Without Pack

I've been told to try, if I have an idea for a story, to write it in a journal. Of course, that didn't work for me. I'm weird that way. Every thing that should work for me doesn't; and everything that shouldn't does. Or something along those lines.

So I've decided to gather all those that can remember in my head and write it all down as an autobiography. I can't think of anything more boring, since I myself wouldn't deign to touch such a pointless escape back to the world I try to escape. But some people enjoy them. And maybe someone out there will be pack.

To explain myself, I will begin with my name. Now, since this is public, I can't use my real name, dispite the intense importance it has to my story. I will use another, then. Rika. For the porpoise of my story, I have to reverse that. So my name is Akir.

Well, that's settled then.

Now let's place me in a house. I think I'll use my house; Toronto is rather an obscure place, no matter how popularly spectaculiar some of the more rich inhabitents think we are. And for a place, I'll settle on a make believe street. That way, on the next to impossible chance you think to look for me, you won't find me, and will be stuck wondering if this is a hoax.

Ain't I a stinker.

No, really.

I am a bit of a jerk, aren't I?

And now, let's give me a gender. I like using the word 'now', don't I? Unfortunately, seeing as this is an autobiography, I'm supposed to be at least half way honest. So I am female.

That's over with.

Now, most 'heroines'- though I would suppose I am more of an antagonist, what with my impolite and ignorant ways- have a love.

So, if you're not perturbed, I'll state the fact I'm pansexual- that means, I like the person, not the gender- and include that I am happily smitten with a wonderful woman who happens to live a country away.

Well, the setting. I have a park down the block. Not really worth mentioning, because though I find it quiet lovely, I haven't gotten to the part of my life where that matters yet.

Ah. The part of my life.

This is an autobiography, isn't it? I'd forgotten that. Guess I'll have to skip back a couple of years plus a decade and another couple.

That puts us around ninety ninety one, a year before I was born.

Swell, isn't it?

Too bad I grew up so fast, I really would have loved being a teenager. I'm just the right level of obnoxious.

Or something like that.

I like babbling, have I mentioned that?


So. There's a woman named, let's say... Marie. Second names- hey, we're moving somewhere at least, now!

She has a fiance. Hasn't introduced him to her mother, or really anyone- he's a spiffy guy. Tall, blond hair, nice smile, wants to work for Bell, and happens to be a Dungeon Master in D&D.

His identity, I won't lie about. I've never found him, so I feel safe enough to think that 'Marie' lied when she told me his name.

Heaven forbid she tell her child the truth.

Not that I'm her child; and not that I believe in heaven. But beliefs come later, so back again.

His name's Robert Donald Benkhewsion Paradis, say that five times fast, and he's gotten Marie pregnant. They're in a major spat about it.


Marie wants to keep the kid. Who cares if she has no job, no welfare, bums off her friends, is a habitual drinker, is a deceptive genius, a hyperdependant person, thinks marijauna 'just helps her relax' when taken more then once a day, and makes frogs seem like the 'stay on the toadstool' type.

Forgive me if I got my words wrong. I do that sometimes. Often, really.

He argues that they're not ready, the sensible chap that he is. She's a wee twenty three or so, and he without a proper job. His mother takes a righteous alliance with him. Stop the madness; this child would never find happiness, and neither would Marie or him if she went through with it. He warned her he would leave her if she didn't wait.

Well, remember, I never said she used her smarts for the right reasons.


So, Marie was carted into the hospital day of birth, knockered down with acid pops, and dear old Robert left with well deserved disgust. Who can blame him? The woman, though precious because she wanted to keep her child, was rushing to her own suicide.

Alas; the babe was born.

Hello, world.

February 6th, 1992, at 7:30 a.m, Akir-Eileen Bearrieau was born into the world.

And to readers? The last name? Purpousely misspelled.

A freak was born.

Marie, after that, did not give up her less then preferable ways. In fact, now that she had a minature 'friend' to treat around town, she worsened in every aspect. It would be a wonder the little tyke survived, except that the woman had a very misplaced mothering instinct.

Fancy that.

Two years without home, developing unusually fast mind wise, learning to do chores, never having met another child their age without seeing them also with their abused mother.

The child was well on it's way to mental depravation. Or massive temper tantrums. Or both.

But then, Marie happened apon a friend she hadn't seen in years.

And poof!

Or more, 'ugh', if we're talking details of child birth and how a kid standing next to the bed would feel.

A second more fortunate little one was born in the near end of the first one's third year.

But alas, all horribly odd family situations come to an end. Childrens Helpers, shall we call them, dropped in for a visit with dear old Marie. And thus, the day before little Akir's fourth birthday, her and her precious unharmed bundle of joy of a sister, let's call her Abigail, were transported via taxicab to thier new home, Akir bashing at the back of the car.

