THE AIR WAS RAW with the smell of discarded trash and darkened smoke, stirring the very essence of Perthlochry. I found myself standing in front of my broken mirror, my brown eyes reflecting the anticipation of the day ahead.
Mamori and her stepmother had moved to this very town just a few days prior, their advent were as surprising as the reacquaintance that had happened after. It was a surreal unraveling of destiny that we had found each other again in the most unlikely of places — the police station. The memory of the surprise that had trailed through me, the doubt and then the happiness, still loitered like a soft echo in my thoughts.
It was indeed a small world. Too small, perhaps, for such events to happen. Was that destined? Was that planned? I do not know.
My heart was pounding like a drum against my ribcage as I went to Leo's office that day, and there she was. Mamori. A face from my childhood, a link to a time of purity and laughter, standing in Leo's organized and sterile office. Today, however, was about a different kind of reunion.
As I tied my hair, I put on my faded denim jacket, the one with the straying edges and dull patches. The location Mamori had given me was tidily written on a piece of paper, the blue ink smirched from being carried around in my pocket. I stared at it for a second, the anticipation sizzling up inside me like champagne in a glass. As I walked out of my home, the world appeared to be holding its breath. The morning light staining everything in shades of pastel colors, the world still silent and hushed as it slowly woke up. The journey to Mamori's place was a quiet one, a lone walk emphasized by the early singing of birds and the faraway sound of cars and motorbikes.
I was almost there when I came in contact with a man wearing a shirt and faded blue jeans. I looked up and saw Leo, pinning up flyers on a lamppost, his eyebrow furrowed in attention. The flyers slithered from his hands, spreading on the pavement like fallen leaves during autumn. As I knelt down to help him get the papers, my eyes were pulled by the image of a young boy, his eyes opaque, his smile a distressing reminder of the tragedy at hand.
Logan Watson, 7, missing.
"Up to something again, Primmy?" Leo's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. Again with this terrible nickname.
His words held a tone of quip, a hint of shared camaraderie. I looked up at him, a faint smirk on my lips. But words fell flat on me. All I could do was stare at the flyer in my hand, the image of the boy staring back at me, his eyes innocent. I'm pretty sure I had seen this boy before. I was very certain of it. The newspaper clipping from a few days ago lit up in my mind. A missing child. A mystery waiting to be solved. And now, a flyer in my hand.
"When did this boy go missing?" I asked.
Leo blithely pinned three posters as he paced on top of a small ladder. "It's been two days since this boy was announced missing. Nobody knows where he went since the family reached out to their relatives and friends, and were told that they didn't know the whereabouts of this poor boy."
I intently looked at the boy in the poster. His eyes glimmered with innocence, and a warm smile. Leo sighed as he looked at me, concerned etching across his face. "Where are you off to by the way?"
I looked at him, shaking my head out of my reverie. "To Mamori's."
"Hanging out again, are we?" he said. "Have you told her about the wallet?"
I rolled my eyes at him. Leo's been a prick since he was assigned to this town. He's been a prick since the day he interrogated me for the old lady's wallet. "Bye, Leo," I said annoyingly, turning my back on him.
"Hold up!" Leo called. He approached me and handed me out a card. I flipped it open and read his full name and contact information. "If by any chance you hear anything about this kid, or anything suspicious about the kids missing in this town, ring me up."
I simply nodded, pocketing the card, finally turning my back on him as I heard him sigh one more time before returning to his task of setting up posters of the missing kid all across the town. As he pinned the posters, I secretly threw his contact information away. It's not like I even wanted to reach out to him if anything happens anyway.
As I continued walking to Mamori's place, the sun then started to blaze the town with its heat, casting a light golden tinge over the pathway from the salon to the meat shop as I made my way towards Mamori's home. The heaviness of the recent vanishing, the missing children, suspended heavily in my heart like a stone sinking in a peaceful lake. The unnerving scent of puzzle churned my stomach into tiny knots. A barrage of questions entered my mind: Where were those kids? Why them? Would there be another victim? It was all so... strange. Their eyes were murky as if they were drained out of life, and I don't even know why.
