Title: Blue Skies and Butterfly Wings

Summary: "Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things... She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life." Rosalia managed to survive her father's onslaught and fled back to Portland, only to find nothing was as it was before. Rosalia-centric pre-game story.

Notes: Takes place before Trauma Team starts, obviously. For my friend who ran with my idea about this over the summer and did a short RP with me about it. Love ya!

EDIT: Changed to first person perspective.

Later, I would credit my survival to a few key things; I had worn shoes, after coming in from moving some heavy wood (I hadn't wanted to drop the load on my toes), and I chose to run in the trees. I made the split-second decision to dash into the densely packed woods. I would never know why I did it, but I without a doubt believed it saved my life.

.

Fear gripped my heart as I ran; adrenaline surged through my veins. I could hear his footsteps behind me, heavy and pausing. This wasn't happening, I chanted to myself. But run, run, run!

The sound from his throat sounded like a gurgled monster. It was easier to imagine a fearsome beast nipping at my heels than the man I had devoted my life to. Visualizing a gray, lumbering, sharp-toothed creature behind me, I pressed onward, sharply turning to the left, toward a gap in the trees to the open field. I wove deftly through the trees like a string on a loom. The ribbons in my hair flew in streams of pink behind me. A burn started to grow in my legs as I entered the shining sunlight.

I broke into a sprint, swinging my arms to give myself propulsion. The burn intensified and spread to my lungs; I wasn't a runner or very athletic at all. But primal instinct kept me going. Kept me running. There was a dusty country road a bit off that I took every other day to get to the nearby village. If I could reach the road, there would hopefully be someone there for help. I couldn't see it, but I kept on my plight.

I could hear him stumble behind me, a terrible retching sound coming from him. Every survival instinct cried at me to keep running, but my heart tore at me to stop. I dug my foot to halt myself, took a few calming gulps of air, and ran back to my father.

His arm was wrapped around himself, clutching his stomach, the other hand stuck to his mouth. His eyes screwed shut and his face crinkled in pain. I reached out my hand to him hesitantly. I forced my arm steady, trying to quash the damning tremors that ran through me.

He grabbed my hand, the other hand swinging down, blood dripping down his fingers like candle wax. I gasped and jerked my arm in his grip. As I struggled, he raised his gun, lifting the barrel to my chest. I wrestled my hand free, and thrust my knee toward him. As soon as I made contact, I ran backwards, getting distance between us.

A shot rang from the gun coupled with Sartre's anguished scream. The barrel pointed downward, toward a hole in his shoe, quickly filling with blood. He yelled, vomiting wetly, blood leaking crimson water out of the corner of his mouth. The gun slipped out of his hand, landing with a thud on the mockingly colorful flowers. I grabbed the weapon from the ground and held it with both hands at arms length in front of me. I shook all over, my eyes widened and my eyebrows met in a pleading expression.

"Dad, please, please," I whispered with frightened fervor.

He didn't respond to me, instead pulling out a switchblade from his coat pocket.

I would later replay the moment in my head with disturbing clarity.

Albert Sartre lunged, knife bared.

I panicked and pulled my finger back.

The gun went off with a resounding bang.

The aftershock of the shot ran through my arms, pushing me to the ground with violent force.

He stumbled backwards; vermilion blossoming across his shirt before falling down before me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. I sat up and scrambled toward the body. I stared at the broken figure on the ground, at the blood stained flowers around him.

I lifted my face to the clear, cloudless sky and screamed.

-x-x-x-

I didn't really know how long I sat there among the flowers, unable to move from the spot where I collapsed. It wasn't until the sky clouded over with thick gray that I woke from my stupor. I blinked a few times, clearing the veil from my eyes. I shakily stood and took a weak step to the house. It's so far, I wanted to scream. I felt as though I could barely walk, but it wouldn't do to stay in this spot.

I slowly made my way back to the house, stumbling slightly over my feet. The hazy sky was an anesthetic, all I felt was… absolutely nothing. I was completely numb. The door didn't have any weight to it. The metal of the knob had no slippery feel. I sat in the kitchen, staring at my hands. The clock ticked in the corner like a metronome, on and on, tick tock tick tock. I wanted to melt into my chair, to become a Rosalia-sculpture, a study of life in marble. I couldn't cry, there was nothing there to feel, no tears in my eyes.

