Big Girls Don't Cry

 

Vicky woke with the immense fear left over from her brutal nightmare; her heart rapidly palpitating against her chest, threatening to push her into a panic attack. With a hand over her chest, for her vision was still breaking out of the dream, she gripped tightly onto the glass pendant that hung between her clavicles. Her breath came out short and quick, her mind reeling with images of stretched unmoving fingers, blood, a silent whispering cry, until, finally...nothing.

Bile rose to her throat, caused by images that were sealed permanently into Vicky's sanity, but that hadn't been so vivid or grotesque in years.

Sweat poured from her face and hands, making her feel clammy and disgusting. An angry, almost desperate groan escaped her lips before she ran her hand over her face, getting up quickly from her bed to sit in her bathtub; she had discarded her clothes carelessly on the bathroom floor of her personal bathroom just seconds before she came into contact with cold acrylic. Her groan became a whimper, her whimper became a cry, and her cry soon turned into a dejected bawl.

Desperate to escape the cold she felt, both emotionally and physically, Vicky turned on the water, making sure it flowed as hot as she could stand. Her hands slowly drifted down into the water as her eyes stared into the rising liquid, any ugly images losing vividness against the glimmering of her tears filling the tub.

She sighed, counting down the seconds in her head. 'Six…Seven…Eight…' The speed of her count gradually becoming sluggish as he heart continued to slow.

With the water nearing the brim, Vicky shut the faucet and looked to the small coconut-husk clock; a gift from her cousin, Lizzie.

'3:15… It's well past the middle of the day.'

Six hours. That's about as long as she'd been sleeping. Six hours she'd shut herself off from her fears. As if sleep would solve all of her problems. She might as well be a zombie, but, then again, isn't everyone?

"I want the zombie cup!" cried out the tiny voice from within the recesses of her memory. Vicky turned her head towards the door. It was awfully quiet…

She should check on Vladimir.

---

Droplets rained downward into the bathtub full of water, a sound Vicky paid no mind to as she grabbed the old, colorful Salvadoran towel from her travels as a young high schooler. Making sure the large absorbent piece of cloth wouldn't suddenly fall from her body, Vicky opened the door leading to her room.

"¡Vladimir!" She called curiously, wiping off some of the water that dripped down her face. Hearing no response, she called out again. "Vladimir!"

High-speed footsteps pounded on the floor, scurrying in front of Vicky, light brown eyes shining brightly and staring up into deep chocolate ones. "Yeah?"

"You ok, bebe?" Vicky bowed down to pick him up and place him on the toilet lid. "What are you doing?"

"Playing." His feet swung alternatively on the porcelain bowl. "Titi, I'm hungry." Vladimir looked up from his feet to meet her eyes, just as his stomach growled, evidence to the statement and brining forth a pang of guilt in Vicky. Her solitary habits were interfering in the care she was supposed to provide him.

She sighed in contempt with herself, but asked in as nice of a tone as she could, "um… How 'bout pizza?"

"Yeah!" Vladimir squealed in excitement, happy to eat his favorite food in the world–next to cookie and ice cream, of course.

"Alright, you go play and I'll call you when it's done, ok?"

"Ok, Titi." The little boy ran to hug her thigh, his head resting against the fluffy towel for a second, before scampering off to his room and leaving Vicky to herself.

Her skin was now drying, but one lonely drop fell through the thick locks of her hair and onto her shoulder, startling Vicky out of her musings. She sighed, gripping onto her curling hair and squeezing it above the carpet–not caring that it would get soaked–and shook her head.

---

When Vicky stepped out of her room, dressed in a comfortable black long sleeve off-shoulder shirt paired with some jeans, dressing after she had put in their late lunch–or was it early dinner?–in the oven, she stretched her back, earning a satisfactory pop.

BOOM!

Vicky was abruptly thrown back into her room, the smell of smoke and fire making her gag, along with the stress of the impact. Her head had crashed into the floor beneath her, safe thanks to the soft material used in the carpet. She made a face, an irritating ringing not wanting to leave her ear no matter how many times she played with her ear canal.

