AM, PM

chapter 9

The Ozim and Asli mystery has been going on for a long time, but there still aren’t any cases where the Ozim is the one who swears the Asli into oblivion. I am the only one.

The last research was done on a girl named Skylar in Denver. She was only 17 when she died. Again, from a poison. I doubt this is a coincidence, but nothing can prove it. I throw the paper away slowly losing hope when I see something I didn’t think could help me at first; a name written at the bottom right corner of the last research paper. The researcher.

Ronald Ozim

He could be the one to make all of this clear for me. He is the only piece of information I have that isn’t clouded with confusion or neutralized by journalist norms. He knows what he is writing about but hasn’t explained it all fearing that the information could be in the wrong hands. My parents have this because they were supposed to tell me what is wrong with both our families at the beginning, but instead, they kept it a secret and threw Layla out claiming that it was for my own good still not mentioning this secret story part of both our families' histories. I don’t think there is another way for me to find out the truth but to contact this guy.

After an hour, searching around everywhere on this mystical software I spend way too much time on – the internet – I come across his office number, located in St-Petersburg, Florida, only a 30 minute drive. I give him a call and he surprisingly accepts to meet me today in Tampa.

After 45 minutes of hopelessly and lifelessly staring at the floor, drinking juice or munching on waffles, I finally get a call from him asking me to meet him at Rosa’s Diner.

-

“So, it seemed really important for you to meet me kid,” he says before stuffing a fork full of chicken pot pie in his mouth. He wears a light brown vest and a white shirt underneath. He pushes his backpack farther from him in the booth as if the presence of the backpack could be annoying. The sun rays piercing through the window make the subtle ruddy curls of his hair shine.

“Yeah, it really is Mr. Oz…”

“Please, call me Ron. Being a ginger makes it really amusing for me to be called by my nickname.”

I laugh so hard in my mind at his weirdness and the fun he brings to the table, but my confusion and pain only lets me chuckle. I barely touch my lasagna as he devours his plate.

“Ron, I saw your research papers on all the mysterious deaths of the Ozim family. But I know that many Ozims have survived. My grandfather, my dad, you. I need to know what is causing all of this. I need to know why I am the one who forgot this time around. I need to know how you guys survived.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on man, cut the crap,” his response sparks annoyance in me, “I read my ancestors’ journals and your research on every Ozim after the First World War. You wrote about the ones before your age and personally kept track of every single one after you had known the secret and I want to know it too.”

He silently keeps eating hastily, occasionally drinking his beer to make things exciting.

“Hey!” I say a bit too loud causing the waitress passing by us to jump and almost drop a bowl of chili on me. “I need to know why all of you survived. What happened to the Asli you were destined to fall in love with?”

“Look, kid.” He takes a moment to clean his mouth with his already greasy napkin before he speaks again. “You aren’t going to like what is to come, okay? It’s going to be hard to accept and it will test the limits of your kindness and bravery.”