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Description
Title: Blue Skies and Butterfly Wings

Summary: "Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things... She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life." Rosalia managed to survive her father's onslaught and fled back to Portland, only to find nothing was as it was before. Rosalia-centric pre-game story.

Notes: Takes place before Trauma Team starts, obviously. For my friend who ran with my idea about this over the summer and did a short RP with me about it. Love ya!
********************************

Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things; she had worn shoes, after coming in from moving some heavy wood (she hadn't wanted to drop the load on her toes), and she chose to run in the trees. Rosalia made the split-second decision to dash into the densely packed woods. She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life.

.

Fear gripped her heart as she ran; adrenaline surged through her veins. She could hear his footsteps behind her, heavy and pausing. This wasn't happening, she chanted to herself. But run, run, run!

The sound from his throat sounded like a gurgled monster. It was easier to imagine a fearsome beast nipping at her heals than the man she had devoted her life to. Visualizing a gray, lumbering, sharp-toothed creature behind her, she pressed onward, sharply turning to the left, toward a gap in the trees to the open field. Rosalia wove deftly through the trees like a string on a loom. The ribbons in her hair flew in streams of pink behind her. A burn started to grow in her legs as she entered the shining sunlight.

Here she broke into a sprint, swinging her arms to give herself propulsion. The burn intensified and spread to her lungs; she wasn't a runner or very athletic at all. But primal instinct kept her going. Kept her running. There was a dusty country road a bit off that Rosalia took every other day to get to the nearby village. If she could reach the road, there would hopefully be someone there for help. She couldn't see it, but she kept on her plight.

She could hear him stumble behind her, a terrible retching sound coming from him. Every survival instinct cried at her to keep running, but her heart tore at her to stop. She dug her foot to halt herself, took a few calming gulps of air, and ran back to her father.

His arm was wrapped around himself, clutching his stomach, the other hand stuck to his mouth. His eyes screwed shut and his face crinkled in pain. Rosalia reached out her hand to him hesitantly. She forced her arm steady, trying to quash the damning tremors that ran through her.

He grabbed her hand, the other hand swinging down, blood dripping down his fingers like candle wax. Rosalia gasped and jerked her arm in his grip. As she struggled, he raised his gun, lifting the barrel to her chest. Rosalia wrestled her hand free, and thrust her knee toward him. As soon as she made contact, Rosalia ran backwards, getting distance between them.

A shot rang from the gun coupled with Sartre's anguished scream. The barrel pointed downward, toward a hole in his shoe, quickly filling with blood. He yelled, vomiting wetly, blood leaking crimson water out of the corner of his mouth. The gun slipped out of his hand, landing with a thud on the mockingly colorful flowers. Rosalia grabbed the weapon from the ground and held it with both hands at arms length in front of her. She shook all over, her eyes widened and her eyebrows met in a pleading expression.

"Dad, please, please," Rosalia whispered with frightened vervor.

He didn't respond to her, instead pulling out a switchblade from his coat pocket.

Rosalia would later replay the moment in her head with disturbing clarity.

Albert Sartre lunged, knife bared.

She panicked and pulled her finger back.

The gun went off with a resounding bang.

The aftershock of the shot ran through her arms, pushing her to the ground with violent force.

He stumbled backwards, vermillion blossoming across his shirt before falling down before her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Rosalia sat up and scrambled toward the body. She stared at the broken figure on the ground, at the blood stained flowers around him.

Rosalia lifted her face to the clear, cloudless sky and screamed.

-x-x-x-

She didn't really know how long she sat there among the flowers, unable to move from the spot where she collapsed. It wasn't until the sky clouded over with thick gray that Rosalia woke from her stupor. She blinked a few times, clearing the veil from her eyes. She shakily stood and took a weak step to the house. It's so far, she wanted to scream. She felt as though she could barely walk, but it wouldn't do to stay in this spot.

