I'm not sure how many people still read Inkheart ffs, but I only just got into it, so I thought I'd give it a go anyway :) Like I said in the summary, this is movie, not book, based. This is simply because I have never read the books (though I fully intend to because I LOVE the movie, and in all the reviews I've read, they say the books are better :D)
Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart. I wish I did, but I would have ruined it a long time ago if I did so...
Also, I'm not 100% sure I'm going to carry on with this. I don't really have time to atm, but if enough people tell me they are interested and they don't mind waiting a few weeks for me to finish my exams for the summer, then I'll definitely give it a shot! ^-^ I've really enjoyed writing this today, and it's certainly a lot longer than the chapters of my other ffs :)
Alright, well, I'm not sure if there is anything to say at the moment :) Please, leave me a review to let me know what you think! I'd greatly appreciate it! If you'd prefer, drop me a pm instead :D I know there are some writers out there who get SUPER protective of their work and don't like to hear criticism, but I'm not one of them! I am a firm believer that constructive criticism is extremely helpful in developing writing skills. I would much rather hear criticism than nothing at all, so...yeah :) Any suggestions/things you like/ don't like/ etc etc etc: just let me know!
The day started just like any other. The shrieking of my alarm clock woke me up. It was almost seven in the morning, and the sun was barely rising. As I sat up in my bed, I ran a finger through my long brown curls. To stop myself from falling asleep again, I got straight out of bed and into a quick, almost scolding shower. It took me less than thirty minutes to be dried and dressed, pulling my hair into a loose bun. I didn't have to be at work until nine, so I still had at least an hour until I would need to leave the dingy, tiny apartment that I called home. To kill some time, I cleaned the dishes in the sink from the previous evening and put them away.
I lived alone, and enjoyed it too. I had always been a bit of a loner, never really fitting in with other people my age. I knew that any other seventeen year olds in America would be on their way to school. Even though I didn't live in the states anymore, I still found myself thinking of my birthplace often. England was my new home, after running away and getting on a plane at the age of fifteen. It hadn't been easy, but I looked older than I was, so it hadn't taken me long to convince the woman at the airport that I was old enough to fly alone. I had been a ward of the state when I'd left, residing in a neglected, run-down orphanage for girls; so I could never go back- at least, not until I was eighteen and there was nothing anyone could do about it. But I had no desire to return. As far as I knew, there was nothing for me in America.
I had lived with my mother until I was twelve, but it had literally been a case of 'now you see me, now you don't'. One day she was there; the next, she was gone. The day she left was the last time I'd seen or heard from my mother, and I never knew why she'd gone. At first, I'd been distraught, wondering what I'd done to make my mother leave and not take me with her, but as I'd grown older, I'd come to think that if she was the type of person to do that to her only child; I was better off without her anyway.
I had never known my father. My parents had met at a party and had had a fleeting relationship. He had been gone a month by the time my mother discovered she was pregnant with me, and by then it was too late. Mom had told me lots of stories about him as I'd grown up, though she'd always pretend that they were about someone else. I don't know why she did that, but I never had the courage to ask. I really believe that she had truly loved him and I know that, whether or not it was conscious, she compared every other man to him. I'd spent years hearing how very much like him I was.
Maybe that was why she left.
A few years later, when I'd been about five years old, my mother has discovered from a friend of a friend that my father was in England, married to a British woman with a baby on the way. I sometimes wondered if he had been what had made me choose England when I was planning my departure. I certainly hadn't been a conscious decision, but I could have travelled to anywhere in the world. I definitely can't say that the idea of having a family hadn't been lurking in the back of my mind, though I'd never made any action towards finding him.
I left the apartment a little earlier than was necessary that morning, but I slipped in an earphone and decided to take a slow walk. It didn't happen often, but if I was running late, I would take my car, but I didn't drive very often. Since I wasn't a legal citizen, I had no idea how I'd managed to obtain a license in the first place, so I didn't like to use my little, rusting vehicle for no reason.
It wasn't unusual for me to start my journey sooner than I needed to; some weeks I might leave early every day, but that morning, something was different. The only way I could describe it was that someone was watching me. The feeling crept along the back of my neck and made me feel uncomfortable, but when I looked, I could only see the farrago of children on their way to school.
Almost as suddenly as it came on, the feeling dissipated, and I cursed my over-excited imagination.
I could have walked the distance to work blind folded, and I didn't even have to look when I arrived at the launderette to know that I was there. I had only been working there a few months, and when I had first started, I'd been amazed when my boss, Doris, had mentioned the 'regulars'. At first I'd thought she was joking, but I soon found that she wasn't. There was, in fact, a group of people that walked through the doors on a very regular basis. Though it was no surprise to me, one of them was waiting for me. Larry was a big man; over six foot tall with broad, solid shoulders. His hair fell over his shoulders, and his arms were littered with fading tattoos. His hands were the size of dinner plates, and his eyes were a steely grey. Larry was at least sixty, but I didn't think he looked a day over forty. His old but well-kept Harley motorcycle was parked in the same place as it always was, as if the spot was his alone, and both his massive boots and baggy jacket were made out of worn leather. However, despite Larry's tough appearance, I don't think he was capable of hurting a fly.
"Morning Tweety." He chimed, his voice booming through the busying street.
"Call me that again, Larry and I'm going to have to break your arm." I replied good heartedly with a grin. It was the same threat I made every morning, and once again it was ignored. Sometimes, Larry would mimic me in a colossally awful attempt at an American accent, and that always amused me. 'Tweety' was the nickname that Larry had given me after discovering my first name: Sparrow. When people asked about my name, which they often did, I simply told them that my mother had never been one for conformity, and that included when it came to choosing a normal name for her infant daughter.
