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You may be wondering what’s up with my title. Or/and the title picture. And if you’re not then skip the below story by clicking the beside arrow (albeit see the *):
My computer went berserk approximately two week and eight days ago and I’ve have gotten it back to the prognosis that my hard-drive is—was defunct. And that all the information—all the Sims 3 story information—on that old hard drive is being held hostage by mechanical difficulties that my wallet cannot currently surmount. So, I’m sorry to be typing these words, but: “What About Tomorrow” is, until further notice, cancelled.
As it were, I was left feeling quite incomplete with the above conclusion, so I have decided to make this story “What About Yesterday.” It will pick up much later in the “What About Tomorrow” universe and though there will be familiar names, possibly, faces further along in the story—the main characters will be new, new, NEW!
But one thing hasn’t changed:
*I HOPE YOU ENJOY!
My computer went berserk approximately two week and eight days ago and I’ve have gotten it back to the prognosis that my hard-drive is—was defunct. And that all the information—all the Sims 3 story information—on that old hard drive is being held hostage by mechanical difficulties that my wallet cannot currently surmount. So, I’m sorry to be typing these words, but: “What About Tomorrow” is, until further notice, cancelled.
As it were, I was left feeling quite incomplete with the above conclusion, so I have decided to make this story “What About Yesterday.” It will pick up much later in the “What About Tomorrow” universe and though there will be familiar names, possibly, faces further along in the story—the main characters will be new, new, NEW!
But one thing hasn’t changed:
*I HOPE YOU ENJOY!
He was tired of this small town already.
The masses that decorated the streets at all hours in Bridgeport called to him; it wasn’t that he liked being surround by humans—only that he appreciated the ironic solitude one could feel while being immersed in a crowd:
The pure and entire feeling of being inconspicuous, one in a multitude—unseen.
Here he walked alone down the streets. Stood alone in lines and, here, he was the focal point of many unwanted stares.
Luckily, the entrance room to the police department was vacated, or mostly. And only the girl sitting behind the counter stared at him. He kept his eyes somewhere to the left of her head. He planned on walking past her, through to where he could talk to the detective he had contacted. But she leaned over the counter and told him: “Sign in.”
It wasn’t the words, or the no-bull look on her face, it was her voice—daring him to do otherwise, challenging him. He wasn’t used to this.
He retraced his steps. “I don’t need to sign.”
“The hell you don’t.” She squinted distrustfully at him and slid the clipboard and paper across the counter, “Just do it.” She dropped a pen into his open palm.
He looked down at the paper and wondered what to write.
He settled on: Zeth Rexmolesti (Which roughly translates into: Zeth King of the Annoying) Yeah, it was immature. But the stories and the actual experiences he’s had with the spiteful (uncomplimentary noun) left him felling a little too willing to get any barb in edgewise.
And he didn’t need anyone being able to follow him so easily as picking up a roster, even if it did mean tearing up a police department and being less than nice to this girl—who was reading the words on the page upside down, frowning, she turned the frown on him but he merely dropped the pen and headed through the side door. One the other side, another door opened and there was that girl again bearing down on him, clipboard in hand.
Quickly he bent and dodged around police officers until he ended up outside of a wooden door with a frosted glass window, he only knocked once and didn’t pause before entering. “Mr. Miller, here so soon—I was just-uh—”
“Doing a background check on your new client.”
The detective brushed something off his desk to avoid looking him in the eye. Unlike his mother, who made herself out to be an empath, among other things, and Zeth Rexmolesti (and family), who could control the minds of any living, breathing anything, “Mr. Miller” could only gauge people’s intentions toward himself, such a lame ability was usually looked down upon in the circles he works—used to work within. But then again being one-fourth vamprye didn’t warrant much powers, let alone respect.
The detective—“Mr. Miller” scanned the diplomas on the wall—Detective John Yaltz smiled greasily at him, “Can’t be too safe these days.”
“Any questions you have—I’ll answer them.”
Yaltz waited for the other shoe to drop, when it didn’t he asked, “How old are you?”
“Just turned eighteen last month.” A lie. It had been over a decade since he’d been eighteen—but he still looked it and he almost certainly was still eighteen at heart—but he slid a forged birth certificate over to the man. After a glance over, the detective returned the slip of paper.
