•Word Count: 2,080
After my constructive meeting with Principal Raymond, the head of a Public French High School in the vicinity, four days ago, he suggested that it would be a lot more convenient to enrol on International Schooling, since French is not my mother tongue.
He didn't stop at that; he put me in contact with one of his comrades, Principal Édouard, the head of an International School only a block or two away from my place.
Even Principal Édouard, who easily weaved his way into my heart through his uplifting comments about my French proficiency, thought attending a school with English made its main language a better idea both language mastery and certification compatibility with my previous educational levels wise.
Which is why I'm currently sitting at the edge of one of the two sadie chairs situated at the opposite side of his desk, listening to Principal Édouard's childhood story, when he first moved here from the states with his family.
Quite inspirational and heartening, though I'd much rather be in class right now.
I have to swallow the sigh of relief when his secretary saunters over with something in her hand, presumably my schedule, and I almost reach over, disrespectfully crossing the principal, to grab it from her.
I remain calmly seated, however, as she extends the schedule over to the principal.
He informs me that the pupils are already three weeks into the semester but tells me not to worry because my case is justifiable since public schools, which I was meant to attend, don't start until next week.
•••
There's enough money in the account my parents left me and Élise to last us a few years, but an International school, coasting a fortune a year -a subtle blow to the budget- was not part of the plan.
I still need to conserve a sufficient sum for Élise's college; I've learned the hard way that one must never remain dependent, for some things as evil as aliveness are unreliable.
After studying the guide Cynthia gave me on my first day, I learned that employees acquire credit congruent with their performance during working hours.
Accompanying the statement is a side note, stating that credits are doubled for overtime.
When I introduced the idea to Cynthia and volunteered to work extra hours every night to either finish cleaning up or prepare for the next day, she pointed out that my working hours would already be curtailed, owing to my absence for the first 8 hours after opening, and I am to cover up if I expect my remuneration to be paid in full by the end of the month.
Luckily, though, because none of the staff ever stays longer than closing time, she promised to pay me in full -double credit included- if she notices significant augmentation to performance during working hours.
On parting, two days later, Cynthia informed me that she has noticed quite the advancement; no delay in orders since pastries were being prepared the night before, no staff congestion in the kitchen doing both ministering to customer's orders and cleaning, owing to my dedicated cleaning schedule, and most importantly, there's always a small sticky note on the side of the cash register with the necessary reports, which I write down after counting the register.
It's my third night, and I'm doing the same daily tasks; cleaning espresso and coffee grinders, wrapping up unserved pastries and labelling them with the date from the previous night, preparing most food for the next morning, washing dishes and mopping the floors, and thorough cleaning with sanitiser.
The clock reads 2:00 AM by the time I've finished; a lot belated than usual, owing to the fact that today was unearthly busy compared to any other day I've worked here.
I can almost hear my body disapproving of the imminent sleep deprivation, as I remind myself that I have to wake up at 7:00 AM.
Hands working cursorily, I gather my belongings, lock up, and exit the café.
What ignites a sense of apprehension within me, is the absolute darkness and the spine-chilling desolateness of the street.
I set about moving in the direction leading home, after a good internal pep talk.
The distant sounds I begin to hear cause my hair to stand on ends and my heart to begin beating rapidly.
The world begins to stir, as three broad figures appear from a street corner, stumbling and laughing intemperately the whole way.
Their shadows, created by the scarce street lightning, loom over my frame.
Intuitively, I tighten my hold on my purse.
I've read somewhere that if you convince your mind of something, it can easily be tricked into acting on it, so that's what I do.
I attempt to quell the soaring trepidation and walk forward, with my head slightly bowed, sidestepping the group.
To my absolute horror, one of the men, steps into my course, impeding any further procession.
When I lift my gaze off the ground, I find myself staring at hazy, bloodshot eyes, which crinkle at the corner when his mouth curves into a complacent smile.
My jaw is locked tightly, even when a callous hand, belonging to a man who inconspicuously appears at my right, caresses a lock of my hair; I'm quick to sharply cock my head to the side, successfully freeing my hair from the offender's hand.
I only manage a single receding step, when my back hits a solid stand; in that second, sound awareness of the situation shakes me into action.
Using their disoriented states against them, I profess my capitulation, through a calculated slump of my shoulders, and I wait for them to let their guard down.
Once I notice their vigilance slipping, I use my pre-coordinated moves; slightly twisting and immediately ducking -anticipating someone to attempt to grab me- and skilfully evading every single one of them.
Jubilant, I prepare my legs to sprint in full speed, but my triumph is cut short when another one of the group intercepts me.
Once more, my clear-headed state gives me the upper hand, and I glimpse the man half a step away, instantly doubling back.
But this time the man, who is twice my size, seems to be just as quick, as he wraps both his arms around me, seizing me in place.
I refuse to allow the sinister hoots of laughter to deter me from retaliating, so I summon up all the self defense classes my father made sure I matriculated.
