dxganronpa here's the thingy again it's a bazillion words long whoOps

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My eyes fluttered open, my heart hammering faster and faster as the ceiling I didn't recognize came into focus. Slowly, I began sitting up, my hands slowly curling fists as I looked around the very bare room. Where the hell am I? I jumped when I saw Frank, leaning against the opposite wall with a can of soup in his hand.

Oh, right.

He was studying his soup can, scraping around inside with a fork, so he didn't seem to notice I was awake. My chest was throbbing. Like, entirely. Pain was seeping into every part of my body, some spots more than others -- right leg and upper body, mainly. Three blankets had been tossed over me sometime during the night and frankly, it was quite cozy

I was about to toss the blankets off and stand up, when Frank interrupted me, "Don't."

"Look, I gotta go," I was in no position to try to explain the predicament he found me in last night. I had to get out and I had to get out now.

He set his soup can on the counter to his right and moved closer to my couch, sitting himself on the wooden coffe table opposite of me, "Look, you've been shot. I've been there before and it hurts like hell. Just rest up."

Him? Shot? By, like, a gun? He's too... what the heck?? It's too early for thinking... I sighed, still planning on leaving. Me being here for this long already painted a hefty target on the poor man's back, "I need to go."

"Go where?"

"Uhh... my house?" apparently my sarcasm was still intact, "I've got shit to do there."

"No. You ain't goin' anywhere."

"What'd'y'mean I ain't goin' anywhere?" I raised an eyebrow, "I've shit 't do at my house."

"So I've heard," he crossed his arms, "Still ain't movin' from that couch 'till you're well enough to move. What's so important you think you gotta do it right now, anyway?"

God, he's starting to sound like an overprotective parent, "Well," with great pain I sat up a little further, the blankets falling off my chest to bunch at my waist, "I have some dogs and fifteen cats to care for, half-dead plants to water, gotta make sure none of them fools that jumped me last night are lounging about drinkin' all my beer. Y'know, the works. We good? Can I leave now?" leave and never come back? Probably flee Hell's Kitchen forever?

I saw his angry resolve fall a little. But he still snorted, pushing himself to his feet, "No. Stay put."

"Stay-Stay put?" my voice was incredulous, "I will not stay put, I don't take orders from people, especially someone I just met!"

"Stay. Put," he annunciated it with so much authority it made me think twice about taking orders from him, "Or you'll probably end up hurtin' yourself even more."

He was by the door, now, grabbing his jacket off the counter by his soup can. I noticed there wasn't any blood on it, anymore. But his face was still cut and more bruises had formed, "I'm going to go."

At least his lip wasn't swollen up anymore, "Where?" let's see how he likes someone being nosey about his business.

"To your apartment," Frank had the door open, and was in the hall, now, "Stay put."

And the door was shut before I could argue back.

But as soon as the door clicked shut, I made myself move. I tossed the blankets over the back of the couch, immediately shuddering at the contrast of air. Apparently, Frankie had taken it upon himself to attack my outfit with a scissors and various ripping, too. The shirt I'd had on was cut right up the center, acting more like a vest than anything. At least he left my sports bra intact, though it was splattered with blood.

I silently thanked myself for wearing the padded blue and green one; it was all ripped to hell on the inside, anyway.

I had so many bruises over my chest and abdomen, it was quite hard to find an unbruised patch of skin -- untouched, however, no. I had so many tattoos I was running out of room to put them all.

There were small, square bandages taped over spots on my left side and right shoulder, as well as near my left hipbone and almost right dead-centre above my belly button, and despite the stitches I felt, the bandages were still turning red.

I took the bandages off, tossing them on the coffee table.

My leggings... well, the left leg was still almost completely intact. However, the right leg of them had been ripped, all the way to mid-thigh. My right knee was heavily and tightly wrapped with a hefty amount of bright white gauze. It looked like at least a roll and a half, but yet the majority of it was a dark, deep red.

And the more I stared at it, the more it began to hurt, so I looked away, examining where I was and where he'd put my weapons. My black skull bandana and the ripped pieces of my leggings and shirt were all on the coffee table by the half-filled mason jar of bloody bullets and a pair of silver -- and red -- tweezers. And his scissors and gauze. And tape.

