(Dear Mods,
Sorry if parts of this are too graphic for these forums, I tryed to be detailed yet not too detailed. Again, I apoligize if this material is offensive.)

The crisp sound of an acoustic guitar, interupted only by short bursts of gunfire in the distance, filled the night's sky. A small flame lit the center of their camp while the bright stars seemed to consume the earth. The smell of a wild animal, roasting on the open flame, teased their nostrils. Rhea was a captivating woman in her mid twenties. Her dusty hair was shoulder length and dark brown. Her eyes were a lighter, more vibrant, blue. Rhea was slender and fast on her feet. She would often times run at least once a day and no less than five miles at a time. Her health was important to her and she wasn't willing to risk it due to being slow. Much of Rhea's life lay wasted somewhere in a holding cell. Exercise was one of the only luxuries the slavers bestowed on her and the others. A weak slave is a cheap slave. She wasn't captured, she was born there. Her mother was captured by slavers whom may very well have been the ones to impregnate her. Rhea's mother died during the birth, which in itself is amazing that she wasn't still-born, due to the horrible stories the slavers told Rhea about her mother and the evil things that they did to her. Rhea would experience those evils personally as she grew up into a young girl. She remembered one slaver in particular.

"McCoy! What the [censored] are you doing!?" yelled a man's voice, faintly, from outside the door.
"She's finally ready!" yelled another man's voice which appeared much closer than the previous one.

The steel door made a clanking sound and squeeked open, slowly, steadily. The light from the hallway beyond the door shown in on the ground more and more until the only thing shading her eye's from the brightness was a man's silhouette. He took two steps forward and the door seemed to close on it's own behind him. They were in the dark.

"It's your birthday." He said holding back a chuckle.

His voice was sickly excited, yet completely calm. It seemed as if it was his favorite past-time, although like drugs, each time after the first is only partly as satisfying. She automatically knew what horrors awaited her. These events went on an uncountable number of times throughout her long stay. Most of these events she couldn't recall, as if she'd blocked them from her mind. But she remembered one. She never seen the mans face, McCoy's, but she knew him from other things. Kind of like a normal person would navigate their home in the pitch black without so much as stubbing a toe on the coffee table. There again his silhouette entered the door. Rhea was used to it by now, she no longer feared, she loathed. She hated McCoy with a passion, with every bone in her body. Only this time it was different.

"Hey there sweetheart," McCoy said in his perverted voice, "I wanna introduce you to someone, he's our newest recruit."
Another dark figure entered the doorway and stepped through, and as usual the door seemed to float to it's closed destination.
"Treat him nicely." McCoy said with an unseen smirk on his face.

Rhea suddenly heard no ambience, as if she'd become deaf. Only she hadn't, she could still hear the nervous breathing of the new guy over the calm almost silent breathes of McCoy's. The inexperienced "slaver", if he had even earned the title yet, stood over Rhea. McCoy was standing in the back corner of her cell, he probably expected to be next. An almost silent groan was released from the young slaver's mouth.

"Done already?" McCoy said surprised.

Suddenly McCoy felt a slight cold pain in his gut. Rhea had spotted the knife on the young slaver's hip as he stood in the door way. The light reflected off the blade as if God himself had planted it there for her. As the young raider laid upon Rhea she grabbed the knife quietly and slowly. She brought it across his throat, cutting through his jugular, the wound gushed every ounce of blood his heart pumped. She laid him over and came to a crouch then lunged the well gripped blade into McCoy's stomach. Warm blood trickled over her tightening clenched fingers and into every crevice between them. McCoy's hands gripped her shoulders causing her to push the blade even deeper into his belly. She could swear the blade hit his spine from the front. For the first time she felt pleasure. six no longer meant anything to her, but killing the one who tormented her for so long, this was satisfaction at it's peak. She sat in her cell with the two bodies and time itself seemed to escape her.

"Holy [censored]" yelled a voice that seemed to have come from her dreams.

She woke calmly, with no expression on her face, with no sense of fear. She expected death, she wanted death, for she had her vengeance and it was the only thing that she felt could await her now. It didn't come. Two slavers rushed into the room and grabbed her tightly by each of her arms. Her legs bounced along the ground as she was pulled through the hallway. She was pulled through another door, at that point she felt a difference in the air. She opened her eyes to see a sky full of stars. The site astonished her and at that moment she found something to live for. There was more to life than odorous animals called men and a dark musty cell. She pulled her arm free and fell to the ground. Before the slaver could come back to grab her again she stabbed him in the throat with the knife she had hidden in between her back and her pants. She then swung around and buried the knife deeply into the second slavers skull. She left it there. Her hands shook as the adrenaline once again took over. Rhea's breathing became sporatic as did her thoughts. She was alone again, only this time the only thing that seperated her from freedom was a fence and she raced toward it. Rhea didn't stop running, time again escaped her existance as she sprinted through the wasteland, until at last she was out of breath and strength. She laid in the corner of a, mostly destroyed, building. She breathed deeply and progressively slowly before closing her eyes.

