For my senior English class, when I was seventeen, I was asked to write the story of my life – I wrote someone else's. When I read back those pages, there was nothing of me or my life in them, save for a name and a very large house.

Why?

Because sometimes it's easier to tell a story than the truth.

This is the truth, well, my truth, my real story.

The story of my life is the story of two years and two stubborn people, three if you count him, and too many long nights spent staring up at the stars with too much liquor and not enough hope. It's about memories and living and it may as well have been about family and death. It is my greatest victory and my worst failure all roped into one summer as my life. My life, it's all broken dreams, because if there's one thing I ever learned it's that life never gives, you have to take.

This is what I took.

And even now, I still wonder if we all made the right choice.

Chasing the Wind

By Kyra1

Chapter 1: Where the Wind Blows

I have always been lazy. This was the sole reason why I lived with my mother until I was twenty three. I wanted to leave. Really, I did. I had always wanted to walk out the front door, and down the slope of our long driveway, passed all the other houses in the neighborhood, and just disappear into the morning fog that rolled in from the sea. It had always been there in my mind, that thought, that soft whisper in my mind to just walk, but where does someone that age go, roaming about like some gypsy, and even I wasn't fool enough for roaming, so I had stayed in that large house on the hill with all its empty rooms and my mother with her empty eyes.

My mother, out of some sort of last minute parental guidance, it seemed that even she had a pin needle of, offered to drive me to the ranch that she had somehow managed to arrange for me to work at. Stupidly, I agreed. Together we sang off key to the radio, counting the cars that passed, and talked like men on those that we found attractive. We were talking, though never really saying anything, because long ago we had learned it could not be silent, never silent. Silence left time for thinking, and the thoughts that came during silence always led to arguments. Instead, we talked of the scenery and laughed at the trees that slowly fled the land like a woman collecting her skirts from a mouse.

"You look so much like him, sitting there." She never used his name anymore, there really wasn't any need. We both knew who it was she spoke of.

We were half a day to Arizona when she turned to me with gleaming, unfocused eyes.

Her thick honey curls fell to shade her face as she quickly cast her eyes away. When I was little, I would run my fingers through her hair, amazed that those long swirling strands weren't at all sticky like the substance it mirrored, until she'd laugh and pull me onto her knees and tickle me into tears. That was long ago, before I was eight almost nine and so very unaware of the cruelty in the world.

Soft and infinitely sad, her voice had shrunken to a whisper. "Like him in too many ways, you're your father's child." Then octaves higher, her voice rang cold and clear. "A rampaging fury that's too stubborn for his own good."

Somehow, everything always returned to him.

"And you're walking away too."

Even when trying to avoid our dance of sharp words and vows of contempt, she always managed to pull me onto the floor. "I didn't ask for this job."

"You wanted work." She said matter of factly.

"Not in Arizona."

One of her eyebrows lifted in cool disbelief. "I didn't think it mattered."

"You chose Arizona, so then why are you upset at me?" I managed to say before I flopped back against the seat.

"I couldn't find anything in Alaska." It was sarcastic, yes, but perhaps only out of despair.

I was desperately trying not to look like I was awake. I was nearly suffocating myself by slowing my breathing as though maybe I could somehow fool her like I had done as a child when she had come to check on me in the night. When I was little I would practice in front of the mirror, until I got so good at looking like I was asleep I probably could've passed for dead, not that she would've noticed. I'd squint through my lashes taking deep breaths through my nose; holding each one until my lungs burned and it tumbled out with me half gasping for the next breath.

She cleared her throat expectantly, then my eyes were open, everything but her voice fading away.

"You'll give yourself wrinkles if you stare too long like that."

"Hngh." I gave a little half growl half moan and turned my head to get a better look at her. Staring at her through the far corners of my narrowed eyes was really starting to give me a headache. Or maybe it was just her. She always did wear too much perfume.

The wheel gave a little squeak as she shifted her grip, giving me another one of her sidelong glares that probably could've meant I didn't raise you to sound like a caveman. But then again, she didn't raise me, and cavemen are probably a lot more articulate than we give them credit for. Take their paintings for example. I can't draw a stick man.

"You never could fool me." She said calmly as though she knew I was going to sit it somewhere between the rolling of my eyes or another grunt. I was part caveman, after all, it did run on her side of the family.

That was nothing a bitter laugh couldn't handle. "Don't kid yourself." Letting my head roll back to the window I gave another huff just in case she hadn't realized from the first one that I wasn't really interested in the conversation. "You only knew what I let you."

And there was her sigh, long and slow, sort of ill suffering over a question that you can't quite find the answer for and I could hear the tires churning up dirt, spraying the dust and pebbles against the bottom of the car like clouds of coffee smoke when you've just opened a new can and you can see the dark waving cloud. I always liked coffee. It's one of the two things that help me to deal with her. Coffee and liquor. Hard liquor.

"I was never an idiot." There was so much judgment in that statement, however flatly she may have said it, as though she were directing a room full of kindergarteners on why it's not good to eat paste, and I found myself blinking in that slow wheel grinding way that her kindergarteners would have used.