My footsteps pounded against the quiet pavement, each step a nudge of the children who no longer could. The joy and clamor that once filled the air now succeeded by an uncanny silence. I shook my head and sped up, trying to shake off the creeping fear. As I almost arrived at Mamori's house, a picturesque two-story with a white picket fence came into view. The glow from the framed windows was like a flare, a ray of lucidity in a world turned upside down. By the time I arrived, Mamori emerged, her radiant smile instantly diffusing my worries.
"Prim! Over here!" she called, waving me forward to her direction.
The sound of her voice blanketed around me like a warm shawl. I followed her into the house, the smell of newly baked cookies whirling through the air and enticing me in like a soothing lullaby.
In the living room stood a woman who looked to be in her 50s to 60s, her hair a glistening silver downpour falling down her back. Her eyes, a calm, inviting brown, evoked me of the idyllic stillness of a hidden forest.
"Prim, meet my stepmother, Esther Greene," Mamori introduced, her voice filled with affection and warmth.
"Nice to meet you, dear," the woman said. Esther extended a hand towards me, shaking upon coming in contact with mine. I gave a short, ungainly nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious under her stare.
"I've heard a lot about you, Primrose," she began, her voice carrying a relaxing tone. "Mamori told me you were friends back in the orphanage?"
Her words, seemingly innocent, mixed a pool of memories within me. The orphanage... a world that felt like a lifetime ago. I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady.
Esther's smile widened, her eyes gleaming through its corners. "I baked some cookies earlier. I hope you like them, dear. Please, make yourself at home."
Mamori chimed in, "Esther's a great host, please make yourself comfortable."
I found myself returning their smiles, the warmth of their company seeping into me, dissipating the chill of the outside world. The taste of the cookies, the comfort of their home, the familiarity of Mamori... it was the perfect antidote to the venomous worries that had been plaguing me. For now, at least, I could put aside the mystery of the missing children, and simply be visiting an old friend. The cruel reality simply fades away, momentarily.
The moment was as delicate as the cookie in my hand. As I sat on the plush, antique couch, my senses were filled with the aroma of the cookie Esther had just handed me. It was a warm and comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon. I've never touched nor tasted something like this before, I thought. My lips parted, and I took a small bite, savouring the soft, crumbly texture and the sweetness that lingered on my tongue.
Esther, on the other hand, rested her gaze on me, her eyes twinkling with curiosity and warmth. "Mamori mentioned that you've lived nearby," she stated, more than asked. A lump formed in my throat that had nothing to do with the cookie. Mamori sat next to me, her presence like a veil of comfort. She was a soft-spoken girl, yet her silence screamed volumes.
"Yes," I replied hesitantly, my gaze dropping to the half-eaten cookie in my hand. I dared not to meet Esther's gaze. The cookie crumbled slightly, the pieces scattering like my disjointed thoughts.
"That's lovely," Esther said. "Mamori mentioned that it's been years since you two were together in the orphanage. It's nice to have you living nearby."
I looked down, my fingers tracing the intricate pattern on the cushion cover. The memories of the orphanage, of a time of innocence, stirred within me. I was shy, hesitant, and yet, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mamori smiled at me, her eyes gleaming with memories we shared. Esther then continued, her voice filled with a mother's pride. "Mamori has been a wonderful stepdaughter. She's kind, generous, and hardworking." She was painting a portrait of an angel, after all, and I couldn't disagree. Mamori was all those things and more, even when we were kids. And I was, on the other hand, the rebel.
I swallowed hard, my smile frozen on my face. As the conversation flowed around me, the taste of the cookie turned bitter in my mouth. The old wooden clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, indicating the passing moments that felt like an eternity. I looked around the room, at Esther's smiling face, at Mamori's encouraging gaze, at the crumbs of the cookie in my hand, and I couldn't help but feel like an imposter, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I could still see Mamori's face, her eyes sparkling, her smile reflecting through the dreary halls of the orphanage we once called home. I recalled the day her stepparents came for her, her joy was a distinct difference to the void that was beginning to form in my chest. In an instance, my only friend was taken from me. She was adopted, and I was left behind.