"Holy [censored]" said a voice, once again seemingly belching out from within her very own mind, jerking her out of her own dream world.

She opened her eyes and was immediately greeted by a low lying sun. Standing before her was a man and she instantly jumped to her feet. She seen the look in the man's eyes, it was unlike any other that she had experienced. She didn't know what the it meant. Rhea looked down at herself and realized what blood wasn't washed off from the sweat was dried upon her cloths, skin, and under her fingernails. In the corner of her eye should could see an armored man pointing a pistol in her direction. She then focused back on the man who woke her. He knelt down and outstretched a bottle of water toward her. She took it and in a hurry began gulping it down.

"I'm not gonna ask what happened to you" he said, "but I promise you'll be safer with us than out here on your own."

That's how she met Mr. Marks, the traveling tradesmen, and about ten years later they were still together. Mr. Marks was the one who gave the name 'Rhea' to her. He said it was his late wife's name. Mr. Marks became to her what she had never experienced before. The only man she could trust and the only man she has ever loved, the closest thing to a father she has ever know.


(There is much more to come, as soon as I get some feedback or I get bored I'll begin working on the next installment. Thankyou for reading.)

Keep working even if you don't get feedback. If you have enough done and enough care put into your characters, enough content, people will respond, they'll read to see what all the fuss is about.

As soon as I read this, I needed to comment it. I love the way you can use the words and have the reader experience the same traumas your charater faces. I believe you did a wonderful job and wish for you to continue this story. I am now a fan :vaultboy:

John Mostfer on the other hand was quite the smoker and drinker. He always joked with Rhea saying, 'I'de rather die looking my enemy in the eyes than running from it.' It' being the keyword. The enemy wasn't always a human being, in fact, John considered himself lucky if it was in some situations. John was large framed and preferred his weapons be the same. He wore his dirty blonde hair in a short military style and would often stare through glassy, drunken, green eyes. He visually appeared to be in his upper thirties. His eyes burned with regret as if you could see his very soul through them. He and his family were drifters, moving from one place to another only long enough to get comfortable. John's father was an alcoholic and regularly beat him, as well as his mother, in John's teen years. 'Once you become a man, you should be tough like one.' his father always said. John was forced into sometimes competitive "training" with his father and other times it was completely random beatdowns influenced by whatever pre-war liquor his father drank that night. Despite the fierce beatings, John's father handed out regularly, he kept the family fed. That's why John feared him the most. Without his father, he feared, they would fall victim to the dangers of the wasteland. Only one night it was too much for him to handle. They lived in a small intact apartment building in California. John, at age eighteen, sat in his room alone. He could hear his father argueing with his mother downstairs. It came to him as no surprise, for it was almost an every night event, and he looked over to his travel bag. The bag was packed simply in case they had to move again. Inside were various supplies that they would need as well as an old 38. pistol. The argueing downstairs soon became screaming pleads of mercy, which turned into the thumping and crashing of an overpowering scuffle. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was his practice, he would wait until his father came up for him, he would take what was going to be dealt.
Several minutes later the screaming stopped and so did the smashing. John's eyes opened wide and he thought the worst. He knew his father had gone too far this time. He shuffled to the bag and grabbed the already loaded 38. revolver. Adrenaline filled his bloodstream and he could only see red. If his father took his mother's life, he would make him pay for it. John went down the creaky stairs with no intention of being quiet. The thumping of his feet on the weak stairs sounded as a war drum. Pumping only more adrenaline as he came down the stairs violently. He came to the bottom of the seemeingly endless stairs and to the right laid his mother. His father was standing over her in the living room, breathing heavily, with his fists still clenched.

"What did you do." John said progressively raising his voice.
John's father turned slowly and John could see the rage in his father's eyes through the iron sights.
"You gonna shoot or what you little [censored]." His father said as he took a man sized step toward him.