Rosalia slowly made her way back to the house, stumbling slightly over her feet. The hazy sky was an anesthetic, all she felt was… absolutely nothing. She was completely numb. The door didn't have any weight to it. The metal of the knob had no slippery feel. She sat in the kitchen, staring at her hands. The clock ticked in the corner like a metronome, on and on, tick tock tick tock. She wished to melt into her chair, to become a Rosalia-sculpture, as study of life in marble. She couldn't cry, there was nothing there to feel, no tears in her eyes.

Her stomach gurgled painfully. Hunger, yes, food get. Rosalia welcomed the distraction and motivation to move. She went through the motions of getting food. As she sat down with the rolled cheese and meat she made, some of the numbness wore off, panic creeping to take its place.

What's gonna happen to me?

Where am I gonna go?

Who should I call?

She knew she couldn't stay here. She was only 14 years old. Eventually she would be found, and the consequences could be very bad. Rosalia took a deep breath to cleanse herself. She would go to the village and call…someone.

She got up to her feet and took a bag from the closet. She swept through the hous, thowing anything that looked important, or at least what seemed important to her inside the bag haphazardly. An apple, a banana, half a loaf of bread, a manila folder labeled 'Rosalia' that she knew contained her personal documents, a wad of money from the ajar safe, a few pens, a calculator, her math notebook, it all went in the bag. She adjusted her shoes and ran out the door.

She made sure to specifically not take a path anywhere near the tree line. Skirting the edge of the rolling hill next to the house, she broke into a run, holding the bag close to her body. The wind streamed on her face and through her hair. Her body hurtled down the declivity, gathering momentum as she tumbled downward. The dirt road path came into view, dusty and bleached by the harsh Mexican sun. Rosalia skidded to a stop by the roadside, looking quickly back and forth for any vehicles. Seeing none, she pulled herself together and began to hike down the road.

She kept her mind off everything with a mumbled song in her head, a little melody that had been real big on the radio a few years ago, back when she still lived in the states and everything was good. Her brother hadn't liked the song because the lyrics didn't make much sense at all, but Rosalia did so he kept his frustrations to a minimum. He still told her it was a stupid song whenever it came on the radio.

Sweat beaded on the back of her neck as she kept on her way, feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust. She walked with determination and strong step, ready to get as far away as she could. But how? She mused the question, scowling with her thoughts. She knew she had the old orphanage and its number in her papers. But did she really want to drag them into it. She supposed she really had no choice.

It was a Friday afternoon and most of the villagers were out of the way, seeking shelter from the blistering weather. Any outdoor vendors were hiding in discreet corners, if they were out at all. Rosalia turned down a street where one of the few phones capable of international calling was. The building she went to was a little general store, with paper-coated glass fronting and a dirty plastic sign on the front top. There was a rather distinct smell of paint in the air, accompanied by covered painting supplies. The store was being repainted, the side wall being transformed into a mural. It was a big project, and one that Rosalia now realized she would never see to completion. She cleared her mind of those sorts of thoughts as she opened the door.

The store was completely overwhelmingly musty, the lights in that strange half-place between clean and dirty. The middle-aged owner, a man who inherited the little shop from his parents (who inherited it from their parents) who tended to pull his pants up and cut his hair blunt on the tips of his ears, came out with a grin stretched on his lips.

"Hola, Rosalia," he greeted, recognizing Rosalia as she entered. She was, after all, a regular patron of his store.

"Hola. I need to get to the closest railway station," Rosalia greeted politely.

"That would be in Monterrey. Do you need a ride, florita?" he asked, using the little Spanish nickname he had come up for her, due to her obsession with flowers and gardens, and the "Rosa" in her name.

Rosalia nodded.

"I can drive you, just wait por un momento," the man said before turning to his office and entering. A few moments later he emerged with his keys in his hand. He was one of the few with a car, albeit an older one, and would often drive people to the larger cities near the village if needed. He crinkled his eyes in a smile and gestured to the door.

On the ride to the station, he seemed to have enough good sense to leave Rosalia alone. She supposed she was currently emanating some vibe that told to just let be. He did put a hand on her arm in a comforting gesture, driving with one hand. The bouncing of the car on the road rocked her, and the kindly store owner cracked the windows to give a breeze that swept across her face. Rosalia couldn't hold on; she slipped into sleep.