The orphanage became a prison, a maze of grey walls and empty rooms that echoed with the absence of her laughter. Years went by, slow and torturous, like a dull blade carving into my spirit. My world had been reduced to a monochrome painting, devoid of the vibrancy that Mamori's presence had once provided. I was alone in a crowd of faces, all unfamiliar, all indifferent. The spark of rebellion ignited within me one icy night. The plan was simple: Fire, and dug a hole for me to escape. I stole some matches from the kitchen back in the orphanage when I was a kid, and tactically, that was my greatest escape.
The orphanage was surrounded by grilled wire fences in all its corners with bulb wires coiling its top. It was more like a mental asylum rather than a happy place for orphans like me to live in. Ironically, it didn't feel like I was secured from the horrors beyond those fences, but rather I was living inside it. The horrors came from inside. The orphanage was vast. The front lawn was reserved for the guests or families who would be coming in and out of the place to choose on adopting one of these poor souls. It has a garden, though neglected, can one still make out its previous life of vibrancy and colors that illuminate and dance in front of the building. The doors of the orphanage symbolizes both salvation and a curse. Ever since I entered those huge french doors of the orphanage being driven and dropped by social workers, it was hell from then on for me. Even though the size of the front lawn can be comparable to its vast building in front, the sides engulfing the orphanage including the backyard ran through miles, well in my perspective as a child. It was full of wild weeds and grass with a handful or two of trees and bushes surrounding the property. It was enough for the children to play and run to. But those fences are undeniably hard to ignore. The backyard was not leveled. There was a 20 degrees or so slope half way through the backyard. Trees from both inside and outside the fence with some bushes all covered the metal fence from view. A perfect area to conceal my escape but where? It was impossible to go over the fence with those sharp wires above. It was also hard to penetrate any cutting tools for the fence since it was thick, given the limited resources I had in the orphanage.
As I scanned the place for any hints of broken wire in the corner, I found none. The next day, we were doing our gardening chores, it was mainly in front of the lawn and the sides, the far end of the backyard was neglected because it was only used for compost and dump for discarded furniture and fixtures of the orphanage. Before finishing up and going inside the garden shed, I was holding a hand trowel, a small garden shovel, and had a perfect idea. I headed towards the backyard, cautiously looking out if someone could be watching me, and checked the fence. There was a bush just by the tree and a few inches away from the fence enough to squeeze in my petite stature to hide. I cleared the weeds surrounding it until I had enough space to check and dig. The soil was silty and loamy which is lucky for me because it was easier to shovel through. I crossed my fingers hoping the fence didn't penetrate deep and as if the heavens had heard my cries and pleas. The fence just penetrated an inch and a half deep in the ground. To avoid any suspicions, I covered the just excavated ground with dried leaves and made sure that it was also concealed by the bush. I want it to be seamless. Days passed by and the same routine I did, during gardening I dug up a hole bit by bit to avoid detection from my peers and went back on the rest of the day like nothing happened. But one night, there's this unsettling force that kept me up as if calling me out to escape right there right now. It was almost past midnight. Silence engulfed the vast building like the world has been muted. There I made a firm decision. It was now or never.
It was just a matter of time before I executed the plan at full speed ahead. I understood that in this situation, there's no turning back. No more turning back. There was a slight reservation reverberating through my mind, like echoes of through the night yet I was not dissuaded. I stood by my decision so shall be it. Come what may. I made my way out from the shared room I slept in. I slowly opened the door, preventing it from making a sound. As I made my way out through the hallway, the only light that was illuminating my way to freedom was the gentle moonlight peeking through the huge windows in front of the dormitory rooms. It felt like trekking through an endless corridor but my determination for freedom was weighing more in my chest. I made my way out through the back door and in the garden shed where the handy hand trowel was discreetly placed at the back of the other tools. When I had my grip on the trowel, I went out and grabbed the matches I placed in my pocket. I have placed those matches I snatched from the kitchen tucked below my bed just above my head. I went back inside and went inside the room where it's going to change the very fate of the orphanage.