My stomach gurgled painfully. Hunger, yes, food get. I welcomed the distraction and motivation to move. I went through the motions of getting food. As I sat down with the rolled cheese and meat I made, some of the numbness wore off, panic creeping to take its place.

What's gonna happen to me?

Where am I gonna go?

Who should I call?

I knew I couldn't stay here. I was only 14 years old. Eventually I would be found, and the consequences could be very bad. I took a deep breath to cleanse myself. I would go to the village and call…someone.

I got up to my feet and took a bag from the closet. I swept through the house, throwing anything that looked important, or at least what seemed important to my inside the bag haphazardly. An apple, a banana, half a loaf of bread, a manila folder labeled 'Rosalia' that I knew contained my personal documents, a wad of money from the ajar safe, a few pens, a calculator, my math notebook, it all went in the bag. I adjusted my shoes and ran out the door.

I made sure to specifically not take a path anywhere near the tree line. Skirting the edge of the rolling hill next to the house, I broke into a run, holding the bag close to my body. The wind streamed on my face and through my hair. My body hurtled down the declivity, gaining momentum as I tumbled downward. The dirt road path came into view, dusty and bleached by the harsh Mexican sun. I skidded to a stop by the roadside, looking quickly back and forth for any vehicles. Seeing none, I pulled myself together and began to hike down the road.

I kept my mind off everything with a mumbled song in my head, a little melody that had been real big on the radio a few years ago, back when I still lived in the states and everything was good. My brother hadn't liked the song because the lyrics didn't make much sense at all, but I did so he kept his frustrations to a minimum. He still told me it was a stupid song whenever it came on the radio.

Sweat beaded on the back of my neck as I kept on my way, feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust. I walked with determination and strong step, ready to get as far away as I could. But how? I mused the question, scowling with my thoughts. I knew I had the old orphanage and its number in my papers. But did I really want to drag them into it.

It was a Friday afternoon and most of the villagers were out of the way, seeking shelter from the blistering weather. Any outdoor vendors were hiding in discreet corners, if they were out at all. I turned down a street where one of the few phones capable of international calling was. The building I went to was a little general store, with paper-coated glass fronting and a dirty plastic sign on the front top. There was a rather distinct smell of paint in the air, accompanied by covered painting supplies. The store was being repainted, the side wall being transformed into a mural. It was a big project, and one that I now realized I would never see to completion. I cleared my mind of those sorts of thoughts as I opened the door.

The store was completely overwhelmingly musty, the lights in that strange half-place between clean and dirty. The middle-aged owner, a man who inherited the little shop from his parents (who inherited it from their parents) who tended to pull his pants up and cut his hair blunt on the tips of his ears, came out with a grin stretched on his lips.

"Hola, Rosalia," he greeted, recognizing me as I entered. I was, after all, a regular patron of his store.

"Hola. I need to get to the closest railway station," I greeted politely.

"That would be in Monterrey. Do you need a ride, florita?" he asked, using the little Spanish nickname he had come up for my, due to my obsession with flowers and gardens, and the "Rosa" in my name.

I nodded.

"I can drive you, just wait por un momento," the man said before turning to his office and entering. A few moments later he emerged with his keys in his hand. He was one of the few with a car, albeit an older one, and would often drive people to the larger cities near the village if needed. He crinkled his eyes in a smile and gestured to the door.

On the ride to the station, he seemed to have enough good sense to leave me alone. I supposed I was currently emanating some vibe that told to just let be. He did put a hand on my arm in a comforting gesture, driving with one hand. The bouncing of the car on the road rocked my, and the kindly store owner cracked the windows to give a breeze that swept across my face. I couldn't hold on; I slipped into sleep.

NEXT CHAPTER!

Rosalia gets back home, but doesn't know who to contact.

Um, so this is going to be a multichaptered thing, and I'm going to try really hard to be prompt and not procrastinate super hard. I really want to get a beta reader on board (to help with plot, writing, timeliness).

I got the idea for this late at night one summer day while getting the medals for Carpet of Blue Death. I texted my friend in extreme happiness, and thus this plot was born.

Peas read and review!