Description
Title: Blue Skies and Butterfly Wings

Summary: "Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things... She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life." Rosalia managed to survive her father's onslaught and fled back to Portland, only to find nothing was as it was before. Rosalia-centric pre-game story.

Notes: Takes place before Trauma Team starts, obviously. For my friend who ran with my idea about this over the summer and did a short RP with me about it. Love ya!
********************************

Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things; she had worn shoes, after coming in from moving some heavy wood (she hadn't wanted to drop the load on her toes), and she chose to run in the trees. Rosalia made the split-second decision to dash into the densely packed woods. She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life.

.

Fear gripped her heart as she ran; adrenaline surged through her veins. She could hear his footsteps behind her, heavy and pausing. This wasn't happening, she chanted to herself. But run, run, run!

The sound from his throat sounded like a gurgled monster. It was easier to imagine a fearsome beast nipping at her heals than the man she had devoted her life to. Visualizing a gray, lumbering, sharp-toothed creature behind her, she pressed onward, sharply turning to the left, toward a gap in the trees to the open field. Rosalia wove deftly through the trees like a string on a loom. The ribbons in her hair flew in streams of pink behind her. A burn started to grow in her legs as she entered the shining sunlight.

Here she broke into a sprint, swinging her arms to give herself propulsion. The burn intensified and spread to her lungs; she wasn't a runner or very athletic at all. But primal instinct kept her going. Kept her running. There was a dusty country road a bit off that Rosalia took every other day to get to the nearby village. If she could reach the road, there would hopefully be someone there for help. She couldn't see it, but she kept on her plight.

She could hear him stumble behind her, a terrible retching sound coming from him. Every survival instinct cried at her to keep running, but her heart tore at her to stop. She dug her foot to halt herself, took a few calming gulps of air, and ran back to her father.

His arm was wrapped around himself, clutching his stomach, the other hand stuck to his mouth. His eyes screwed shut and his face crinkled in pain. Rosalia reached out her hand to him hesitantly. She forced her arm steady, trying to quash the damning tremors that ran through her.

He grabbed her hand, the other hand swinging down, blood dripping down his fingers like candle wax. Rosalia gasped and jerked her arm in his grip. As she struggled, he raised his gun, lifting the barrel to her chest. Rosalia wrestled her hand free, and thrust her knee toward him. As soon as she made contact, Rosalia ran backwards, getting distance between them.

A shot rang from the gun coupled with Sartre's anguished scream. The barrel pointed downward, toward a hole in his shoe, quickly filling with blood. He yelled, vomiting wetly, blood leaking crimson water out of the corner of his mouth. The gun slipped out of his hand, landing with a thud on the mockingly colorful flowers. Rosalia grabbed the weapon from the ground and held it with both hands at arms length in front of her. She shook all over, her eyes widened and her eyebrows met in a pleading expression.

"Dad, please, please," Rosalia whispered with frightened vervor.

He didn't respond to her, instead pulling out a switchblade from his coat pocket.

Rosalia would later replay the moment in her head with disturbing clarity.

Albert Sartre lunged, knife bared.

She panicked and pulled her finger back.

The gun went off with a resounding bang.

The aftershock of the shot ran through her arms, pushing her to the ground with violent force.

He stumbled backwards, vermillion blossoming across his shirt before falling down before her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Rosalia sat up and scrambled toward the body. She stared at the broken figure on the ground, at the blood stained flowers around him.

Rosalia lifted her face to the clear, cloudless sky and screamed.

-x-x-x-

She didn't really know how long she sat there among the flowers, unable to move from the spot where she collapsed. It wasn't until the sky clouded over with thick gray that Rosalia woke from her stupor. She blinked a few times, clearing the veil from her eyes. She shakily stood and took a weak step to the house. It's so far, she wanted to scream. She felt as though she could barely walk, but it wouldn't do to stay in this spot.