So basically a used first-aid kit was scattered along with my outfit.

At least the bandana was still intact. Bloodied, but intact. That was what covered my mouth and nose, concealing my identity along with the black camo-cream I smudge around my eyes when I remember to put it on. Which is never.

So forget about that part. My bandana had the bottom half of a skull on it and that's what went over my mouth and nose.

My custom-made, clear 9mm pistol -- I named her Delilah -- was nowhere in sight, and no, that's not just because she's clear. She's still got two bullets that you can see in the clip, and really, only her bottom half is see-through; the rest'a her is black-- the point is she's missing, and I paid an arm and a leg for her!

This discovery prompted me to swing my legs off the side of the couch. I let out a long, high pitched whine, but I still did it. The floor was hardwood, matching the tan walls pretty nicely. There was weaponry strewn everywhere, and most of it wasn't mine; aside from Delilah, I'd only been carrying one other pistol and three knives.

I ran a hand through my grimy, blood-caked hair with a cringe and a shudder, then dropped my hand back to the couch beside me. Using the coffee table and couch as leverage, I forced myself to my feet, and soon found out that I couldn't put any weight on my right leg.

Great.

Keeping my hand on the couch, I hopped over to where his small corner kitchen was, seeking out some Saran Wrap to wrap my leg up. My weapons had been placed on the counter, there, so at least I knew where they were. After rifling through some drawers, I found some and wrapped it all around my knee bandages before tightly tying it off. Then, I hobbled over to his fridge and swung it open, finding it completely empty.

So much for that.

I let the door fall shut again, just giving up on food all together. I figured if I ate it, I just see it again a couple minutes later and I'm in no state to make it to a trash can or the bathroom quickly if I decide to upchuck.

There was a mattress on the floor a couple feet behind the couch, complete with two pillows. I'm assuming the blankets that were tossed over me were originally supposed to be on the bed. And on the other side of the mattress there was a door that I could see was clearly the bathroom, so I started making my way over there, using the wall as my right leg.

It took a really long time for me to get over there.

Who the hell was this dude, anyway? Taking leisurely strolls through back-alleys in the middle of the night, getting the hell beaten outta him -- by the looks of it, constantly -- and lives by himself in a tiny apartment. Has a shitload of weaponry laying around, and looks to me like he's living so he can up and get the hell outta Dodge on a really short notice.

He was living like I should've been living; precariously.

I shook my head, finally having made it to the bathroom. It was as simple as the rest of the apartment; shower on the left, toilet and counter on the right. The walls were white, sink, tub and toilet a light blue.

Without another thought, I stripped of what was left of my clothing -- being extra wary about my knee bandages -- and stepped into the shower, ever so slowly reaching my arm up to slide the curtain shut The rest of my wounds were just stitched up -- not bandaged anymore, since I'd taken the bandages off -- so I'd just have to watch for getting soap in them. Otherwise, whatever neighbours Frank had would hear me screaming bloody murder.

It took me probably a good five minutes to try to figure out how to work the blasted shower, but once it was all sorted out and at the right temperature I was in heaven. Showers are the only time I ever enjoy the warmth, and right now it was just what I needed.

I bowed my head, pressing one hand against the wall while I let my hair soak, and at this angle I could see the purple bruises blossoming over my ribcage, see the various stitches running over bits and pieces of my skin.

Was it really worth it? Being forced within an inch of my life for seventy-five grand? In my mind, it kind of was. I mean, I got seventy-five grand! But, if I actually had died, I'd have left behind two dogs and fifteen cats and.... One human friend. At least Brendon knows well enough to take my animals, should anyone ever find my half-assed will I wrote four years ago.

Maybe I should give Frank some of my money... I mean, he is probably the reason I'm still alive. He gave me his help, whether I'd wanted it or not.

So basically I owed Frank my life.

Ugh. I hated owing people my life.

I straightened myself out and looked around for some soap, and found three bottles on a small, built-in shelf of the shower. So, I found the shampoo and continued thinking to myself as I lathered up my hair, paying extra attention to the spots matted with my blood. I mean, it was honestly my fault I got jumped, anyway. I'd killed off Gallagher, and as I watched his men scatter like rats, I'd picked off the more prominent once and decided to leave the rest go and get them tomorrow night.

