This one did not go where I wanted it too. I had idea then got frustrated half way through because it did not want to write in that direction. I almost gave up on it but then I looked at it again today and decided it could easily be finished, just not the way I intended. It was bloody typical; I got frustrated and set up a twitter account and reclaimed my linkin account all to distract myself from a story that was tied up really quickly. I borrowed the prompt from Monday Madness.
Trisha: Teen (wannabe) Detective.
“Oooo, Space,” Trisha felt herself saying. “Wait… no stars?…” Trisha stared up her dark universe. “Bummer…” she muttered as the world became less disjointed. A minute later it occurred to addle-brained teen that the world was not actually spinning. Then, by unfortunate hap-stance, the world stopped.
“I was Enjoying that!” Trisha flung at the universe. Bored and pouting, she decided it was time to deal with reality. “Right, 58th time I’ve woken up in this position. Protocol 1) Injury!” Trisha proceeded to pat herself down while singing ‘Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.’ Left ankle: twisted. Right elbow: gash running up to shoulder, likely bruised. Wet substance on head? Blood or other liquid? Trisha rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Not water. She licked her finger. Coppery. “Blood. That will be why my memories fuzzy. Protocol 2) Sensations?” Cold. Wet. Slight mildew smell. So far, so standard. Whistling, puffs of earthy-scented air, coming from same direction as the sound of rain splatter: open or cracked window, likely basement level. Shallow breathing from my right, scent of strawberries mixed with cheap deodorant; only one person that could be. “Oi, Dick!” No response. Likely unconscious, no help from him. “Protocol 3) Explore environment; prioritise light, escapes routes, and unconscious fools,” Trisha rose gingerly, relieved that she hadn’t hit her head this time around. She figured the wince-inducing pain in her ankle was enough of a handicap. With care she felt around, at switch level. “Oh, well, what do you know? Found you quickly, my pretty little circuit!” Trisha covered her eyes, flipped the switch and waited for her eyes to adjust.
This was too easy and on opening her eyes Trisha discovered why. “Geh, Dick’s basement! Is it too much to be kidnapped, GodDamnit!” she exclaimed as she bolted up the stairs to confirm her deepest fear: the door was indeed unlocked. Grumbling she returned to basement level to prod Dick with a bare toe. “Good morning, Sunshine! Time to get up,” Trisha ordered as she examined his crumpled form. Fair few bruises, and nice looking cut; these were of no immediate concern. Dick’s leg was definitely bending the wrong way though. In a flurry of practised first aid Trisha simultaneously called 000 and wrapped him in a blanket. By the time the paramedics arrived Dick had yet to regain consciousness and, for that, Trisha was sure he would be eternally grateful.