The Player Game

Chapter 13

Dedicated to my dear friend Anne-linde for being such a dedicated fan and for proofreading every word I write.  I love you!  I also suggest you read her amazing stories, my dear people.

Picture of Violet on the side. -->

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE AND COMMENT.  THIS IS IN THE WATTY'S!

“Reports of gang violence in the area have risen from ten to forty four in the last week, ranging from robbery to severe assault.  Twenty four year old Amy Sutton describes how she witnessed her elderly neighbour being robbed of her handbag, containing valuable family heirlooms and a purse holding five hundred dollars in cash.”

The screen flickers to the image of a young brunette sitting in what looks like an ordinary lounge.  A vase of multicoloured flowers stands on the shelf behind her, and the brown leather armchair she is sat in looks comfortable and new.  If it isn’t for the clear bags underneath her dim blue eyes, I would have thought that she was perfectly normal.

“There were a group of them,” she starts; her voice clear, yet a faint tremble can be detected beneath the façade.  Her eyes flicker to the window on her left warily.  “Dressed in black; some wearing hoodies, others with balaclavas.  Lilian was walking to her car- to visit her grandchildren, as she does on every Friday night- when they just came from nowhere.  It was almost like they had it planned.  I was only looking out of the window to check the weather, but I saw them charge Lilian.  They must have taken a minimum of thirty seconds to get the handbag and leave, because when I ran outside, there was no site of them.”

“What did you do?” a new voice asks, presumably the reporter behind the camera.

Amy’s eyebrows knit together as she twiddles her thumbs nervously.  “I made sure that Lilian was okay,” she answers simply.  “She was shocked, but not badly hurt.  It could have been much worse,” she adds as an after-thought.

The screen freezes on the thoughtful young adult, before returning to the news studio, where the reporter moves onto a story about the falling of electricity lines in a nearby town.

“You wouldn’t believe that gang violence would happen in our town,” a voice from the doorway mutters with disgust.  Startled from my trance with the screen, I jerk to life, taking in the disappointed expression of my mom.

I nod lightly, stretching and turning the TV off.  I try to disguise my anxiety by sending a small smile in her direction, which she just as quickly returns.  On the inside however, the angst squeezes tightly around my heart, a dazed feeling overcoming me.  My small town in California has always been a safe haven, the place where I have grown up.  Gangs don’t go around attacking old ladies in this area; that’s reserved for the big cities, with narrow alleyways, and dirty binbags strewn across every abandoned road … isn’t it?

I push myself to my feet, heading towards the front door.  “Where are you going?” mom’s voice calls out, causing my hand to pause on the handle.

“Micky’s house,” I respond quickly, slipping on my shoes and opening the door.

“Stick to the busy streets,” she says sternly.  I look back to see the looking-out-for-you expression on her face.  I smile genuinely, rolling my eyes.  It’s not as though I’m going to go wondering through the back streets after watching that story on the news.

I slip out of the door, only pausing to assure her that I’ll be fine, before taking to the crowded streets, and heading the complete opposite direction to Micky’s house.  Only a momentary pang of guilt hits me at lying to my mother, before I dismiss the emotion.  It’s not as though I’m going to do something reckless.  Instead, I follow the directions burnt into my mind, hurrying past the sign post Barry Avenue.