That 'rest' that I had let go were the six that assaulted me. They even knew to take out a leg -- I mean, that's usually common sense among criminals, but I didn't think they'd be that bright -- and when I was poked full'a bullets and properly beaten to a pulp, they tossed me in the trash and walked away snickering about the whole ordeal.

So again, it was my fault I forced within an inch of my life, my fault I was trying to cut corners. The only reason I was down in this part of town, anyway, was because I was hired to do so! Acgh. I began rinsing my hair out, scowling at the shower wall. The guy who hired me had a really attractive assistant. That -- and the promise of money if I survived the assignment -- was probably the only reason I agreed.

He even said that to me, too; your reward is seventy-five thousand if you survive. That should've been a red light right there, that, 'hey, maybe this job is a bit outta your league, dumbass.'

It was pretty obvious that I wasn't thinking correctly, either. I never let things like that slip. But, in my own defense, I did just kill a major crime lord and all but six of his men, so I did kind of want to get the hell outta dodge.

With a sigh, I started conditioning my hair, flinching at my rib pain as I allowed my thoughts go silent for a while. It was after my hair was both blood and soap free, that I'd stole Frank's body wash and began thinking again.

As I washed the remaining blood off the rest of myself, I let my fingers drift gently over the stitches on my upper body. Luckily both the bullet and the stitching missed my tattoos over on my left side. I had none on the front of my right shoulder, only on my shoulder blade. My left hipbone, however... right through the middle of my Ace of Hearts tattoo! Ugh! Then there was the one that was right in the middle of my fucking stomach. God, that was going to leave a mark. I could almost feel it. But, what confused me about the stitching, is it looked almost professional.

Who the bloody hell was this guy?

I finished rinsing my body off, and after rinsing through my hair once more I shut the water off, reaching through the curtain for the fluffy grey towel I saw hanging under the window. As smoothly as I could -- which wasn't smooth at all, since I felt like I'd been hit by a bus -- I pulled the towel into the shower with me. A couple quick scrubs through my hair, first, then a quick run over the rest of me with it before I wrapped it around myself and slid the shower curtain back. I let out a quick, high-pitched yelp when pain shot through my upper body, my ribs cracking and stitches stretching.

As easily as I could, I somehow made it out of the bathtub without falling on my face. How I did it, I have no idea. But I had my one good foot planted firmly on the rough, tan floor mat, the toes of my other foot barely grazing the mat.

It was standing there in that moment where I realized my predicament; I was freshly showered, nice 'n squeaky clean with abso-fucking-lutely nothing to wear. My outfit was torn to shreds, and there was no way in flaming Hell that I'd even remotely think about putting on my bloody under garments, either.

"Maybe I can bribe Frank into snatching some'a my clothes for me..." I muttered, hobbling back out into the main room. I planned to flop my ass back on the couch and boredly await his return. After all, I saw zero forms of entertainment out there -- unless I counted the many crates of military-grade weaponry sitting around.

As soon as I noticed the jacket on the counter by the door, a gruff voice spoke out from directly behind me, "What did I tell you 'bout stayin' put?"

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear...

I screamed. Out loud, high-soprano and real girly.

Wasn't proud'a that...

I jumped out of my Goddamn skin and damn near fell on my ass, turning around as I tightened my grip on the towel. My breathing was heavy, and I glared at Frank, who was leaning on the wall right beside the door. Arms crossed, real relaxed lookin', though he was looking off towards the window that overlooked the street outside.

I let my guard down. That's why he'd scared me, and let me tell you; if I had two good legs he'd'a gotten a nice beating for scarin' the hell outta me, towel and dignity be damned.

"Frank!" I snorted, regaining what little composure I had left, "You scared the fuck outta me, what the hell?!"

His expression said, 'you're in my apartment' but his voice said, "Didn't I tell you to stay put?"

He was still talking to the window. Maybe it was me being only in a towel, dripping wet, standing in the middle of his apartment that made him slightly uncomfortable, "I was covered in dried blood and sweat. I needed a shower. Would you really want that on your couch?"

"That couch is shit, anyway. No one but you's ever been on it," he scoffed, turning his gaze to his boots.

