chapter 4
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 weird 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 such a small world indeed. Too small, perhaps, for such events to happen. Was that destined? Was that planned? I do not know.
I had come into Leo's office that day, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribcage, 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.
I put on my faded denim jacket, the one with the straying edges and dull patches, as I tied my hair. The location Mamori had given me was tidily written on a piece of paper, the blue ink kind of smirched from being carried around in my pocket. I stared at it for a second, the anticipation sizzling up inside me like wine 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 blurry, 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 light up in my mind. A missing child. A mystery waiting to be solved. And now, a flyer in my hand.
"When did this boy went missing?" I asked.
Leo nonchalantly 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 contacted their relatives and friends, and were told that they didn't see the poor boy."
I intently looked at the boy in the poster. His eyes glimmered with innocence, and smile that was warm. Leo sighed as he looked at me, concern 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."
"So the two of you hang out again, huh?" he said. "Have you told her about the wallet?"
I rolled my eyes at him. Leo's been a prick since he was assigned in this town. He's been a prick since the day he interrogated me for the old lady's wallet. "Bye, Leo," I said, turning my back on him.
"Wait!" Leo called. He approached me and handed me out a card. I flipped it open and read his full name and contact information. "If you ever hear anything about this kid, or anything suspicious about the kids missing in this town, don't hesitate to contact me."
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? Who's next? It was all so... strange. Their eyes were blurry, 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.
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.
"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 crinkling at the corners. "I baked some cookies earlier. Hope you like them, dear. Please, make yourself at home."
Mamori chimed in, "Esther's always so welcoming to guests."
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 moment was as delicate as the cookie in my hand, though. 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 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 comforting blanket. 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 smile 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, marking the passing moments that felt like a lifetime. 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.
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 took to the earth beneath the building, my hands rough and determined. The soil was cold, a biting contrast to the inferno raging above. But as I dug, the hole became my tunnel of hope. It was my way out, my path towards freedom. I emerged on the other side, and my breath came in ragged puffs of white. Behind me, the orphanage was an orange glow in the darkness. The taste of freedom was bitter, laced with the ash of my past and the fear of the unknown.
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 continued running, I came with the soft footsteps of a stranger. I bumped accidentically, and I opened my eyes to see a man in a tattered clothing, his face lined with the hardships of life. 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. He took me to his home, 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 stepfather. And there, I found my life out of my misery.
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 field of wheat.
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 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?