I chose the oldest, most forgotten corner of the orphanage, where the dry wood of the building's skeleton was most vulnerable. A small flame danced in the palm of my hand, its orange glow reflecting in my wide eyes. Then, it met the wood. Fire kissed timber, and the dance of liberty began. The blaze was slow at first, then voracious, consuming the desolation I felt, the prison that held me. While the fire played its dangerous dance,
I went back out, ran as fast as I could like my life depended on it. But a lurking irony crawled through my veins, my life depended on it. The bright light behind started to cast a shadow in front of me. The fire started to grow, faster than I even anticipated. Screams from the then quiet building sliced through the night. As I was approaching the fence, I glanced back and saw a horrifying scene. A fourth of the building was now engulfed in flames. Screams grew louder and louder. I could only hope that no one would get hurt and everyone would get out alive. I unconsciously knelt down and started digging the hole. I gathered all of my strength and might to dig the only escape I have from this hellhole. It would only be a matter of time for me to taste the freedom I have been dreaming of. The hole was wide enough for my body to crawl on to. I threw the trowel behind me and started to crawl out. It was tight but manageable enough to move my body and arms to leverage myself to get to the other side. The soil was quite damp. The dirt started to stick into my face and my clothes but everything just went blank, my hands did their part and unknowingly grabbed the dirt to pull my body out. I felt a sharp sting on my arms. Illuminated by the fire, a wire hanging from the fence made a small incision, shallow but enough to bleed out. Regardless, I made my way out and ran into the trees. Without any direction I ran straight ahead, not knowing where to go, not knowing where this path leads me, just as long as it's away from the orphanage. I was no one. A girl without an identity, no home, and no family.
I found an alley, and I continued running. My first night of freedom was a symphony of sobs, my body curled on the hard, cold ground. I wept for Mamori, for the life I had left behind, for the uncertainty that lay ahead. Then, as I got up and continued running, I came with the soft footsteps of a stranger. I accidentally bumped at the figure and fell down. When I opened my eyes to see a man in tattered clothing, his face was evident with how harsh life has been to him. In his eyes, I saw a mirror of my own desolation. He offered me the only thing he had — a piece of stale bread. Then, he introduced himself as Elliot.
I was hesitant. At this point my body and mind screamed to never trust anyone other than myself and my instinct. But I was fragile. My body and mind is exhausted. I need help. I took the bread he offered me. He reassured me that it was safe and clean. I gorged the bread, it temporarily nourished me. The chaos I went through from the orphanage drained out the energy in me to move forward. My heart aches, crushed by the situation I am in the moment like being piled up by a thousand ton brickwall. I want someone to lean to, a shoulder to cry on, a home to crash on. This damp, wet, and cold alley could barely protect me. The stench engulfed the place. I needed to hide, to look out for danger. Maybe they found out I was responsible for the fire. My mind was racing for miles and miles back at the scene from the orphanage and for what lies ahead. I was snapped back to reality when Elliot returned and handed me a container filled with water. I wouldn't lie, I was thirsty both from the endless running I did and the stale bread. My throat was like a desert. I could barely make out any sensible words from my mouth. Without any hesitation, the moment he handed me the container, I gulped down the water like my life depended on it.
"Figured you're parched", Elliot said with a smirk.
"Lucky guess?" I asked with a puzzled look.
"Nope, by the looks of those fissured lips and weak posture I couldn't leave you here without offering you something to drink" He knelt down on one knee and added "And besides I offered you the bread might as well give you something to wash it down" He added.
He might also have figured that I gulped down the whole liquid from the container. He handed me another water but this time, it was in a bottle enough to fit in the pocket on his loose jeans.
"Say, why are you even here in the first place?" He asked as he got up.
"I could ask you that same question." I hissed back. I couldn't let my guard down
"Clever but I was here first before you came and I asked the question first" He sat down across the wall opposite to me.
"This alley ain't yours and besides I'll be off once I regain my strength" I said to him.
"Where would you go? I figure you're not from here."
"God knows where I would go. Anywhere. I'll figure things out eventually" I said while looking at the bottle he gave me.
"Looks like you don't really have any plans at all. You're still running away as we speak."