Already I was a violent behomoth. Ah, if I didn't despise myself so much, I would say it was adorable.

Now, we must introduce the second delightful introduction of human beings to little insanity bound Akir.

Her foster parents, let's call them 'Uncle Elliot' and 'Auntie Carmen'. For the sake of decency, I'm using some old friend's names to soften the blow even thinking of these two contrives.

That blow is guilt.

Little Akir was hell for them. Always asking questions, protesting, crying, yelling when people didn't explain things. As a first child over two, they treated her amazingly due to her massive headache causings.

The first episode, was the day the child protested they were allergic to green peppers. The child got their mouth washed out with soap. Not soup, soap. I know how to spell soep. I mean, soap. Not really a big deal; in fact, many parents still do it today.

Not that I could do that to a child. Memories sting, you know. Next, can't quite remember what happened, the little freak was lifted to a fan, sock in mouth, and threatened with death.

Perish the thought.

The next was well deserved.

You see, little Akir, before the foster parents, had never had a steady source of food. One baby food packet every two days was pretty lucky goings. And little Akir was also a sneak, who didn't want lima beans for supper, and a sandwhich a cookie and a glass of milk or juice for lunch, which was, by the way, a perfectly viable lunch and supper.

So, the little one crept off of the matress she slept on on the floor outside of her foster parents room, went upstairs, and hid a hamburger in her underwear, the back side, creeping back downstairs. But she underestimated the powers of a creaky ceiling, and lo and behold, there was Auntie Carmen.

And that was how she got the next days only meal.

I can't quite remember this one, and neither can the alter personality fragments from back then. From the flashbacks, I can gather the tiny monster was locked in a pitch black cupboard, after being convinced it was chalk full of venemous spiders, and on the outside of the door all she heard was scratching. Hours. Hours. The scratching wasn't there, but the child was already half gone.

That was when the freakazoid learnt she had friends.

In her head.

Who were also hallucinations.

Well, just one hallucination, that just showed up once.

It used a nasty word she'd never heard before, hit her on the head, though it was actually her hitting her own forehead, and told her to shape up or ship out, a saying she often heard at one of the many old places Marie lived at.

That was when all the unhappiness turned to a sort of blankness. She was her, but also someone else. It was weird, as if she'd been buried, though she knew she was still there.

The oddity recalls the police one the strongest, right next to the vomiting episode.

She was told that she'd done something bad, and the police men were going to come for her and lock her in a white room and she'd never see anyone again.

That was when her distinction between 'the dark is dangerous' and 'the light is safe' became null and void.

The most strong that the monster can recall at the moment, however, was the vomiting episode.

She was sick, and vomited up her meal. But she was so hungery. She hadn't eaten in so long. She wanted, nay, needed, food.

She ate it.

I'm not going to include the details, though she wishes me to.

It's her bad memory, and it's not my time to reflect yet.

Wait. This is reflection.

But still. I've already seen and been there, every time I close my eyes. No need, no need.


It's safe to say her little sister was kept in perfect happiness, being a little baby who the foster parents knew how to take care of.

That was when the tyke met her new mommy.

On a park bench, a year and a half later, an organized meeting.

She coughed up a minty cough drop that the woman had given her, and was given another.

Somehow, of all the weird things that had happened, this convinced her.

This lady was her mom. Or, going to be, at least.

For the sake of this, we'll call her Serenity.

Now, Serenity had a dog. That dog had been lying on the rug of Akir's new bed ever since there came news that she was coming. And this dog was there, peering out the window, when it was at last time to bound for freedom.

Let us remember the little freak of a child did not really connect to humans so well, having never gotten sane treatment before, and having never had a solid, safe roof over her head. Never mind that she probably didn't deserve it, the sake is, the kid was scared of other two leggers.

And here was a big fluffy dog, two or three times her size, a german shepard and collie with a wolflike head. The girl did not think 'pet' when she saw the female dog infront of her. She did not think 'doggy', either. When she saw the dog, the motherly figure infront of her, she thought one thing.

'Mommy'.

And because I could never lie about this dogs name, here it is. I never knew the exact spelling, seeing as I always called her 'Genny'. But this dogs name in full was 'Gennievive'.


And the child knew she was home.


Now, there's more to this. Quite a bit more, actually. Hint, humans can actually think they are a different species, without thinking out the details. Alright, that wasn't a hint. That was a dead give away.

But I have to go, for a while. Learn how to make chapters without having to spend money I owe the library for overdue fines, etcetera.

Review, please. If possible. Yes, this is all true, besides most of the names. And the place. And the mispelled last name as well. Though toronto is true.

This will be spell/grammar/etcetera edited in the future. I am currently only awake because of my inability to take naps. But I still enjoy some pointers on how to write better, or how to make things flow more. Just please don't insult me while doing so, I'm a pathetic fool who can't really understand insults aren't personal when from strangers.