"Y'ain' lookin' at me," I raised an eyebrow, "Why?" I knew damned well, why. I just wanted to hear him say it.

"Don't'chyu got something to put on?"

"Well," I began, "Someone decided to shred my clothing, so no, not really."

I had no quarrel with laying around in a towel, but apparently he did have a quarrel with it. He pushed off the wall, towards a makeshift dresser -- it was just small table with stacks of nicely folded clothes on it. He immediately grabbed two things, without even needing to search, first, and took a step and a half closer to me, holding them out.

I hesitantly reached out and grabbed the items from him. I could tell that both were well-worn and despite how much actual effort it took for me to reach out, a small smile pulled at the corner of my lips, "Uh... th... thank you." And I meant it. I honest to God meant it. I think I've said an actual thank you probably... three times in my entire fucking life.

It felt weird and made me want to vomit.

I began making my way back towards the bathroom to change, and hang up his towel that I sort of stole, and even though he still wouldn't look at me, Frank offered an arm for stability. I gladly took it. All this moving around was putting a strain on my knee, despite me not even putting any weight on it.

I hate being injured so Goddamn much.

"Thanks," I muttered, swapping out his arm for the door frame. In two quick hops I was inside and this time I knew to close the door behind me.

Black shirt and red-plaid flannel PJ pants. Comfy. I set them on the corner of the counter, by his shaving cream and razor. Then I took the towel off, scrubbing it through my hair once more before hanging it back up to dry. I glanced at myself in the mirror, then.

I was covered in tattoos and bruises.

With a deep breath, I grabbed the pants, the fact that I had nothing to wear under them only barely registered before I slipped them on. As expected, they were a bit bigger than I was, so I had to pull on the drawstrings quite a bit before they hung nicely on my hips.

Then there was the plain black t-shirt. Again, it was expected to be bigger than I was, but I happen to enjoy over-sized shirts. But, again, still nothing to wear under it. Even still, I slipped it over my head, then turned and pulled the door back open.

It almost hit me in the face.

With a snort and an expression that both clearly said 'I am done with everything in my life right now', I once again eyed up my current predicament. I needed to make it about... seven... ten feet, maybe, to get back to the couch.

"Need a hand?" Frank was there, still -- obviously, I'm in his apartment -- and he was offering out his arm again.

I shook my head, determined not to bother the nice man for any more help. So three hops -- albeit, they were quite painful hops that sent shocks of pain up my leg, through my entire fucking body -- and I was at the couch. I maneuvered my way around the side of the couch, and flopped over on it, laying my head on the pillows.

As I folded my hands over my stomach and tried to calm my laboured breathing, Frank sat himself back on the coffee table. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he finally looked at me. His brown eyes were damn near as black as his hair, "Why in the hell have you got nine cats?"

"Hey!" I grinned widely. Sarcastically, "You can look at me!"

He ignored me, "Why-"

"Fifteen." I corrected his assumption lazily. Some'a my furry little roommates liked new people. Others didn't, so they hid, "And two puppies."

"Fif- never mind," he snorted, "Why?"

"Why not?" I shrugged back at him with a wince, "I like cats, and I enjoy dogs when they don't attempt to rip off my damn face."

He sat up, laughing airily, "Looks to me like a dog should be the least'a your problems, kid." I raised an eyebrow at him and he explained, "Since y'run around at night gettin' beat up, 'n all," he gestured to... all of me, "Are they why you do that?"

"For money 't feed 'em ' such?" I asked, turning my attention to the ceiling, "Yeah and no. Money is a bonus, really, but otherwise I mainly do my... job... because there's far too many fuckin' people out there who need to be put six feet under."

He let out a dry, humourless laugh and went silent for a minute. In the silence, I kind of thought I hit some kind of nerve on the guy. Was he going to kick me out, now? I wouldn't blame him. I actually liked what I did as a living. I knew I was neck deep in the blood of... everyone, and the fact didn't bother me one bit.

It should.

But it doesn't.

Never have.

Never will.

Frank's hesitant, gravelly voice broke me from my reverie, "Was there something that...-"

"Triggered my sociopathic tendencies?" I cut him off, my voice having a bit of an edge. This was starting to sound a lot like my old therapy sessions back in Arizona, and I didn't like it one bit, "My therapist kept insisting that I was an animal abuser, since she was so thoroughly convinced I was. When she wouldn't drop the fuckin' subject I dropped her, instead."

