(Okay, this is my first post really, so somebody please feel free to tell me if I'm doing something wrong. The adoption of Trish McCarroll was pre-approved by Meg, by the way.)
The events unfolding in front of Trish McCarroll were like things she'd only read about in Dean Koontz novels, and consequently were just as confusing. Before her question had been answered, however, she had instinctively sent herself kareening towards the ground as James Brown, a friend of hers from Southridge, had been firing haphazardly into the air. Deciding it was best to remain prone for the time being, she could only watch helplessly as Brenden, another acquaintance of hers, seemed to undergo a radical transformation in a matter of minutes (or at least what she could only assume was a transformation) and savagely murder a boy named Luis, whom she barely recognized. She'd closed her eyes during Luis' final moments, as she found the seeping of the blood from his neck and his imminent suffocation almost too much to bear.
"It's really happening. This is really happening..." The thoughts were running through her head, but she had hardly registered any of it. She remained prone throughout the entire ordeal, and what seemed like an eternity (but was in reality less than a minute) later, she watched as Brenden encountered his own pitiful demise. "Brenden! Oh my God!" She whispered somewhat louder than she'd intended do, and instantly covered her own mouth in shock. Fortunately for her it seemed like James was hindered by some kind of controlled substance, and Steve, another acquaintance of hers, evidently had no desire to kill her.
"I had to draw fucking keys. KEYS. What am I supposed to do with these, unlock a fucking treasure chest?" Her own unfortunate circumstances wheeled around in her head as she watched the conflict transpire between James and Steve. She couldn't help but feel sorry for herself, despite all her better knowledge that it would do nothing to help her situation. Upon realizing just what kind of situation she was in, however, she was reminded of a very important question. Was she going to play the game?
These thoughts all raced through Trish's mind in the matter of minutes that she remained crouched in the grass, and she removed her hand from her mouth as she watched the remainder of the ensuing chaos. "Well, I'm certainly not just going to roll over and die." She thought to herself, and convinced herself of just that. That would be her approach to the game. She would avoid problem spots whenever possible, but if and when her life was in danger, she'd do whatever it took. "Whatever I can do with keys, that is..."
A crack broke the silence she was trying desperately to maintain, and she raised her head slightly to notice that it was the result of Steve's baseball, which she'd guessed was his weapon, connecting with James' skull. Trish whined a little in incomprehensible protest, but only stood in response. Steve knew she was there, and since he was her only company, it would do her no good to let him know that she was afraid. Upon his address of her, she was more than happy to follow his order not to follow him, given that it wouldn't do her any good.
When Steve had left the area, Trish made her way over to James without a second's hesitation. She kneeled down to examine him, but discovered no traces of any severe injuries, and noticed that he was still breathing. "Good..." she thought to herself, and noticed James' pack laying beside him. "Steve already took his weapon, so there's nothing in there that I need..." she noted, but upon thinking about weapons, an idea crossed her mind.
Trish got up from her crouched position, brushing through the undergrowth and flowers to examine the ground around her. A few seconds later she'd found what she was looking for; namely, the bullwhip that Brenden had parted with upon his death. She wasted no time in picking it up, careful not to cut herself, and grabbed the handle. Letting the whip dangle loosely at her side, she moved a few paces away from James, and began to take some practice swings in mid-air. Unfortunately her first few attempts were dismal at best, and the third of them struck Brenden's corpse right across the back of his skull.
"Fuck, sorry!" She groaned to nobody in particular, and stopped her practicing for a moment. It was only then that the scope of her situation began to sink in. Brenden, a boy she'd been friends with less than a week before, was dead. She paused, and remarked to herself that she probably should've shown more emotion than she could muster, but at the moment that proved impossible. Whether it was as a result of the sedation or the shock she wasn't sure, but she couldn't register the pain of having lost one of her friends.
Diverting her attention from Brenden, Trish continued to practice with the bullwhip. After a few solid minutes of strikes, lashes and spins, she'd shown amazing improvement, similar to that of some kind of beast tamer. "The flick is kinda like a brushstroke. Hah, awesome." If anything, this recently acquired skill of hers would be one positive light she could shine on her situation.
After she'd finished practicing, she reeled the whip into a tight circle, careful to avoid the serrated edges as the coiled it, for the sake of making it easier to carry. After she'd found a way to get a grip on the handle without cutting herself, she made her way back over to James and took a seat beside him, carefully observing the perimeter every so often and waiting for him to wake up.
G23: Claire Lambert: Property of the Fabulous Mr. Toben
B65: Dorian Ibanescu: Coastline
B57 - Jeff Marontate: Cleaved
B120: Jim Middleton: Pummeled
G61: Anna Grout: Submitted
G62: Andrea Vanlandingham: Martyred
G39 Alexis Machina: Crushed
G23: Trish McCarroll: Defeated
natlei was sleeping in her bed when someone came thru her window "get away rapist" she said still half asleep and hit one of them in the head with her liucky frying pan then went back tyo bed them men the injected her with a sedative and carried her off