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FloWildKat — Ocean Riffs - Epilogue
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Published: 2025-09-04 11:14:22 +0000 UTC; Views: 1717; Favourites: 1; Downloads: 0
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Ocean Riffs
Epilogue Ordinary Heroes (Howard Jones)
- Penny’s Home, Bel-Air, Friday 01:03 PM
The smell of scrambled eggs, cinnamon rolls, and fresh-ground coffee lingered in the air. Sunlight poured through the open kitchen window, warming the kitchen tile and scattering lazy golden beams across the living room where mismatched socks, jackets, and one bulletproof vest lay crumpled like trophies of a war survived.
Penny flipped pancakes in her oversized "Dazzling Dolls Tour ‘18” T-shirt. Alicia sipped coffee on the windowsill, hair still damp from her shower and Jim cooked eggs and ham. Christine had fallen asleep again at the dining table in her wrinkled and stained uniform, head resting on her crossed arms. Melissa, barefoot and content, sat cross-legged on the floor assembling a small Lego set with Rory, while Kelly looked at them all.
It was a moment outside time — the kind that healed by its very simplicity.
Then, Frederica went down the stairs, in dark jeans and a grey t-shirt, her eyes tired, lips pressed in a resigned smile.
The warmth in the room dropped half a degree.
Kelly looked up, blinked once… and stood.
Her voice was soft. But clear.
“Frederica... I know your face. You’re on the Tuesday escape list.”
Frederica gave a small nod.
“Yeah. I figured it’d be you who’d recognize me.” She looked at Melissa, then to Kelly again. “I’m not running. I’m not armed. I didn’t come here for trouble. I needed to say thank you. And goodbye. You let me help. You let me matter. Maybe that can count for something, someday.”
Melissa reached for her belt, near the fridge, not quickly — just deliberately — and unclipped the handcuffs. Kelly took them, slowly.
“California Department of Correction and Rehabilitation, Frederica Dorothy Rothenberg, aka Frederica Dorothy Jolirouge, you are under arrest…”
Frederica raised her wrists.
Kelly hesitated for half a heartbeat, then gently cuffed her wrists.
“We both have a report about you, Freddie, maybe we could do something for you”, Melissa said.
“Do what you have to do,” she said, voice steady. “Just… maybe let the judge know I didn’t choose to run away. That I tried to do something right, once in my life.”
No one spoke.
Christine stood.
She walked over to Frederica, brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes — and kissed her. Not shyly. Not wildly. But fully. A kiss that said “I see you” and “I believe in you” and “this isn't the end”.
When she pulled away, she whispered, just loud enough for them all to hear:
“I’ll be waiting, Freddy. If you really want to be better… I’ll be here.”
Frederica’s breath caught, and for the first time, her eyes glossed with tears.
Penny exhaled deeply, turning back to the stove.
“Well. Pancakes are getting cold.”
Kelly gave a half-smile.
“We’ll be back in a few hours. With the right paperwork.”
Melissa touched Frederica’s shoulder as they led her gently out the door. No one said “goodbye.” That wasn’t the word.
Back inside, Christine sat back down, her fingers absently tracing the edge of a coffee mug. Penny poured her a refill.
The silence stretched for a moment, full of unfinished thoughts and quiet strength.
Then Alicia looked up and said, with a tired smile,
“So...why doesn’t doing brunch every Sunday?”
Christine nodded, eyes still on the door.
“Yeah,” she said. “Every damn Sunday.”
“With everybody” answered Penny, “The Dolls’ House is alive.”
---
The front door closed behind Kelly and Melissa.
The sun rose higher, the scent of breakfast hung in the air, and somewhere just below the surface, the ache of memory and the promise of something new drifted together like steam from a coffee cup.
They had faced the darkness.
And they were still here.
Still standing.
Still waiting.
Still ready.
“The Predator” : case closed.
---
But somewhere in South Los Angeles Area, Friday April 17th , early morning.
The morning light hadn’t reached the broken windowpanes yet. The air inside this old warehouse still clung to night — damp, sour, and heavy with rot and metal.
Elisa Alvarez, known to a few as “Toxic Ivy”, stood alone near a rusting metal locker. Her orange jumpsuit, the last emblem of her former captivity, lay folded on the floor like shed skin. In its place, she had found a battered navy-blue Navy PT jacket, matching sweatpants one size too big, and a pair of grey cotton boxer-briefs, still sealed in their decades-old plastic.
She changed in silence, wincing as the fabric scratched over bruises. Her feet slid into a pair of men’s white socks and black running shoes. Nothing fit, nothing felt real. But it was warm. It was clean. It was hers.
A shard of mirror caught her reflection — tangled hair, bloodless lips, dead eyes.
Not a gangster. Not a chemist. Not even a woman, right now.
Just a body being kept alive.
From somewhere deeper in the warehouse came the echo of footsteps. Three men, dark suits, sunglasses, one with an Uzi submachine gun. All were Latino, but speaking English with a strange accent.
They didn’t make her flinch. Only listen.
They handcuffed her again -but not too tight this time- and put a black and soft velvet sleep mask on her eyes. Just said.
“No word, if you please Ma’am”.
Then they pushed her quietly into a small truck, smelling gasoline and industrial chemical products. They want her not only alive but also in good condition.
Maybe a good news.
Or…