John's thoughts drifted back to the time when his dad was teaching him how to use the very weapon he was aiming at the older man. He stood outside of their settlement, at age 9, and fired at empty cola bottles. It sounded nice enough, only he wasn't rewarded for hitting the target yet he was punished with a swift slap to the back of his shaved head for missing. His memory was interrupted by the resonant sound of a .38 round beng jolted through the air. John's finger tightened on it's own around the trigger, he never meant to pull it. He lowered the pistol and his father seemed to fall with it. He clutched his throat and blood ran thick and fast from the covered wound. The man's eyes never left John until his face was on the floor and he laid in his own puddle of vital fluid. All but John's trigger finger let loose and the pistol hung from it. Eventually the weight of the .38 caused it to fall from the last finger and it crashed to the ground. John's mother pushed herself from the ground and sat indian style. Her face bled from each orifice and a tear drop seemed to clear a line through the red as it fell from her eye. She wasn't crying because she was hurt. She cryed because she actually did love John's father, for whatever reason, she still did.
Week's passed while John and his mother stayed in their small apartment building. John's mother had barely spoken a word since that fateful day. She was losing weight and drinking. John's mother swore to him that she would never drink because of how his father was. Now it was the only thing that made her feel less doomed. It boggled John's young mind how she could miss someone that caused such pain and hurt to her and her own son. Yet every time he questioned it she would only cry harder and sink to the bottom of another bottle.
The sun was setting after a long day and John came in, with his father's old hunting rifle, after scavenging for food. He laid his catch, an old radiated coyote, outside the door and stepped in to tell his mother he made it home. Dusting himself off he heard the radio playing, the old music filled the small living room, and he called out to his mother. She didn't answer though. He once again walked the creaky stairs leading up to the bedrooms. John stopped, halfway through another step, as he was passing his mothers room. He didn't look in, initally, but saw something out of his peripheral vision. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. In slow motion, it had seemed, he turned his head. There, hanging from the broken paddle fan, was his mother with a firm noose around her neck. The limp body of his own mother, hanging from her neck, would be an image that would put John to sleep every night and wake him up every morning for many years to come. With his vision blurred, from the tears welling in his eyes, john reached for his knife and began to cut her down. He laid her still warm body on the ground and curled up next to it in the fetal position. There John cryed for hours, like he had never cryed before, until he fell asleep.
The early morning sun was beating down on John's face as he stood over his mothers new grave. He decided to bury her right next to where he buried his father. John laid down the plastic flowers from the kitchen table in between their graves. John felt alone but he wasn't, in his hand was the very drink that he hated so much for what it did to his parents. From that point on he adopted alcohol as his own. With only his travel bag, his rifle, and his bottle, John took another sip of his new found poison and began walking away from the sun. John would never visit the place he used to call home again.
John had heard of a city not too far from what he used to call home. A city of fist fighting, gambling, prostitution, and everything else sinful. The city was called New Reno. He traveled the dusty roads for a couple of days before coming upon New Reno which he knew would become his salvation or his damnation, and he didnt care which. The sign's blinked brightly in the nights sky but one stood out more than the rest. The sign read 'Jungle Gym.' The Jungle Gym was the home of mainstream boxing in the city. John remembered his dad telling him about the pre-war sport and, deep down, he always wanted to become a boxer. As John neared the entrance he could hear what sounded like an angry mob inside. Pushing the door open he could see the two men inside of the fabled ring he was told about. The air was foggy with cigarette smoke and overpowered with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and blood. Immediately, John went up to the man at the bar.

"I want to fight." John said with a near drunken demeanor.
"Eh...hmm...we aren't accepting new fighters kid," said the obnoxious man, "and if we were you'd have to talk to Casey."
John looked the shorter fellow and his eyes grew serious.
"How about a beer then." John asked just before the man reached down and came back up with one.

John grabbed the beer and turned it upside down, immediately coming across the bartenders skull. The bottle made a crash and the piss-like liquid, filled with glass, seemed to explode. The bartender fell limply to the ground and John turned around to several testosterone filled patrons glaring at him. From above John poured the drops of beer from what was left of the bottle into his open mouth. He then threw the busted bottle top over his shoulder and, with his fists up, walked toward the patrons. One patron threw a wild haymaker at John and it cleanly landed on his right cheek. John's eyes glared as he threw a giant right hook directly at the man's face. The hard punch landed directly on the other man's jaw. As the man began to slump John quickly caught the next patron with a quick left jab resulting in a bloody nose. Thunder seemingly shook the room and everyone stopped in their tracks.

"Noone fights outside the ring!" Casey yelled angrily, from the ring, while holding his 357. magnum in the air.
"You there, come with me." He said pointing at John and then stepping out of the ring.

John followed Casey into a small room which appeared to be an office. Inside was a large case containing many boxing trophies.

"Have a seat why dont'cha." Casey said in a demanding voice. "names Casey and yours is?"
"John." John said simply.
"Ok John, why are you starting fights outside my ring?" Casey said with a tough tone, "and why shouldn't I shoot you right now for wrecking my bartender."
"I want to fight in the ring." John said looking at Casey through sobering eyes.
Casey looked at a board with names on the wall and nodded slowly. He marked out one name and replaced it with 'John.'
"There, now you fight for me, considering you knocked out that guy earlier I suppose you just opened a slot for yourself." Casey said tapping on the marked out name.

For nearly five years John was the best. He went undefeated for the first four. As time went on though the lickings to the head began to slow John and he could feel it. The brothel and alcohol didn't help his concentration in the ring either, and although he was still young, there was always someone younger, someone better. Eventually one of the traders in town came to John and asked if he would help guard his caravan. The trader's shop was losing more and more business and he couldn't afford to continue trading there. John agreed and the famed life of a boxer just wasn't what he wanted anymore. It was at the age of 24 John met Mr. Marks. Although in the wasteland counting years is the least of one's worries and one tends to forget, especially when every God-forsaken day is a battle for life.

(I hope this is as good as the first installment, I'm not really sure but I'm also somewhat of a perfectionist. Either way I hope you all enjoy.)

I think your story is great keep it up i want to read more !!!!!