Chapter 1

My first push fan fiction, characters may be slightly OOC. Push does not belong to me.

Way Back

1. March, 2009

I look around the dimly lit room before dropping my duffel bag to the ground, and plopping myself down onto the narrow single bed that was in the middle of the room.

Looking around I see a chair and a desk with a small TV on top of it. There is also a bed-side table, but there's no wardrobe or drawers. It doesn't matter. I don't have anything to fill them with anyway. Besides I'm not going to stay here long; I never really stay anywhere for longer than one or two weeks.

I look up at the ceiling that must have been a nice light cream colour a very long time ago. My forehead creases and I frown, unable again to See her. Sarah. My mother.

It shouldn't surprise me really, I had never been able to See my mother ever since she was taken, some three years ago. The closest I had been to getting my mother back had been when I finally met Nick, eighteen or so months ago, and even that had failed. Both Nick and I had decided to use the syringe in some way to get my mother out, but then Kira had come along and sweet-talked Nick into destroying it. It will be better, safer like this. We can find some other way to get her mother out, she'd said, and he agreed. Just like that. She didn't even have to Push him, all she needed to do was look at him with those sad, pleading brown eyes of hers. I huff angrily. That was the day I left. One year ago.

I remember it clearly. I just walked out when they were asleep. It is better this way, I remember thinking, it's not like I could've taken much more of Kira anyway; besides it's not like Nick had to take care of me, I wasn't his sister and I wasn't his daughter. I was just some girl who had barged into his life (and apartment) and brought a whole lot of trouble with her. No. It's better this way, I think once again.

2. June, 2009

I walk into the bar, trying to look like I belong there, knowing from experience that no one will give me a second look as long as I don't look like some scared and lost little girl. I sit on one of the high stools, ignore the barman who is cleaning glasses looking bored. I give the TV hung up on the wall a fleeting look; there's some football* game on that nobody is watching, the score is tied and there's only seven minutes left. I stare down at the table top. There are glass marks everywhere and when I touch it, if feels sticky. I wonder briefly when was the last time someone cleaned it. Running the tip of my index finger from one side to the other, I look at the inscriptions made there. There are names: Bobby Jhones, Jay Smith, Tony Camplin, there are dates too, and a mixture of swear words and crude drawings. My eyes run over them until they stop on a specific one: Cassie Holmes. Today's date is written right next to it. I focus on the short message written under it until my eyes start watering. I blink then, and suddenly I'm not looking at engraved words on the top of a dirty balcony, instead I see a man: black hair, short stature, mean face. He has just walked into the bar I'm in right now and he is looking around until his gaze falls on the blonde girl sitting alone at the bar. I concentrate then, slowing down the vision so I can look up at the TV once again. The score, I see, is still the same, but there is only one minute left until the end of the game. With a bit of effort, I push the vision out, not needing to See the outcome of this encounter.

I look up at the TV. There are four minutes left. I walk quickly into the ladies room, already knowing there's a window there. Climbing out of it is easy, I've done it enough times.

As soon as my feet hit the cemented ground outside I start running in the opposite direction I know he is coming from. I can't afford to let him see me, and go on another wild chase. I've already done that today and I know I won't be able to run for much longer. As I run I think about the message on the balcony. The words felt as permanently engraved on my mind as they were on that old piece of mahogany. 'Go to him' it said. But I've already done that mum, I think, I've already found him like you wanted me to.

Still running and valiantly holding back my tears, I try very hard to forget that the word 'back' was also there in that sentence, put there only to haunt me. That short, short sentence which was all my mother had left me.