The detective opened his mouth again, then shut it—tried once more: “Let me get to the crux of the matter, my dad always told me: ‘when something looks too good to be true then it is.’ You know, just ‘cause it shines doesn’t mean it’s gold kind ‘a stuff. So my question to you is: Where’s the catch?” “You know I could almost learn to appreciate a question like that.” He knew the effect he had on people, the kind that made a person take furtive glances or make sure not to take any at all, the effect that gave people an unyielding instinct to stay away from him, the kind of effect he chose to have. “Almost.” There was a pause. At the end of which Yaltz smiled, “I see,” though clearly he didn’t, “I have the information you want, right here,” he withdrew from his coat a flash drive, “All that’s left is the money. Every cent you promised.”
“Mr. Miller” folded his arms behind his head, and waved, “Check your bank account.”
A minute passed, then the oily man licked his lips, and again. His gaze darted to the young man sitting in his office and his voice found one more question. “What do you want with Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts, anyway?” “Sorry,” he deftly snatched the flash drive from the detective, sliding it into an inner pocket of his jacket, “But question time is over—” “The hell it is—why did you hire a private investigator to dig up information on my abuela?” It was her again, standing in the doorway looking confused, and terrified and fearless. “And Rexmolesti is not an actual last name!” “Mr. Miller, I think its time you leave.” A smarmy smile.
“Mr. Miller” shut the door behind them.
“So that’s your name, ‘Miller?’”
No. It wasn’t. He’d used his mother’s maiden name, for reasons of his own that concerned the goal of this little escapade of his but this girl—she didn’t need to know that. And he grabbed a pen off a nearby desk and scrabbled over his previous scratch—Lucian Miller. But by now neither name was legible. He returned the pen.
It looked like a fight was rising in her, but she seemed to think better of it and just said forcefully, “You stay away from my abuela.”
So, he made a quick exit.
The motel stank, of old memories, of rotting wood, of lost souls; the smell was forgivable though because of its closeness to the train station.
Regardless, it was a pain at night—the trains come rattling, screeching by in the wee hours to shock him from his sleep, which he needed. Unlike full-fledged vampires, who only slept to relax, to think things over in quiet, or to just pass time, “Lucian Miller” required the rest.
But adrenaline pumped too rabidly in his veins for him to sleep. He plugged the flash drive into his laptop and opened it contents:
Documents, documents, pictures, files, and more documents spilled and righted themselves on his screen, slowing the computer down considerably.
It was a lot of information.
He took it byte by byte: As it turns out, Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts— Cecelia Marisa Amarosa before she was married—used to work at the police department. There was nothing remarkable about her. Or at least nothing he could discern. She was engaged to a Demetrius Carter—he already knew that—but after a messy break up she married an Ethan Roberts, who was an accountant. They had two kids, Marcela and Benton. Ethan and Benton, the oldest of the two children, died in a car crash. And Marcela had one daughter—an image of the girl he met today danced behind his eyes—whereabouts unknown.
“Right.” He muttered to himself.
Besides the useless biography of the woman and among the humongous load of data, the detective had included some information on some of Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts’ case files; two caught his attention.
One was declared a hate crime—a boy being pushed into a pothole—
“Excuse me, the pothole.” He rubbed his eyes. “Lucian Miller” had seen much worse than someone being pushed into a pothole, much worse. The victim was taken to the local hospital. Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts even went as far as to find out that the victim’s mother, who had come to visit the victim for his birthday, took said victim back home with her. The other case was of a missing girl—and the one who first reported the abduction: none other than Demetrius Carter. There was a significant lack of information in this file (which was one of the reasons it had caught his attention) but the gist was Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts was apart of the search team for this girl—the thing was: she went missing herself for a week.
Shortly after turning up again she was declared unfit for duty and her daughter, Marcela, dropped her in a mental institution with the excuse that she “couldn’t afford an extra mouth to feed.” But “Lucien Miller” thought it had something more to do with the reported nightmares Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts would have that left her wide-eyed and screaming in the middle of then night and, then there was that new-found habit of hers to mumble about and curse “mythical creatures.” And that’s when he knew he had to find and talk to this Cecelia Marisa Amarosa-Roberts; and that’s when he found the most useful piece of information yet: current residence. Until next time -
HOPE YOU ENJOYED!
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2 Comment(s) posted so far
#1 On Jun 12, 2012 spladoum wrote:
I am really sorry to hear about your computer issues. This was an intriguing story that I looked forward to, and I'll miss it. Glad to hear that you'll be continuing on in future, though!
#2 On Aug 23, 2012 keishafeller wrote:
Glad to have made time to read this story from the beginning. Your vocabulary is well elaborate, it's impressive. Looking forward to unfold the mystery with " Mr Miller"! Off to Chapter 2.