I just stayed silent for a while, aside from the children from the orphanage, this was the first time I had any decent conversation with a human being. I slowly let my guard down but stayed alert. He's right, I am still running away not physically but mentally. I still haven't figured things out. The only thing I could do is to sit with this stranger's company. My thoughts were diverted when he started to speak again.
"In a few hours, the patrol will be here for inspections, if you're running away from whatever it is or whomever it is, you better find a shelter to hide to"
"You said it yourself, I don't have any idea what to do and where to go"
Silence fell between us once more. But he continued saying.
"Say what, I know you probably have a million reasons not to trust me but I have a decent place to stay for the night. It's better than being caught by the patrol, you don't want to cross paths with them."
"And why in the world would I let my guard down and take your offer?"
"I'm not suggesting that, but you just have to see for yourself if you can manage to walk, it's just a few blocks away from here. You can just follow me and keep your distance."
I was hesitant, scared, and worried but I heed to his warning about the patrol. Some homeless kids are being dropped off by the police officers in the orphanage. Though the orphanage might be burnt and damaged as of the moment, it would only be a matter of time for the city to look for another place for these street children to be dropped off and God knows what fate would come to them. I looked at him straight in the face, I can't read it that well but there was sincerity in his words or is it my weak instinct suggesting to consider this man's proposal because I am helpless in need of a place to stay.
"So what do you say?"
I didn't answer. My mind was debating and I couldn't come up with a reasonable plan nor decision. He felt like his offer had fallen into deaf ears, he said
"Suite yourself, goodluck missy" He got up and started to walk away. Unknowingly, my feet started to have a mind of its own. I got up and started following him. I kept my distance from him about a few feet away. I was limping from the exhaustion from the events that happened earlier making my pace slower than it was. He may have sensed me that I was following him to his place, without looking at me nor offering any help, he mimicked my pace in order for me to follow him while keeping our distance. A few blocks away from the alley we've been to, he suddenly stopped at a gated residential. An old house. Neglected but it was surprisingly neat from the outside. He opened the gate and motioned to let me in. He went in first and by the time I was in the gate, he was already in front of the door. He opened it and went inside. He invited me in as he waited by the door. I was hesitant but went in, He went in ahead of me to turn on the lights inside the house. I went in and saw how modest the house was and it was kept clean, though not thoroughly cleaned but everything was in order. He was already in the living room when I got in.
"Make yourself comfortable, don't worry you can trust me, I am not what you think I am. Apologies for the mess" He said as he cleaned the cigarette butts and ashes surrounding the ashtray.
"Please have a seat, I'm gonna go throw and clean this up" He continued.
At the back of my mind, if this would be the last place I would be, if something funny would happen to me at least some part of me was hoping that goodness and fortune was with me.
A humble abode that was rich with warmth and kindness. Elliot became more than just the man who offered me food in an alley. He became my guardian, my mentor, my beacon of hope in the unforgiving world. He became my father. And there, I found my life out of my misery.
"I didn't get your name missy, what was it?" He asked while he was in the kitchen washing his ashtray and some of his dishes.
"Prim, Primrose" I answered.
My thoughts were lost in a whirl of self-debate, a tumultuous sea of doubt and fear, when Esther's voice cut through my rambling internal monologue like a ship's horn through a foggy night. "So, Primrose," she began casually, her tone light but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity. I shook my head, my mind still shaking off fragments of my thoughts.
"What do you do for a living?" Esther asked.
My heart froze, ice crystallizing around its edges. How on earth am I able to answer that? 'Oh, I'm just a lowly thief, pilfering from the rich to... well, mostly just survive?' The question hung in the air like an unfinished painting, full of expectation and intrigue. My brain scrambled for a suitable lie, but came up as empty as the pockets I was accustomed to filling.
My mouth opened, then closed, my tongue suddenly feeling as heavy as lead. I looked at her, into the depths of her inquisitive eyes, as deep and piercing as a midsummer's sky. She was waiting, her expression patient but expectant. I felt the bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck, an icy-hot trail of dread.