My tongue was itching to spit something back, to lovingly curl across each curse to - no, I would not be baited. "Of course not."

This seemed to satisfy her. She turned her attention back to the road as though it were difficult to drive the car down the road that never seemed to turn, and then she nodded several quick times in that half crazy way that people on the verge of a breakdown do. She lifted a hand to rub at her chin as though to speak, and then an old wooden fence post rushed along her window.

Immediately I was sitting up straining against the buckle to watch for the next post that followed. Mother lifted too, shoulders rising as her composure returned with each piece of the fence as if they were rebuilding her.

"About time." I moaned, having already pulled off my buckle. "You're like a little old lady on her way to church."

"You're like a bat out of hell."

This made me laugh. "Well delicate just isn't my style."

Then the house came into view. A person has really got to wonder: how does a place like that become so successful? Of course the natural question to follow is: how does a place like what? The house was pretty I guess, in a quaint poor country folk kind of way. It was white and small, despite the second story, and I probably would've sat there staring for the next hour if mother didn't clear her throat. Now I can't claim to know everything about ranches, because I had never been on one prior to that moment, but it just wasn't what I was expecting. It was like meeting your idol only to find out that he's really an ass. And you looked nice in all those interviews.

Realizing the car was now still in the driveway, I hurried to get out and get my bags from the trunk. No sooner than the last bag touched the dirt and the trunk closed, the car roared back to life. She did not turn to look back at me, though I heard her say smoothly through the open window. "Do try to be nice." And then the car began back along the dirt road, bouncing over the rocks while one pale delicate hand flipped upward in a silent goodbye.

At least I was mature enough not to give her the finger. Instead, I stomped several feet down the road behind her, fist raised in the air as though it were some almighty power capable of smiting her, yes Faye- real mature. And I guess I really should admit that it was embarrassing, standing there watching the dust where my mother had been. God, she was so selfish leaving me.

The dust began to settle and I found myself half dragging half carrying my bags towards the house. Though just shy of the porch, my makeup pouch commit suicide and leapt off the pile scattering tubes of lipstick and eye liner across the ground like little ants just despite me.

Someone giggled.

Instantly, I swung around to the sound, shoulders already thrown back. "Thanks a lo-" The words died in my throat before I had a chance to form them.

It was a girl. And she was barefoot, in the dirt. Using her fingers to comb out the pebbles she formed different symbols and faces while she hummed a tune that leapt and fell with each flick of her fingers.

"Hey kid." Admittedly, it wasn't eloquent, but it wasn't like I knew her name, and I'm sure eloquence is really the least of my worries.

A corgi leapt out from behind her yapping and then backing against the girl. "Ein's silly." Then she was pulling the dog over her legs that were splayed out ahead of her, his paws leaving little streaks where they touched her legs. "Who does Ein think Ein's talking to?"

"That would be me." I could feel my eyebrow begin to twitch in that dance it does when my patience is running low, or maybe there were ants in its pants. It was the one trait I shared with my mother, that shakey eyebrow of hers. Sometimes, when I had been especially "loving" it would twitch and shake till the point that I was expecting it to leap off her face, and then I would've bought her a card that came with new eyebrows inside. The square velvet ones that say something like "This is what you'll need after blowing out all those candles" and then the other eyebrow would've gone all shakey and I would've had to bought the entire card rather than just taking one of the eyebrows from inside, because of course two velvety square eyebrows are less noticeable than no eyebrows at all. And it must've been a whole damn anthill because in seconds after the girl continued to hum to herself my lip was also catching the itch. "Are you going to answer me?"

Suddenly she flopped onto her back, arms flailing bonelessly in the air as though they were just ribbons of skin, and that thought almost made me lose my lunch. "Oh." She blinked one large thought clearing blink and then grinned so largely I was half expecting her skin to tear around the corners of her lips. "Ein knew someone was there and Ed did not."

"Who's Ed?"

"Ed is Ed." She stared at me like it was the simplest and most well known concept in the universe and that I had to be several sandwiches short of a picnic to even think of asking.

"Ri-ght." My voice drawled with sarcasm. "And where is Ed?"

"Ed is here!" She waved an arm through the air, rapping her balled fist against her chest in unison with her words in the same beat she had combed out in the dirt. "Ed named Ed, Edward Wong Pepelu Hau Tivurusky IV!"

My lips flattened in on themselves. "But that's a boy's name."

"Ed is a girl!"

There was that shake in my eyebrow again. It was threatening to run away from my forehead. "That was my point."

"Faye Valentine?"

Immediately, I was lifted. I had finally found a being capable of intelligent speech. The being was male, tall, well built, and not at all my type between his age and especially his thinning hair, hell, for his age he was already half bald. As though it was going to make up for the loss on his head, the man had grown a full beard – men are such idiots.

Smiling I turned, better to face him. "That's right."

"Jet Black." He said extending a hand in welcome. It was large and calloused, with a broad palm and fat fingers that completely enfolded around my own.

