Little Linda chapter1

Setting: San Francisco, California- the city of fog.
Date: 11/2/1987 - 11/3/2011

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fog hung thickly this day in san fran, generally, that would slow the bustle of the city. This day in san fran, however, people were in a rush, bumping into each other like blind mice.
Like vermin.

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he looks at the pictures, then at the sloppy mess he made trying to fix the negative. A short, stout man smoking a cigar exhales a puff of smoke, blasting in the mans face like some half exhausted, half dead dragon tried to breathe fire on him, but ended up sending a foul smelling puff of smoke his way. The smoke hung on the ceiling, mixing with the fog that drifted in from the open basement window. The whole place smelled like cigar now. The little room was too crowded, so the smell hung in the air as if it were reluctant to leave.
The stout man sighs a puff of smoke before beginning to mumble. The other man puts the pictures in a bath filled with what he believes are the right chemicals.

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He has been going to and from this alleyway several times before. He only walks through here when he is holding a job downtown. His boots trudge silently past me today, not even aware…
Blind…

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He walked out the door, making sure to get the last word in before slamming the door. He storms away, even though he knew what he did wrong, countless times. He squirms around the people who don't seem to have the decency to move out of his way, or even acknowledge the fact that he was there. He eases through an alley. He trips and falls on a mixture of glass and broken concrete, cutting up his hands and side. He curses as he gets up, sucking on the wound, half enjoying, half despising it's iron taste. He walks through the alley and curves around a corner, blending again with the people in the street.

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The monotonous click clack of urban footsteps frustrates me. Yelling, car horns, all of it. They choose not to think anything could happen to them at any time. It only takes one short moment before a bullet could tear through their skull. But no, they walk, blind vermin, walking to wherever they want to…
They truly are such trivial things…

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The bar was where the man went. Drinking all the exotic alcohol he could drink with his last paycheck. The skin and bone bartender slid the check under his last drink, a large glass of imported japanese sake. The sake was held within a glass mug that had the company name etched on it, "kosuko", which was commonly mispronounced by americans. The bar used beverages from small businesses, so maybe he could move to japan and get a job there. First, he needed a job to pay for the trip, and the housing, and necessities. By that time, the whole thing would be redundant. He reaches to grab his wallet and write a check for several hundred dollars, should his handwriting be legible enough.

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I'm starting to get really bored…

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the man rushes back to grab his coat, rushing through the foggy alleyway. Glass crunches under his boots as he makes the sharp turn around the brick wall, isolating the children's playground like the Berlin Wall.

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this city is so boring…

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The shop was locked, but he could be arrested for not paying. Then again, he could be arrested for breaking and entering. His coat lay inside on the coat rack. He rang the doorbell impatiently.

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the only real good thing about this place is the fog.

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he wasn't home… just his luck… he runs around back and climbs up the fire escape to the floor above. After all, he needed his wallet.

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and that's where the damage can start.

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He grabs his coat and feels the weight of his wallet inside. He exits at the same place he came in and runs back to the bar, right as he sees red and blue lights carried over by the fog.

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he's late… he should be here…

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The crash was huge. Several mangy cars got almost pretzeled together in a sorta web of metal. Pedestrians were sandwiched between cars in a horrible way. There was no getting around this huge wall of metal…

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Sigh… I guess I'll play ball… too bad…

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he ran back. That was enough to call it a day, for sure. The glass in the alleyway crunched under his boots as he ran past. He turned several turns back to his apartment and sighed.
Life sucked.

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He was turned down almost everywhere he went, but his charisma and personality grew in acting. Though he was mainly in low budget films, locals still recall the sets and his role as the happy-go-lucky guy who helps a child out of a tree, who then murders him.
Things like that don't happen ln real life though… sadly…

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his life was fair. He washed dishes instead of reusing paper ones. He watched TV instead of play with carpet lint. Life was good. He'd all but just forgotten about the wreck. It made headlines for weeks, then people lost interest and forgot about it. Even the mayor, who didn't even try to control traffic, forgot. He pours himself a glass of instant coffee and adds sugar, no cream. The coffee woke him up with a bitter tang, but calmed him with a sweet after-taste. He turned on the news. The picture was blurry, and the audio wasn't great, but still, the fiery haired anchorman was still understandable with his thick Boston/Chicago accent. With another sip of his coffee, he put down the remote and started his daily routine. News, town, and if he was called in, to the movie set.

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I've watched him for years. I know him like a book i've read over and over and over again. I know that today, they're filming downtown. He will walk through the alley today. I'm certain he'll see me. Today is just right.