Just when I thought I was about to drown in my own silence, Mamori piped up from the other end of the room. "Mom, did you see that new painting I got for my room?" she asked, her voice a melody that swept away the tension like a gentle wind brushing through a meadow.
Esther's gaze shifted from me to Mamori, her eyebrows arching in surprise. "No, dear, I haven't. Would you show me?" she replied, curiosity redirecting her attention like a compass needle finding north. I exhaled a sigh of relief so deep it felt like my lungs had been holding onto it for years.
As they moved away, I felt the weight of Esther's question lift off my shoulders like a bird taking flight. I was left alone in the large, ornately decorated living room, its grandeur an echo of the opulence I was so used to seeing from the shadows. The chandelier above me sparkled like a thousand tiny suns, casting a soft, warm glow on the antique furniture scattered around. The air was filled with a faint scent of vanilla and old wood, a comforting aroma that seemed to wrap around me like a cozy blanket.
I sank deeper into the plush Victorian-style couch, my heart still pounding a drumbeat of fear and relief in my chest. My fingers traced the intricate lace doily on the mahogany coffee table. My gaze wandered to their fireplace, its hearth cold but the mantel adorned with family photos that told stories of love and laughter. I then felt a sting of something undefinable — envy, perhaps, or longing. This was a life I could never have, a world I could never truly be part of. A world where the question 'what do you do for a living?' had straightforward, respectable answers. My reflection stared back at me from the polished surface of a silver-framed mirror, a ghost in a world of solid reality.
As I listened to Esther and Mamori's laughter echoing back from the hallway, I felt a strange sense of peace. I was still a thief, after all; a wolf in a flock of sheep.
***
Around 4 PM, I found myself leaving Mamori's home. I exchanged their nods and waves with the same calmness. The usually comforting chatter and clinking coffee cups echoed behind me like a haunting symphony. Anyway, the journey home was a sordid affair. Even the gloom permeated the narrow cobblestone streets, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to dance in the dim glow of the flickering street lamps.
Upon nearing our home, a chill ran down my spine as I took in the scene before me. The room was in disarray, a stark contrast to the usual minimalist tidiness that was the hallmark of our home. Books were strewn across the floor, the threadbare cushions lay upturned, and the faded pictures of me and Elliot on the mantelpiece were askew.
"Elliot?" I called out, my voice quivering in the silence of the room. Honestly, I could feel my heart leaping out of my chest.
With every step toward his room, my anxiety grew. The house seemed to hold its breath, amplifying the thud of my heartbeat in my ears. As I gently pushed open the door to his room, I found him sprawled on the bed, his face pale and etched with lines of pain. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one seeming to take a toll on his frail form.
Without wasting another second, I helped him up and guided him to a passing cab. The driver asked, and I told him to go to the nearest hospital, each minute feeling like an eternity. As we arrived, its stark white walls, bathed in the harsh fluorescence, stood like a beacon in the otherwise quiet night. A man, presumably in his mid-forties, greeted us. He had a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his face framed by tufts of graying hair. The nameplate on his white coat read 'Dr. Welsh'. After a brief introduction, he took Elliot away, leaving me in the sterile silence of the waiting room.
The clock ticked away the agonizing minutes, the hands seeming to move in slow motion. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air, settling into my clothes, my skin, my bones. The constant hum of activity beyond the waiting room doors was a stark reminder of the reality that was unfolding.
When Dr. Welsh returned, his face was solemn.
"Miss Dawson, are you his daughter?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes."
"I'm afraid to say that your father is showing symptoms of lung disease. He could recover from it if he could take in the medications and treatment we're about to prescribe to him. However, it might cost some money since some of the meds are a bit pricey," he told me, a revelation that sent my mind spiraling. The words 'treatment' and 'pricey medication' were tossed around, but they seemed to echo in a far-off distance. The money, or the lack thereof, was a harsh reality we would have to confront.
As the world around me blurred into a hazy canvas of whites and grays, I steadied myself. This was our reality, a cruel hand dealt without warning. But Elliot was family, and for family, you weather any storm, no matter how brutal. After all, storms don't last forever, but strong hearts do. But what should I do now?