User blog:Necrowe/hi, i’m posting rebbecca’s backstory here

bc the forums aren’t too keen on letting it through anytime soon >:(

— CHAPTER ONE, IN WHICH NECRO IS TOO LAZY TO MAKE THE FONT BIGGER

My name is Ricardo Eugene… Ricardo. Don’t you dare laugh. I will find you. I won’t hesitate.

Okay, I admit that was uncalled for. So, sorry, I guess. Now, you may be asking: OwO, what’s this? Look at that title. It’s… it’s clearly there. Can you not read?

Why am I narrating this? Well, a seven year old probably can’t narrate a story. Also, I’m nine when this all takes place, so I’m probably at the very least slightly more capable. Now, on with the story.

—

Ah, winter. Such a jolly time in the year. For Jews, it’s the month of Hanukkah. For most, if not the rest of us, it’s Christmas— also known as the holiday when a creepy stalker in a red coat somehow manages to squeeze down your chimney. That’s pretty weird, considering most houses don’t have chimneys nowadays, but hey. Lots of things are pretty weird. Including me. (Note: yes, I purposely had Ricardo said winter was a month instead of a season for sh*ts and giggles.)

I walked through the streets of downtown Boston, hands stuffed in the pockets of my tattered red hoodie. I probably didn’t look too out of place- or, well, to be more accurate, I probably wasn’t noticed. I have a way of being furtive when need be, darting into alleys and standing in the shadows till I simply fade into the background.

I stopped by a Starbucks café, warily sidling over to it. I pressed my hand up against the chilly glass, feeling a shudder course through my body for a moment. The people in there looked happy— I wasn’t sure why, though. There’s not much to be happy about. I mean, people die everyday, and more and more people find themselves in poverty. How can you be happy when all that’s going on?

I rolled my eyes, seeing a young girl leap into the arms of a woman, brown hair cascading behind her like the mane of a wild horse. The woman held the girl in her arms and kissed her forehead. They seemed… happy, almost blissfully so. Pressing my lips as I furrowed my dark brows, I walked off.

I wasn’t envious at all. I mean, the skin on your lips is the same kind of skin on your butthole. So yeah. Not envious at all.

I drifted over to a collection of old warehouses. My teeth chattered quietly as I trudged through the thin layer of snow on the ground. Finding shelter was always a good idea, something I had quickly learned on my first days on the streets. Snowflakes danced in the air, some flecks getting stuck in my brown hair and settling on my hoodie like burrs.

I stumbled into one of the cavernous warehouses, squinting. I could see a few openings in the roof where slivers of yellow light peered into the darkness, but otherwise it seemed like a good place to squat. I was alone, after all, just how I liked it.

CLANG.

I swiveled around on my heel and tensed with apprehension. A trashcan had been knocked over out of the blue. I watched the grumbling lid roll along the floor before skidding to a halt, spinning in a circle before succumbing to gravity and collapsing on the floor.

I narrowed my eyes, approaching the fallen trashcan. Not too far from it was a stack of bricks, one a short person could easily hide behind. Clearing my throat and pushing back my shoulders, I peered over the bricks. Pressed up against it with her knees drawn to her chest was… a little girl, maybe seven or eight. She had long, platinum blond hair that fell in waves. Her bangs obscured her forehead.

The little girl looked up at me, fear in her eyes. The color of her eyes itself startled me too— the watery blue color was something I had rarely seen, pale as the ice that marked the sidewalks and streets. Quickly regaining my composition, I firmly put my hands on my hips.

“What’re you doing here, kid?” I said. The little girl didn’t respond, slightly raising her forehead. I could see faint creases appearing, as if she was contemplating her next decision. After a moment, I leaned forward and placed one of my hands on the brick sitting atop the rest. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting.”

The girl looked down again before whispering, “I’m sorry.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘I’m sorry’?” I shot back. “Don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not sorry. You scared me!”

The girl winced. She ran her fingers through her hair, her body beginning to tremble. Her voice hitched with tremors as she spoke. “Y-you shouldn’t tawk to me.”

I paused. “Why not?”

The girl shakily stood up, placing her hand on her right. “P-pwease. I don’t want anyone else to get huwt. I-I’ll go.”

I backed away from the girl, jabbing a finger at her. “Cut it out! Stop whining and tell me what you’re doing here!”

“... do you want the whole stowy?” The girl asked me.

I paused again and thought for a moment. “Sure, but then you’re getting outta here. I ain’t got time for many sob stories.”

The girl winced and intertwined her clenched hands together, her gaze floating to the ground. “Well… m-m-m… my mommy said she was dwiving me to an animal sheltew, ‘cause she said we wewe going to get a kitty. I told her I wanted a doggy, like the one I was playing with a few days ago… a-and…

She got really angwy. She stawted yelling at me and called me ‘cuwsed’ and ‘f-fowsaken’ and ‘evil spawn’ and I don’t know what it means and I just want my mommy back before she got all angwy—” she rushed forward, gripping my jeans and sobbing into my leg. I didn’t have the heart to shake her off. Too many times, this happened to good kids.

“... did she dump you here?” I asked. The girl looked up from my jeans, slowly nodded, and buried her face in the denim again.

I clicked my tongue. “Well, that’s pretty…” I trailed off. Maybe it wasn’t best to cuss around the kid when she was in such a fragile state. “Nevermind. You got a name, kid?”

The girl looked up at me. She loosened her grip on my jeans slightly, but seemed to refuse to let go.

“I can’t just call you ‘kid’,” I explained.

“My name is… uh…” the girl frowned. “It’s hard to pwonounce, and I can’t really spell it.”

“Why can’t you spell it?” I asked.

“Because when I try to wead or spell, sometimes the lettews n’ words get all jumbwed up, and it makes it really hard to wead and wite. Then I start cwying. I think that makes me… really stupid.”

I thought for a moment, scouring my memories. I recalled a street kid around 14 years old I met named Thomas who said he couldn’t read things correctly sometimes. He called it dyslexia and said he had been diagnosed with it a year prior to getting kicked out by his parents. Thomas and I looked like brothers — brown hair, brown eyes, peach complexion with a rosy flush. It had been sad to see him go when I had to leave him.

“That means you’re dyslexic,” I told her. She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“What does that mean?” The girl asked me.

I stroked my chin. “It means… you have a thing called dyslexia, where sometimes letters are out of place. It hinders your reading sometimes. People who have dyslexia are dyslexic.”

The girl paused as her eyes widened slightly. She seemed to take a sudden interest in her blue crocs. “That doesn’t make me bad, does it?” She said quietly.

“Of course it doesn’t,” I replied. “You’re just like everybody else. Anyways, are you sure you can’t pronounce your name?”

The girl nodded. “I… don’t really wike it that much, too.”

I inclined my head to the side and furrowed my brow. I remembered a song my dad liked— Rebecca by the Bananas. He liked punk music a lot, to the point where he had an entire section of his wardrobe dedicated to memorabilia of famous punk rock bands, even close-up polaroids of famous musicians.

My dad had a problem.

“How about Rebbecca? With two B’s,” I proposed. I raised a pointer finger. “It’s unique.”

The girl paused before nodding. “I like that name a wot! But… I’m allergic to bees.” She tugged on my pants. “Awso, didn’t you say I had to go?”

I reared my head back and chuckled. I then patted the small girl on the head. “Not anymore, kid. I’m here for you now.”

“... pwomise?” Rebbecca asked me. Her voice was filled with a hopeful tone as she stared up at me innocently, smiling slightly.

“Promise.”

—