A cloud of smoke and, mostly, dust rose in her room before she was able to open her eyes, making her vision cloudy, though instinct helped her stand and find the door.

"What the hell?" She spoke finally, the impact having stunned her into silence. "Vladimir!" Her eyes widened in fear. The baby! "Vladimir!" She coughed out loud, trying to blow the dust away from her face, so she could see and breath.

The high-pitched scream of a child broke the thick, smoky barrier and, without thinking about it, Vicky propelled herself towards the living room she could barely make out. "¡Vladimir!" She cried out in Spanish, the language flowing out naturally.

Quickly, Vicky began making her way to her nephew's room, coughing and waving away the smoke from directly in front of her. She hoped he was ok! Why wasn't he answering?!

"Ow, fuck!" Vicky hissed, having unexpectedly ran her shin into the corner of the coffee table just outside of Vladimir's room. "Fuck… Vladimir!" She yelled out again, the stinging pain halting her for a moment. She placed her hand on the corner of the wall above her, as leverage for her bent form, leaning to rub and soothe her leg.

Simultaneously, a whir and a shot was heard and before Vicky could process what the sounds were, she fell back, having lost her balance when a hot searing pain flew across the top of her hand. "Son of a bitch!" She screamed, holding her hand close to her person, glancing down only to confirm that, yes, there was indeed blood pouring from the wound. "Vladimir!" She yelled, desperate as fear began to run into her to find the boy who was not responding, but frozen as she saw a greyish green helicopter staring at her from right outside her porch window. All of the blinds had been destroyed or had fallen off. The man inside smiled manically, the look on his face telling Vicky he was about to shoot at her through his large helicopter firearms, though he was no more than twenty feet away from her.

Instinct taking over, Vicky's legs bounded into the child's room an instant before bullets flew through her living room, destroying anything and everything they touched.

"Vladimir!" Vicky screamed, looking around the surprisingly clean room. Was she hallucinating or something? She clearly heard the bullets just outside of the room, yet this one was untouched...

A whimper came from the closet, to which Vicky responded immediately, running and searching through clothes until she found the little boy huddled in fear. "¿Estás bien? Are you ok?" Vicky asked, looking him over and kissing him in hopes to comfort him.

"Titi, I'm scared." He mumbled, latching onto to Vicky upon seeing her.

"Shh," she rocked him, looking out to the demolished lounge. "ya, it's gonna be ok." Hugging him tightly against her, Vicky placed a kiss atop Vladimir's head. Was that him shaking, or was it her? Vicky looked at her had; it was her…

---

Vicky and Vladimir sat hidden in the closet for the better part of an hour, the boy's room still startlingly free of damage. She looked down, expecting the boy to have cried himself to sleep, but was surprised when he looked up at her in return; though his eyes were wet and full of fear.

The halt of the loud, exploding noise had brought both relief and fear now that Vicky didn't know what was going to happen. But she had to be brave, if not for her own life then for the life of the boy depending on her. Obviously, her home was no longer safe and, if she strained her ears, neither was the outside if the frantic screaming had anything to say about it–no pun intended.

Vicky looked out through the doorway, maybe if she was quick enough, she could get them outside and to safety. Vladimir must have sensed her slight apprehensive movement towards the door when he gripped tighter to Vicky's black shirt. She looked down.

"It's ok bebe, we'll be ok." She shushed, cradling him. "Stay here, ok?"

"No!" He hid his face into her shirt, his small arms wrapping themselves around Vicky's torso.

"Shhh... Look at me," Vicky grabbed his face, placing a kiss atop his head. "I'm not leaving you, ok? I just have to check that it's ok for us to go out there."

"But why? It's scary out there. I don't wanna go." He cried, his lower lip trembling.

"I know, but if we go out there then we can get away from here, and call the police to help us. Ok? It's not safe here, understand?"