Starting with the man holding me captive, I bend slightly to get to the lower third of his thigh, and I plunge the ball of my thumb onto his sciatic nerve.
He doubles up, grunting frustratedly as his grip inadvertently loosens, which comes as a boon to me as I turn and deliver a blow to his jaw with the ball of my hand, sending him a stumbling mess backwards.
"Looks like we have a fighter" A man muses, right before snorting something, eliciting humourless laughs from his friends.
The next man doesn't allow for any chances, lounging forward and enclosing both his hands around my throat without any initiatives; recovering instantly, I dig both my thumbs into the sockets of his eyes.
As expected, I'm free once again and the man is busy nursing his harmed eyes.
At this point, my heart is thumping furiously and the Adrenaline coursing through my veins fuels me into action.
Relentlessly, they continue coming at me.
Man number 3 seems to have had it with my elusiveness, because he yells "Enough!" in french and goes straight for my waist with his massive hands, lifting me up and off the ground as though I'm a prize he's won after enduring tremendous adversities.
I realise, at that moment, that my furious kicking would be vain, for his grip is impressively firm.
The only way to break loose is to disrupt his hold, so I proceed to do just that.
With my hand covering his own, I use my index and middle finger to compress the dorsal aspect of his hand a little bit behind the junction of his thumb and index finger.
When his grip loosens, I use my elbow to deliver a damaging jab to his ribcage; it's in that instant that I hear the sharp bang that slices through the noiseless street, followed by another, and then another.
Tilting my head to the side, where my ears identified the noise to be closest, I spot a light reflecting off an object. My eyes widen upon noticing a sharp knife in the man's hand; the man who now lies unconscious on the concrete.
Someone walks in on me from behind and holds both my arms.
Twisting, I prepare myself to strike back, but the familiar voice yelling; "Hey it's just me!" and the gentle eyes staring back at me halt my counterattack.
"Juniper" I acknowledge, elated at seeing a familiar face and confused at the unforeseen showing up.
Hearing another gunshot, my eyes instinctively scout around for the source of the noise, when they settle on the person pointing a gun at the man who first grabbed me, a chill cascades down my spine and a flutter throws my heartbeats into disorder.
It's the same man from the café the other day.
Has he grown more fascinating since our last encounter or have I just forgotten how unearthly handsome he is ?
"Are you okay ?" Juniper asks this even when she rakes her concerned eyes down my form, halting in a few places.
Nodding distractedly, I finally take note of my surroundings, frowning at the army of expensively clad men, who surround the assaulters -what's left of them, since most of them have been shot down.
"Are you hurt ?" A voice asks with so much leniency that I nearly drop to my knees and weep my eyes out.
Raising my head, my thoughts come screeching to a halt upon meeting the piercing, gentle eyes of the same man who's been plaguing my mind lately.
Reasoning unsettled, I respond with a nod, averting my eyes to avoid round 2 of my embarrassing staring session from the other day.
"What were you thinking wandering at this hour in the night ?" Juniper demands.
"Finishing up some work" I state dismissively, only now noticing the slice through the fabric of my shirt the man with the knife must've made.
"This neighbourhood is dangerous, especially at night." When she says this, my head swivels in her direction with an incredulous look in my eyes.
Says the women who decides to preside over a café in this very dangerous neighbourhood!
"Please, allow us to drive you home-" The man offers kindly, but pauses when I shake my head no.
"-As Juniper said, wandering alone in this unfavourable hour is not a sage decision" He urges.
"That's kind of you, but my home is just a block away"
"I will not leave you behind, especially after what we've walked in on" He states adamantly.
"I'm grateful for your help but I was handling myself perfectly-"
"-against 6 men ? Unarmed ?" He taunts, though his expression remains stern.
His raised eyebrow is equally enraging as his words.
Narrowing my eyes against the apparent derision, I hold my chin up in defiance, deciding that I've had enough encounters with men for one night.
"As I said, grateful I am, but my decision is final. Have a Good night" Awaiting no response from either of them, I turn and leave, walking faster this time, not for a second looking back until I'm inside the house, bolting the door behind me.
When I'm safely tucked inside the house, I allow the superstorm of unanswered questions and possible inferences that I've kept in check the whole time to finally flounce into the forefront of my mind.
After hearing him and his friends mentioning my parents, referring to their meant to be kept covert code names, and seeing him today with a gun in his hand, I can't repudiate the logical correspondence any longer.
This man is definitely associated with the BND, either as an agent or a senior in position; no one has direct access to weaponry unless authorised.
Only influential men have this kind of power -manpower included, since the man arrived with a swarm of armed men, who easily took out the assaulters.
Besides, he spoke fluent German back at the café!
It's too accurate a coincidence to just disregard so easily.
••••
Thanks so much for the time you take to read this (=
Let me know your thoughts in the comments!
-Asia