Rosalia slowly made her way back to the house, stumbling slightly over her feet. The hazy sky was an anesthetic, all she felt was… absolutely nothing. She was completely numb. The door didn't have any weight to it. The metal of the knob had no slippery feel. She sat in the kitchen, staring at her hands. The clock ticked in the corner like a metronome, on and on, tick tock tick tock. She wished to melt into her chair, to become a Rosalia-sculpture, as study of life in marble. She couldn't cry, there was nothing there to feel, no tears in her eyes.

Her stomach gurgled painfully. Hunger, yes, food get. Rosalia welcomed the distraction and motivation to move. She went through the motions of getting food. As she sat down with the rolled cheese and meat she made, some of the numbness wore off, panic creeping to take its place.

What's gonna happen to me?

Where am I gonna go?

Who should I call?

She knew she couldn't stay here. She was only 14 years old. Eventually she would be found, and the consequences could be very bad. Rosalia took a deep breath to cleanse herself. She would go to the village and call…someone.

She got up to her feet and took a bag from the closet. She swept through the hous, thowing anything that looked important, or at least what seemed important to her inside the bag haphazardly. An apple, a banana, half a loaf of bread, a manila folder labeled 'Rosalia' that she knew contained her personal documents, a wad of money from the ajar safe, a few pens, a calculator, her math notebook, it all went in the bag. She adjusted her shoes and ran out the door.

She made sure to specifically not take a path anywhere near the tree line. Skirting the edge of the rolling hill next to the house, she broke into a run, holding the bag close to her body. The wind streamed on her face and through her hair. Her body hurtled down the declivity, gathering momentum as she tumbled downward. The dirt road path came into view, dusty and bleached by the harsh Mexican sun. Rosalia skidded to a stop by the roadside, looking quickly back and forth for any vehicles. Seeing none, she pulled herself together and began to hike down the road.

She kept her mind off everything with a mumbled song in her head, a little melody that had been real big on the radio a few years ago, back when she still lived in the states and everything was good. Her brother hadn't liked the song because the lyrics didn't make much sense at all, but Rosalia did so he kept his frustrations to a minimum. He still told her it was a stupid song whenever it came on the radio.

Sweat beaded on the back of her neck as she kept on her way, feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust. She walked with determination and strong step, ready to get as far away as she could. But how? She mused the question, scowling with her thoughts. She knew she had the old orphanage and its number in her papers. But did she really want to drag them into it. She supposed she really had no choice.

It was a Friday afternoon and most of the villagers were out of the way, seeking shelter from the blistering weather. Any outdoor vendors were hiding in discreet corners, if they were out at all. Rosalia turned down a street where one of the few phones capable of international calling was. The building she went to was a little general store, with paper-coated glass fronting and a dirty plastic sign on the front top. There was a rather distinct smell of paint in the air, accompanied by covered painting supplies. The store was being repainted, the side wall being transformed into a mural. It was a big project, and one that Rosalia now realized she would never see to completion. She cleared her mind of those sorts of thoughts as she opened the door.

The store was completely overwhelmingly musty, the lights in that strange half-place between clean and dirty. The middle-aged owner, a man who inherited the little shop from his parents (who inherited it from their parents) who tended to pull his pants up and cut his hair blunt on the tips of his ears, came out with a grin stretched on his lips.

"Hola, Rosalia," he greeted, recognizing Rosalia as she entered. She was, after all, a regular patron of his store.

"Hola. I need to get to the closest railway station," Rosalia greeted politely.

"That would be in Monterrey. Do you need a ride, florita?" he asked, using the little Spanish nickname he had come up for her, due to her obsession with flowers and gardens, and the "Rosa" in her name.

Rosalia nodded.

"I can drive you, just wait por un momento," the man said before turning to his office and entering. A few moments later he emerged with his keys in his hand. He was one of the few with a car, albeit an older one, and would often drive people to the larger cities near the village if needed. He crinkled his eyes in a smile and gestured to the door.

On the ride to the station, he seemed to have enough good sense to leave Rosalia alone. She supposed she was currently emanating some vibe that told to just let be. He did put a hand on her arm in a comforting gesture, driving with one hand. The bouncing of the car on the road rocked her, and the kindly store owner cracked the windows to give a breeze that swept across her face. Rosalia couldn't hold on; she slipped into sleep.