He didn't reply, but slowly released Vicky from his hold, his face displaying so much fear.

Vicky swallowed the lump of fear she herself was trying to hide and gave him another reassuring hug. She took a deep breath, urging herself to calm at the exhalation and closing her eyes as she did so.

Her face peeked out of the corner, hoping her peripheral vision would help her determine if and where the attackers were. With nothing turning up, she pushed herself farther into the living room, debris falling about everywhere and a high-pitched beeping coming from her kitchen–must have been her stove. The window to her balcony was completely shattered, glass strewn everywhere, feathers from her couches and pillows flew all about the place. Her home seemed as if it was a war zone!

At this point, Vicky didn't need to move any curtains to look at the outside–an appropriately gloomy afternoon apparently–and her visual scan found nothing outside. She stood quietly, closing here eyes and straining here ears, preferring them to pinpoint any type of nearby danger.

Vicky whipped her head back at the sound of feet crunching behind her, but instead of an intruder like she feared, she saw Vladimir standing just behind his door frame, biting his nails and looking to her for guidance. She sent him the sign to be silent and to stay there.

This was no time to dawdle, for the moment there seemed to be no trespassers–though danger was still afoot–and if they were going to get out of there, it had to be sooner rather than later, before they came back.

With one more reassuring look to Vladimir, Vicky dashed into her room, picking up the pink glass pendant from her nightstand and tying it around her neck quickly, feeling a bit more assured with it on. Making sure the ribbon wouldn't untie easily, Vicky returned to make her way to Vladimir's room but froze in shock to see a helicopter–it looked more like a jet plane–humming in front of her window. How she didn't hear it, Vicky didn't understand but shortly after she stepped foot in the living room, it started shooting. Vicky yelled out in pain, feeling a searing burn on her bicep.

"Ahh! Shit!" She yelled, falling to the ground to hide behind the television set. She had to get to Vladimir!

She stood up again, but every time she tried to move forward, the jet shot at her with more bullets, amazingly missing save for the graze on her arm and the deeper laceration on her leg. She was lying on the floor, trying to crawl without hurting herself further, but the pain in her leg was making movement awkward. If she tried going out into the open area, she'd definitely get shot.

Vicky swallowed the bile in her throat, tears threatening to spill in terror ad alarm. The realization that there was nothing she could do to save them came too late. There was another long blast, and the reverberating pirate jet turned 180 degrees.

From inside of his room Vladimir cried out, "Titi!"

His voice causing anguish within Vicky, she took advantage of the fact that the jet wasn't facing her anymore and ran to him; his protector. Out of her hiding spot she ran, ran like mad, feeling as if a mountain was rising up before her; if it wasn't for the adrenaline in her blood she wouldn't have had the energy. But when her feet maneuvered their way around her apartment and into the boy's room, she shrieked.

Just beyond the solitary window, Red Goggles quirked his head toward Vicky, as her scream had caught his attention. His hand pressed against the window pane.

Then there was silence…

For a split second, Vicky lost her auditory sensation as every movement slowed down. She turned to the closet, seeing Vladimir's arms already reaching out for her and, then, a black cloud engulfed her…

---

Marooned in his plastic paradise, Murdoc sat about grumbling in front of his computer and watching the Gorillaz backing band take the stage under his name, as they had been doing since early March. He should have been sound-checking with Bobby Womack in Camden yesterday! Not that he had the energy to do anything but snarl his green upper lip, having spent the previous night paddling in the murky waters of Plastic Beach.

Passports! Murdoc scoffed, wiping his face in annoyance. Oh sweet Satan, it was too much! How dare they deport him? HIM?! Murdoc Niccals! So he dropped the damn thing whilst being ejected from the USA by those fat LA coppers. He was Murdoc Niccals, king of rock and roll!

Murdoc groaned, exhaling deeply. "Oh sod it."

