whatever. Maybe I'll get myself a psychiatrist and he'll think I'm crazy, because stories like mine don't happen in real life. 

He stood, his eyes on mine and I couldn't remember when we had this much eye contact. Was it normal? It didn't feel normal to stare at someone for so long. Softly, he said, "Lina." Like he was giving in, as if he was tired of this fight. 

"Cathal," I replied. I know how it looks, but it's got some weird Gaelic pronunciation, like Ca-hal.

For a while, we just stared, our names hanging in the air between us. "Are you sure you don't want a proper suitcase?"

Did he seriously just ask that? Like a mother when a child says she's running away to join the circus? As if he was actually going to let me go?

But then he didn't have to stop me, because everyone else between me and freedom would.

"This is what I came here with and it's what I'll leave with," I said, not adding that I'd taken the emergency money he left taped in an envelope underneath the desk, as if that was original.

"Then I guess there's nothing left to say," he told me. "Except that you know how to reach me, if you need me."

Nothing left to say? There was a lot to say, but he wouldn't agree with me if I did and then he would give me his version of reality, and my reality would change to his version for good. 

After a curt nod, I was out the door. I bet he was laughing to himself, betting against himself about how far I would get before someone dragged me back. I wasn't going back. Stupid mobster could go to hell.

And the people on the street who exchanged looks with each other as I passed by, they were going to have to get used to the idea that I was no one's girl. 


writer's note. Yeah. I know. I've like ten other unfinished stories open but I don't care. This is the one I want to write this moment.

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