My eyes strayed back to the girl with the boy's name. Jet Black and she really should've been Baby Blue. What a pair they'd make.

There was a minute of silence in which he ran his eyes over me, as though he really expected to come to sort of decision on whether or not I was actually capable of the work he had been planning for me. "So you're our new recruit." Jet spoke as though he'd finally decided my merit, and he wasn't to keen on admitting just what it was that he saw in me.

"You'll have to work from the bottom up, and it's rarely easy." Here he paused to rub a over the smooth back of his head, and I fought to keep the corners of my lips from turning up at the thought of him with hair. "You're going to be tired, all the time at first, but this is honest work."

Nodding but never speaking I just let the man ramble until he was ready to lead me inside, because if its one thing I'd learned from my mother in those last years of school it's that sometimes it's best to let people talk, because by letting them speak you can't make any mistakes. That and my mind was wandering, so I really can't piece together what it was he said.

My room was small. It was the kind of small that tend to have jokes larger the room itself from skinned head comedians that laugh more than the audience, and the floor creaked in places awfully loud if one didn't walk on the very tips of their toes like some escaped ballet dancer who had to have escaped, because there was no way a ballerina would live there. But I had a window, one little window with its view blocked by some sort of deranged tree that was tapping its leaves against the glass. The walls were faded though still very noticeably mannish colors, and there was no where in the world where I could've passed for a man, civilized or not. It was small and mannish with its whizzing fan that always had me pausing to make sure it wasn't about to fall, again, though it made me smile and I dove atop the bed, laughing. It was mine.

Jet was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, shifting from foot to foot with a low smile that was so much like one of those old paintings, secretive and all knowing. He moved me quickly from room to room, my mind scrambling the directions, desperately trying to sort out in which direction the kitchen lay, until I felt the cool of his fingers on my arm, and I fought back a shiver. Then his eyes were seeing passed me, and I turned to follow his line of sight to a bluish door. "There's only one other place to show you."

For a moment we stood there, staring at this blue door that lead to what I was sure was just another bedroom, and secretly hoping for the kitchen. Then Jet swept forward, bending to move his hand to the door when a slow hiss sounded behind us. He merely turned to the sound as though he were half expecting it, back straitening as he tried to play off his mild surprise, while I stiffened very nearly jerking away into the wall.

When I finally gained control of my heart enough that I could turn to face the new man, he was watching me. Chocolate eyes running across me, as though trying to discern my worth and then he blew a puff of smoke into the air. He was draped on the couch, long spidery legs crossed at the ankle on top of the coffee table while his hands dangled off the back of the couch. He lifted his chin and spoke around his cigarette. "What's with the girl?"

"I hired her." Something about the way Jet spoke, voice almost flat, made me watch this new man with narrowed eyes. Maybe it was the way he had weighed me with his eyes, or the way he was folded over the couch like one of my mother's afghans, all length, completely and utterly content with himself, or it could've been that it was my nature to approach everyone with suspicion. "You don't get a say in the matter."

This made the mop head huff with a crooked smirk flipping behind it moth wing quick across his lips. "Yeah, but what's she doing here?"

Jet shifted to grip his hips with his hands, voice lifting only slightly. "I said I hired her."

This made him sit up letting his elbows rest on his knees as he tossed a handful of cards onto the table top. "But aren't you the one that said this isn't a place for freeloaders?"

"That's right."

"Then what's she doing here?"

My hands were clenched by my sides, eyebrows disappearing into my hair line as I growled ready to leap the table. Before I could gather myself enough to make the leap, however, he had already stood, the couch murmuring excitedly at the sudden loss of weight. Without another word he slumped forward, hands sinking into his pockets as started down the hallway in which we had come, a slow whistle dipping and gliding back down to us.

The larger man dropped his head to the ground, only his eyes raising a moment later to watch the retreating form. He shook his head, voice rasping sandpapery thick in the almost empty air of the room. "Spike."

"Don't worry about him." He sighed, quickly clearing the remaining distance to the door in a few short strides. "There's still something to see."

In one swift motion Jet opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. Having to shield my eyes like seamen finally surfacing from the murky depths of the deep blue sea, I was quick to follow him through the door. It took a minute for my eyes to readjust to the sunlight, blearing white sweeping through with each blink, until the silhouettes began to grow in definition.

There was an audible gasp from what I later realized was me when the light finally faded and I found myself staring out at the land. It was green. There was so much green stretching out to burn against the sunset, and there was a large tree that drooped in the middle of the green where cattle were scattered below, tiny brown shadows like ants in the distance, making my skin lift and crawl about at the thought.

"Welcome to the Bebop." And then he turned, smiling for the first true time since I had met him, and looked down over the land.

Like I said, I'm not at all eloquent, and that may be my favorite quality in myself.

"What kind of a name is Bebop?"

This story is undergoing major revisions, and plot change, so be prepared for a long and bumpy road. I do hope that I didn't make Spike's first appearance too rough. And it seems that I really don't have anything to say about this other than constructive criticism is always welcome.