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the weather was perfect today. Nice and sunny, but semi relaxing with a thin, tourist attracting layer of fog. The group thought so too, and it seems he was called downtown. He walks around the coffee shop and the old, closed up building and enters the bustling downtown area. He walks over towards the set and ducks under the caution tape. They picked a good place this time, he thought the old, mangy hotel was a great place to shoot. The side cast shook their head. The idea of sleeping on a cold, hard mattress didn't appeal to them, nor did waking up in the middle of the night to see a killer snapping turtle in their room. The director showed the man his part. He would be the drop-dead-stoned hotel employee who tries to smother the turtle with a pillow. After it bites of his finger, he would run to the boiler room with the chines janitor and cook the poor turtle. This man had a sick sense of humor, but thankfully, deep pockets, otherwise half the people wouldn't have agreed to do what they were doing. Alas, he was no exception. The small young woman directing the snapping turtle look frightened of the thing as it looked at her with a dull, beady eyed gaze. She jumped back and poked it with a stick. Today was going to be a long day.

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I'm starting to get impatient. He finally got out of the set after ten hours, but he's walking as fast as that damn turtle. I just need to be patient a little longer… sigh…

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He walks home sober, though more than a bit tired from acting his part several times in a row. He walks though the alley and pauses. His neck started to cramp badly. He clutches his neck and keeps it still until the pain fades. He rolls his neck. Loud popping sounds emerge and he sighs.
Wait, which way was he going? He looks around. The alley looked the same on all sides and he couldn't find his way. He sits down, brushing away the litter around him with his hands. He leans against the wall and picks up a piece of a beer bottle. Already, just by the color and curve, he could tell the brand name. That was a bad thing. He drops the glass down and listens to the clink sound it makes. He rolls his neck and stands up. He turns around and takes a step in what he believes to be the right direction.…

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Are humans really this blind?

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Before yelling and falling over, cutting his hand on the glass piece he dropped earlier. There stood a young girl, about nine or ten. She wore a small wedding dress, but the veil was to thick to see her face. Her skin was a sickly white and her hair was jet black. She had a teddy bear in her hands and what looked like a friendship bracelet on her arm. She swings the teddy bear back and forth. The bear seems to sway to that rhythm like a noodle rather than a toy. The girl looks up... Or down.... He couldn't tell. She wasn't saying anything, so he decided to make conversation.
"Mister, you have a cut on your hand." just as he was going to say something, the girl grabs some stuffing out of the bear and puts it on his hand. He takes it, only because he finds it rude to refuse. The girl stands still, so he collects himself from the confusion and speaks.
"Thank you young mam. Appreciate it. May l ask you one question though? Why are you w-" he was cut off by the girl.
"your from Tennessee, although you were born in New Zealand and you spent the first few years of your life in Pennsylvania." as if to confuse him more, she continues. "Your accent gives that away. The smell of your coat is clearly of wine and alcohol, but you don't drink because you want to party or your addicted, your depressed. Nothing seems to bother you, which is why you worked for the director, because no one else will. You have lost several jobs and several woman and attempted suicide once, but you were scared and you figured you could do more with your life. Thats what I came here to talk to you about. First off, whats your name?"
The man just stood awestruck as his whole life was narrated by a scary looking young girl. All he could think to say was answer.
"Isaac Lambert? You don't look like a Lambert.... You hated your family, so you adopted another last name. Try again." what the hell was with this girl? He sighs and replies truthfully this time.
"You look more like a Conway." she stops. It was finally his turn to speak, wasn't it.
"What the hell is going on here?" he sighs as he says that. His turn was over once again.
"thats what l came to talk to you about you idiot. If you couldn't already guess, I'm dead. Hence the veil and the glue colored skin. I was killed by a twenty something year old woman with black hair just like mine and an engagement ring on her hand. Hence the dress and the hair. I was just a young girl then, hence the bear and bracelet. She lives in east Tennessee. If you go, your life will have meaning, wont it? I could be alive if you kill her. She is likely to kill others too. You could help several people." her voice changes into one of a young girl doing the cute "l'm your daughter, give me what l want" trick. "Please Isaac, your all I've got. Tell me you'll do it please."

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How could he let this happen to him? He was on a train, traveling east, first to Las Vegas, first few stops in Pasadena, bullhead city, and Henderson, to talk to a friend of his. Two seats on both sides of him were empty, he supposed, because the dead girl didn't count. She was coloring now, removing his sense of her ever having a demanding attitude. The train ride was pretty awkward, but he'd have to deal with it for a few hundred miles. The fog seemed to fallow them for miles, though it was getting thinner. He put his cap on his face and dozed off.

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~End of chapter 1~

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