He had to admit, that motley crew masquerading as Gorillaz was doing an adequate job. But imagine how much better it would have been with HIM! Precisely by what factor his presence would have improved it...He dared say 666%!

"I migh' kill 'em off... I migh' just do it... No passport. Sent back to the Beach. I am a pain complete..."

Still. They were very good tonight, "despite my abstract interruptions." Bunch of stupid fucking twunts.

Murdoc stood, slamming shut him computer screen, feeling disgust at himself and the parody his band was becoming. Sure, money was good...But he still had a smidgen of pride in his music and now it was becoming a circus show. He walked to the lift, nearly tripping over the scrap floor of the entrance to his master suite. He rammed his finger into the third floor button, wanting to go up to his studio.

His hands clenched behind him, Murdoc released them for a brief second to press the button going to 2D's room; with any luck the sudden appearance of the lift would scare the mess out of the lanky scamp.

Ah, yes! Murdoc sat behind his desk, pressing the green button of the large orange remote, signaling for the curtains to close and the screen to come down.

"I've got my rum, my lucky lungs," he lit one as he said it, "a massive plasma screen." Murdoc stared at the various videos he could watch–past Gorillaz videos, new Gorillaz videos, an idea he had for when they began filming 'On Melancholy Hill'. He had everything he could want! "… Just no audience. CURSES!"

Bah. Murdoc put the screen away, reopening the broadcast of the "gorillaz" concert. And who the-?! What was this?!

"There seems to be a retired Admiral taking MY bass parts! All sort of grizzled and salty-looking! Who let him onstage?" Murdoc puffed away at his cigarette angrily, who were they to let some nobody play HIS parts!

"Oh wait…My mistake, it's Paul Simonon! I must say the beard does something for him–might consider a few whiskers myself…" Murdoc lit another cigarette, rubbing his chin after he took a drink of his rum. "And there's his pal Midshipman Mick Jones! Hello sailors!" Murdoc polished off him glass, pouring himself another. If he couldn't be an obnoxious drunk there, well that didn't stop him from being an obnoxious drunk!

"Oh those Syrians are good!" Murdoc smiled feeling the lovely warmth in his cheeks. The music, those musicians. They took Murdoc back to his time in Beirut, "-the Port Royal de nos jours!"

He sat lazily watching the band continue, imagining the times when he was surrounded by millions of fans, people waiting on him hand and foot. Murdoc's face nearly fell forward, as he was falling asleep and both of his hands were occupied with his choice narcotics. He shook his head to look at the screen again, only to frown. He thought that at least De La Soul might boycott these shows since he couldn't make it. The didn't. "TRAITORS!" He threw his glass at a remote corner, immediately sad at having wasted some of his rum.

But what else was Murdoc to do but wallow in his sadness and loneliness, talking to himself?

'Stylo' began, personally one of Murdoc's favorites. "Mos Def has a masters in lyrics dexterity! He's the professor of prolixity!" Murdoc sang, slightly oscillating himself in time with the song. Reaching for the glass that was no longer there, Murdoc shrugged, opening his bottom cabinet, which was conveniently filled with at least a dozen more glass vessels.

Then the glorious voice of the legend himself began belting out after the–no argument–angelic voice of Stuart. "BOBBY WOMACK IS GOD. Hang on, that's not right!" Murdoc downed his drink in one swig. "MURDOC IS GOD."

The band finished the concert with the single, taking a goodnight and prompting Murdoc to do the same.

"Oh well, I s'ppose tha' was another good gig gigged. Son of a bitch!"

The didn't play 'Broken' but Murdoc had spent so much time with it, writing the desolate lyrics that he couldn't help but begin singing the lyrics. "Broken. It's broken. Our love. Broken."

He sighed. Perhaps he would go throw stones at passing flotsam. Maybe he would begin on that search for Noodle he promised 2D they'd go on. Rumors kept coming in and out. Murdoc leaned back into his chair, a tingling sensation in his fingers, and imagined a time when he wasn't so alone.

"Bye bye. Bye. B-"