As per Larry's routine, it took a little over an hour for him to wash and dry the many pairs of black jeans and white t-shirts that he wore under his leather. Larry had become the closet thing I had to a friend, and while he had waited for his clothes, we had chatted casually. By the time he was ready to leave, the only other people in the building were two white haired, frail looking old ladies sat in the corner, talking amongst themselves. Larry grabbed his now clean laundry and leaned in to me, a serious look on his face.
"Now, if these trouble makers start hassling you, you make sure to call me, ok?" he murmured, maintaining a pensive expression. I wasn't sure what I had been thinking that he would say, but that certainly hadn't been it, and I struggled to stifle a laugh.
"What exactly do you mean?" I whispered, mostly because I didn't trust myself to speak any louder without falling to the floor in a fit of giggles.
"I mean if they start jumping on the tables or smashing up the machines; that kind of thing." He explained. I had no idea how he stopped himself from cracking up. This was the same kind of conversation we had most says, but this was by far one of the funniest, and most random.
"I'm sure I can handle them Larry, but if they get too boisterous, I'll definitely call." I answered, nodding austerely. Larry broke into a grin and shot me a wink.
"Good girl." He replied "See you later Kiddo."
I watched, amused, as Larry strapped his bag to the back of the bike and clambered on, roaring away loudly. I chuckled to myself and got out one of the beloved, dog-eared paperbacks that I kept behind the counter, settling down for a while until I was needed.
It was dark by the time I finally left that night. My shifts were always long, but I didn't mind because I spent most of each day reading, and besides: what else was I supposed to do? And anyway, at the end of the day, it was money in my pocket. Not great money, admittedly, but money all the same. The most exciting thing that happened was that a coin had temporarily got jammed in one of the dryers. It was on those slow days that I liked to play the 'What if?' game, and ask myself questions that I had no way of knowing the answers to; what would I be doing if I'd stayed in America? Which colleges would I be thinking about applying to? Would I be applying at all? What was my mother doing? Or my father? What if I'd chosen somewhere else to run away to? What if I'd...
The list was pretty much endless, and I never came any closer to figuring out any of the answers.
As I walked along, hugging my jacket closer to my body in the cooling night air, I thought about what I was going to do when I got home. I didn't really feel like cooking anything, so I decided I would just make myself a sandwich and curl up in front of the TV for a while.
While I mentally tried to choose a book to read, a sudden, quick movement in front of me made me jump, and I halted. At first I thought it was a rat, but the creature on the pavement a little way ahead of me was too large and long to be a rat. It didn't move for a while, and neither did I. I was a little disconcerted when it seemed like the creature was watching me. I took a closer look at the little animal, and furrowed my brow in a slight confusion.
"A ferret?" I muttered to myself. Where on God's green earth had a ferret come from, in the middle of the night, and in the street? I looked around; there was no one else around to confirm that I wasn't seeing things. I crouched down slightly, moving slowly towards it, but as soon as I got just a few steps from it, it scurried away. I straightened, almost laughing at myself. Where did I think I was going to go with it anyway? I guessed that I could have put it in a box and driven it to the local vets, but then what would happen to it?
"He doesn't like to be touched." Came a low, deep voice from somewhere in the darkness, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I turned to see a man appearing out of the shadows, with slightly hunched over shoulders, golden straggles of hair falling over his face. The ferret scurried up the man's leg and into his hands, and as I looked closer at the man's face, I saw scared on one side, meandering around one of his intense, clear blue eyes. The lower half of his face was covered in light stubble, and he kept his head low, as if he didn't really want me to see him.
"I...I'm sorry," I stammered, feeling my hands begin to tremble slightly. "I didn't know he belonged to anyone."
"His name's Gwin." He told me, though I had no idea why.
I smiled weakly as I turned away and began walking again. I could hear his footsteps behind me, and I teased my phone from my pocket, getting ready to send a text message to Larry. I could almost imagine him roaring through the streets on his bike to whisk me away, to home where it was safe. However, I managed to control myself for a while and kept walking, hoping that he would go away soon.
"I know what you are." The man called out after a few painfully silent moments.
"I don't think I know what you're talking about Buddy." I replied loudly, asking myself how I had managed to attract the attention of a crazy person.
"I think you do." He answered. "What happens when you read?"
"Noth...nothing." I stuttered, his questions getting too close to comfort.
"Out loud." The man added, and I stopped, frozen in my tracks. How did he know? I had never, ever told a single person about that. How could he possibly know?
"You don't know me," he continued while I remained rooted by fear to the spot, "but I know you, Sparrow Folchart. You're a silvertongue, just like your father."
"How do you know my name? And what the hell is a 'silvertongue'?" I asked, sounding braver and firmer than I felt.
"I'm acquainted your father." He answered, and I fought the urge to turn to him.
"My father?" I questioned, immediately intrigued.
"And your sister."
I forced and fake laugh and started walking again.
"You've got the wrong Sparrow Pal," I told him "I don't have a sister."
"I know where they are." He responded. "I can take them to you."
Again, I stopped and so did he, but this time I did turn, and I stomped over to him. It was a stupid thing to do really. I had no idea who this man was, it was dark and I was alone.
"Who are you?" I hissed angrily, searching for some kind of motive in his eyes.
"My name is Dustfinger. I promise to explain everything to you, but first I need your help..."
A/N 2: If you're reading this, it probably means you took the time to read the whole chapter, so YAY! Thank you! ;)