Again, I was kinda worried about the impression I was making on him. I mean, I'd really like to jump this man's bones and if he figured out I was -- more or less -- mentally unhinged, I don't know how far I'd get. But, what's said is said and I can't exactly deny my allegations that I'd... attacked my therapist.

He only humphed, eyes wandering as he thought of what to change the subject to. Y'know? Change it off the final mental rubber band of mine that finally snapped. I think his eyes found the my left ankle tattoo. Or my right ankle tattoo... he was looking in the direction of the end of the couch that my feet were towards, alright!

Either way, he started askin' about my ink, "So, you really like your cats, don't you."

"What makes y'ask?" I sassed, "The fact I've got seventeen'a the lil' blighters?"

"The... the tattoo," he motioned towards his own right side as he made a half confused, half slightly-irritated expression, "Why?"

"Y'sure ask a lotta questions, don'chya," with a gasp of... well, I don't want to admit it was pain, but let's face it; it was a gasp of pain -- I propped myself up on my elbows and shifted to hike up the hem of the shirt I was wearing, just enough so I could see the tattoo he was inquiring about, "This'n's the one you were lookin' to get explained, I'm assuming," it was a cat's paw print inside a heart, complete with the quote, "No Heaven will not ever be Heaven be; unless my cats are there to welcome me. I sighed sadly at it. I got it after my cat Billy passed away. Despite me referring to all of my pets as 'my baby', Billy honestly was my baby.

I refuse to cry in front of this attractive, really kind stranger, "Yeah... I love 'em all to bits. And I miss 'em. Haven't seen 'em since... yesterday evenin'. So yeah, love 'em all a lot. 'm an animal person..." I trailed off, noticing I was rambling.

"I noticed," he stood, headed out of my line of vision, towards the kitchen, looked like, "You hungry?"

Starving, "No, 'm good."

He came back with a glass of water and handed it to me, "Drink it."

"What'd'y put 'n it?" I eyed it suspiciously, glancing up at him with one raised eyebrow.

Hey, I said he was attractive and nice. That don't mean I gotta trust him.

"Water," he crossed his arms, "Now drink it. You haven't had anything in at least twenty-four hours," he walked away again.

Damn he's good. I wanted to guzzle the water, trust me, I did. But instead I opted for gentle sipping, "Toss me a can'a chicken noodle soup," I called over to him.

"Thought you said you weren't hungry," he quipped, already returning with a fork and a can.

I liked this guy. He didn't question why I ate soup straight from the can.

Frank sat back down on his coffee table, again, offering up the open can of chicken noodle soup, "You take that, eat it slowly. Don't want you upchuckin' on my flooring," and he stood up, "After that, you get some rest."

What is he, my father?

I grit my teeth at the mere mental-mention of that man. But one look at Frank and my bubbling anger subsided again, mellowing me out as I took a forkful of noodles and shoved it into my face.

Who the hell was this dude? There was only one other person who had that effect on me!

"Where are you going?" I finally noticed he had his normal-jacket back on. Not the black one I was bleeding all over earlier this morning, though. The dark one he'd worn out to my apartment this morning.

The dark one he had on the first time I met him three weeks ago.

"Out," this man was so talkative, my gosh.

"Alrighty," I wasn't one to pry into business that wasn't my own, "I'll stay here. Hold down the Alamo for ya'."

He didn't question it, just went to the door, "'member what I told you," he reminded me again, "Eat and drink slowly, then freakin' rest." and he walked out, closing the door behind him.

I heard it lock.

But the thing I was wondering more about was the way he was talking. He said freakin' rest in such an exasperated tone that it was almost like he knew I wouldn't usually sit on a couch.

Or like he knew I usually didn't follow orders from people -- am I really that easy to figure out?

I sat and debated with myself over this topic until I finished my soup and water. And given that I was ordered to eat and drink slowly, it took me about fifteen minutes to get it all down, and with only a minimally upset stomach! Yay!

Then I fluffed the pillows behind me and was out like a Goddamn light the second my head hit the pillows.

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I couldn't figure out a better place to stop before this so sorry for making you read 4500 words :p