Hello to everyone! Although this is not my first fanfiction, this is my first Patriot fanfiction, so I hope ya'll enjoy it. I'm wanting to try to have a chepter up each week, but that schedule may vary, seeing as I'm a Senior in High School and have a bunch of college and school stuff to fit in as well. I really hope you like my story!
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone in the Patriot or the main plot of the movie. Merely myself and the subplot I created for mine and your enjoyment. So please, no lawyers.
I suppose every person dreams, at one time in their life, to go on journey away from their home seeking adventure, love, or wealth. To place their mark on the world and have their name written in the stars. I know I had wished, dreamed, hoped for something to take me away from this dull existence I called my life. I wanted to be free, to have fun, to go on some sort of an adventure. I had read stories of heroes and heroines who fought for a cause they believed in, who struck out and defeated a great evil, who found a love so strong and pure that nothing could harm it. That's what I wanted, that's what I dreamed of, that's what I wished for. And that's what I got.
High School Graduation. The time where one finally leaves the torture of required education and moves onto either voluntary education or the work force. For me it was see ya Connecticut, hello world! I was ecstatic to finally be rid of all the people I hated and had to deal with in high school. The big day came and went; I had to speak at the ceremony since I was second in the class. The people may have hated me, but the teachers loved me. After that I was home free. The next day found me packing my car, preparing for an end of the year road trip to Washington D.C to visit one of my brothers, Tommy. Once everything was packed and goodbyes were said, I hit the road. Looking back at the end of the driveway, I waved goodbye, one last gesture of farewell to my family, then set out the open road. That was the last time I ever saw them.
I counted myself very lucky to have lived on the East Coast for practically all my life and had never been in a car accident. I know shocker. What with all the speeding Mercedes, the erratic SUV drivers who are in such a hurry that they cannot wait the possible 5 seconds for someone to register that the streetlight had changed from red to green or the soccer moms with their minivans full of little heathens that would just love to make obscene gestures at you from the back seat. This was the world I grew up in. A world of speed, of crowds, and of assholes.
I am not a native East Coaster. I was born in a small town on the plains of Colorado at the end of the 1980s. It was a town where everyone knew everyone else and treated everyone with a kind of mutual respect. A town where the only entertainment was cow tipping and crop stealing. (Really funny but sucked when you were caught.) Unfortunately during the mid '90s, my family wasn't doing to sparkly on the money side of things so we packed up and moved the six of us, my parents, three brothers and me, to the fun and happy state of Connecticut. (That was sarcasm, in cased you missed it.) Why there? Well, Dad got a good job from a friend making almost twice as much as he was as a car salesman in Colorado. Needless to say, moving became mandatory.
It was alright for the first couple months but as I began to be a bit more outgoing with those in my second grade class, the teasing started. First I was the "new girl." Then I became the outsider with the really weird accent. I didn't hear it, but apparently they did. Finally I became the girl who would fight with anyone who looked at her wrong. Fights became a regular thing for me, much to my parent's disappointment. I was by no means a violent person; I was just emotionally unstable and got pissed really easily. My brothers, when we were young, would play games to see who could get me mad first. Gotta love family.
Well, life went on through the years. My brothers graduated from high school then college then went to live their own lives with their wives and children moving further and further away. Bryan went to live in Seattle, James to Omaha, and Tommy to Washington D.C, leaving me alone with our slightly aged parents. OK, they weren't that old, barley 50.
Anyway, I grew up in a place that I hated. I had only a few friends in the Drama club at my high school and even fewer friends at my dance studio. I was considered by the fun little stereotype as a "loner" and was shunned by the "popular" crowd. Meh didn't bother me. I preferred my own company, less to deal with. Life went on.
Now I bring you, dear readers, to the beginning of my story. Where the cliché saying "Be careful what you wish for" comes into play.
I was making good time on the trip, despite a traffic jam going through Bridgeport. I swear they had been working on that section of the road since I moved to Connecticut ten years ago. That's US workmanship for you, I thought shaking my head. Once past that I began working my way through southern Connecticut with no more problems. Traffic was moving, I'll admit a bit heavily, and I was having a grand old time bobbing my head and singing away to The Getaway by Hilary Duff.
Put the pedal down To a place where I
Heading out of town
Gotta make a getaway
The traffic in my brain's
Driving me insane
This is more than I can take
You tell me that you love me first,
Then throw your heart into reverse
I gotta getaway...
Can be redefined,
Where you're out of sight
And you're out of mind
But the truth is,
I can't even say good-bye.
To a place where I
Just as the song reached it peak, a tractor trailer in the lane next to me swerved to miss something in the road. Unfortunately, I was in the path of the swerve. With a deafening crunch, my four door Toyota Camry became a two door Cooper Mini and everything went black. My last conscious thought was God, please get me outta here!
Thanks for reading and please, if you would be so kind, leave a review. I want feedback and hopefully if you have ideas I loved to here them Constructive critisim is appreciative, but no flames.