KILLZONE: Dowloaded
I heard the sound of the buzzer chime and the cell gate opened. Reluctantly I stepped out from what was my former incarceration. One of the officers came up to me with a condescending look, with a lopsided grin.
“You’re free to go,” he said motioning for me to walk out of the holding area.
I gave him a nod then walked as quickly as I could to the ‘booking’ officers desk. He eyed me nonchalant as he typed on his computer.
“Name?” he asked then pressed both lips together.
I rolled my eyes disrespectfully, “Gemma Arrowood.” I turned my nose up to the obese, overworked, underpaid officer.
He typed then moved the mouse dragging it across the scratched up desk. Then he rolled his chair to the back and came back with an evidence bag with the stuff I was arrested with.
He ripped open the bag and dumped the contents of it onto his desk in front of me. The nerve!
In the bag was my phone, a switch knife and a packet of cigarettes. That's what I had on me when those idiot patrol cops picked me up in the alley.
I grabbed my phone and other things from the desk officer and gave him a stink eye before I marched away from him. Suddenly my phone buzzed with a notification. I unlocked my phone using my fingerprint, then stared at the strange notification I received.
It read: Killzone downloaded
"What the fuck?" I said under my breath before I walked out of the station's front door.
As I walked down the stairs of the station, I was switching through my phone trying to figure out how this app got onto my phone. No one can get into my phone except me? So how did this app get onto my phone?
"Fucking Samsung," I mine as I put both my hands in my pocket and walked down the sidewalk.
A honk of a horn stopped me from walking any further. I spun around on me heel and caught sight of a mini van parked on the street's curb. Definitely my foster father, I should've guessed it was him who paid my bail.
"Gemma honey! Could you come home please!" my foster father’s womanish voice sung in my ears. It sounded like someone had played a loud noise in my ears, sending a jolt of pain all the way.
I began walking towards the car, he had a concerned look plastered over his face. He seemed partially relieved that I agreed to come with him without a fight. But who said anything about agreeing?
I walked straight passed him while giving him the finger. I heard him huff in frustration, well more like wail, like a sad defeated child. He got into his driver's seat, closed the door and started the engine to try and catch up to me. Why did he even bother with me anyway? Why didn’t he and his wife just send us away like the rest did when I became too hot to handle?
I just kept walking, my hands wrapped tightly around me, as tears flowed from my eyes. Sometimes I tried my hardest not to cry, but then the tears just came. The doctor told me it was PTSD combined with a severe personality disorder. How did I get this way?
It went like this, my biological parents were murdered right in front of my eyes when I was just six years old. Their heads severed and dumped elsewhere. That’s the jist of it, how I got this way. And from that time on, me and my brother have been bounced around the system. House to house, county to county, city to city. No permanent home was found for us, no one wanted to adopt us both. . No one. . .
I heard the quiet engine of my foster dad’s car roll beside me, I decided to get in and get him to take me home. I was too cold and tired for me to walk all the way home.
“You want to tell me how you got arrested this time?” he asked as I settled into my seat.
I rolled my eyes and rested my head on my hand as I looked out of the rolled up window. “No Victor, I don’t want to, can we just go home?”
He lifted his shoulders and glanced at me through his rear view mirror.
“Alright then, if that’s what you want.”
He turned the steering wheel and steered the car onto the road and then drove in the direction of home.
Victor Stirling and his wife Fiona Stirling had been fostering us for almost a year now. It hadn't been as bad as the other homes we've had over the years. In fact, they have been overly nice. Babying us both, showering us with unnecessary presents and gadgets.
At first I enjoyed it, but then it started to get annoying. Like they were trying to make us feel better for the hardship we’d been through. And I didn’t like to be pitied, I hated it. So that’s when I just began to show them my true colours. But they didn't ship me back to child services, or institutionalize me (like another family did) no, they still supported me and tried to get me help. What losers . . .
“Gem,-” Victor began but immediately I cut him off because I hated to be called that.
“It’s Gemma or G either one,” I snapped giving him a stink eye. I knew he was staring at me from the rear view mirror, studying me like I was one of his patients.
Victor was a psychaitrist, unfortunately, I have a fucking shrink as my foster father. Maybe that’s why he was so understanding with me.
“Okay, Gemma, why do you keep on fighting me and Fiona off?” he asked trying to get inside my head.
I sat up from my seat, leaning forward to his seat in the front. “Stop trying to get inside my head doc. You’ll get nowhere.”
Victor raised both his brows with a look on his face that I never seen before. A cocky look that kind of churned my stomach, in a good way. For the first time I actually had a smig of respect for this guy. With just one look.
“We’ll see about that young lady. . . . . . . . . . .”
