MY TINY AND LITHE FINGERS clasped onto the illicit cache of candies I'd taken from the matron's hallowed office. Her high-pitched voice echoed behind me, ricocheting off the frigid stone walls of the orphanage. However, I was already too far ahead. The excitement of misconduct was the sweetest candy I'd ever tasted.
Afterwards, I sprinted towards an open window as I tucked the candies with me. The shabby wooden frame scraped open with a recognizable protest I know too well. Then, taking a deep breath, my small body caved in to the clutch of the air. Falling towards the ground, I popped and rolled, my white dress collecting the earth's soil and dust.
"Dang it! "I mentally exclaimed. I scraped my knee by accident. I looked up to see if the matron had peeked out of the window, and there she was, her eyes fuming in anger. 'Funny,' I thought. Mrs. Hughes looked like a witch.
I ran and slid into a clump of bushes while laughing. The green leaves communicated to me; their constant rustling made a calming and serene sound. I hid there, hiding and waiting 'til the matron's annoyed yells receded, her muttering curses becoming faint.
Once her presence was nothing but a puff in the air, I finally came out of the bush, my tiny figure soaked in the morning light. The orphanage then became silent again, the only noise being the far-off tune of the birds chirping and the swooshing of the leaves above me. I went towards my favorite spot where an old oak tree at the back of the orphanage stood tall, its twigs reaching out as if to poke at the clouds above.
As I inched closer toward the tree, my heart twitched in my chest as I heard voices near the area. I stopped, my instincts telling me to be wary. The voices were unknown to me, raspy and unsympathetic, meandering through the wind in my direction. I fall back into the bush, my small body hidden by the sun-touched verdure.
As I peeked through the leaves and flowers, I spotted three boys circling a small, defenseless girl—her short hair was like color of the night and her eyes, even from this space, a deep, dark brown. She's Asian—I suppose—and she stood there like a scared figure against the backdrop of the boys' mocking giggles.
I just kept observing them from a safe distance. The boys, as I noticed, were larger and older, and their voices had a disgusting sound of teasing. The scene happened before me like a terrible theater play, each evil mock slipping through the calmness of the late morning. What on earth are they doing?
The boys then continued their teasing, their laughs ringing through the peaceful morning, a contrast sound that caused my blood to boil. Yet, I stayed hidden, a silent witness to this drama with unease and irritation conflicting within me. Should I defend the girl? Should I stay away?
"Aren't you going to fight back, Mamori?" one of the three boys taunted. His voice was like the unpleasant caw of a bird, raspy and pathetic.
"You don't belong here," the other said, mocking the defenseless girl. "You look different."
I remained hidden in the messy bush, the smell of misty soil and crumpled ferns beneath my feet stuffing my lungs. The boys kept up with their persistent teasing, their amusement echoing through the bush. While the boys were throwing their tirades, I saw Mamori's face crumble beneath their words, her tears finally escaping her eyelids. They fell down her cheeks, each one a testimony to her sorrow and pain.
"Please, stop," Mamori pleaded.
"Please, stop," the biggest kid mockingly mimicked her. "We'll only stop if you leave."
The place surrounding me started to blur, the colors of the forest blending into a flurry of green and brown. My heart pummeled in my chest like an untamed beat, each hit echoing the weird sensation in my chest. Should I intervene?
As I continued watching the scene happen before me, I was like, 'Nah.' But still, my nails dug into the palm of my hands, my tiny hands clenched into fists. I felt the prickly sensation of the leaves against my skin, the bush tapping through my thin dress and into my skin. I barely noticed the irritation, though. My mind was deep in thought about the event that is currently happening before me. Every nudge and every teasing word they cast at Mamori was like an awful scene to endure.
My stare moved from Mamori to the boys, their smirks wide and annoying. My mind started to contemplate a whirlwind of thoughts that somehow made me confused. I honestly wanted to leap out of my hiding place and to help Mamori. But something was bitter on my tongue, immobilizing me.
"Stay away, freak!" one of the boys yelled, his voice as venomous as the bite of a snake. His fingers were clenched into fists, knuckles white beneath the sun's unwavering stare.
I recognized the anxiety that had grappled with my chest like a vine, sprouting and compressing the air out of me. But even so, there was no single doubt inside my mind about what needed to be done. I inhaled deeply and got out from under the thick bush, my tiny feet making a soft sound against the underbrush.
The boys then noticed my presence, their laughter filling the air with sharp and sadistic expressions as they belittled my small stature. "What's this?" one of them said slowly, a grin forming on his face.
"Perhaps a little flower will come to save the day," the other one said.
I stayed still in my ground, my chest hauling from a pluck far past my years. Disregarding their mockeries, and without saying anything, I charged at them. My tiny figure smashed into the first boy as I caught him off guard. He slipped back, shock-painting his features right before he fell to the ground, a shroud of dust spiraling up around him.
"Kick her!" the skinny one shouted.
Stunned silence filled Mamori as the other two boys stared at their friend falling. However, it was cut short as I rushed myself toward the second boy. His eyes became wider just in time to see me tanking into him, making him sprawl onto the ground like a wimp.
For some reason, I found it satisfying to see bullies get a taste of their own medicine.
The last boy, fear etched in his face, turned on his feet and ran. I watched as his stature grew smaller and smaller in the distance, his withdrawal becoming an emblem of the victory I had won.
I turned to the Mamori, reaching out my small hand to her. Her eyes calmed as she wiped her tears, her face glistening with tears that were ready to fall and somehow met mine as she accepted my hand, enabling me to help her to her feet.
"Stand up," I said, my voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves.
"Thank you," Mamori said. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Primrose," I simply said.
"Nice to meet you, Primrose. My name is Mamori. Mamori Tanakuchi," she replied.
The memory grew pale, replaced by the raspy outlines of reality as I found myself back in the present time. The echoes of Mamori's voice and the rustling of leaves were replaced by the buzz of the town outside my window. In my hand, I spun a card, its edge dented.
On it was a photo of a girl my age, her short, black hair falling just above her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes filled with a bubbly energy that mirrored her smile. Mamori Greene. The name was written in striking black letters, a distinct difference from the already faded photo.
My heart throbbed with a yearning I couldn't name, and my head was occupied by the sound of a promise made under the sun. I gazed at the photo, straying in the memories of a time-long story, a spark of pertinacity kindling within me.
Taken in the labyrinth of my mind, my thoughts swirled around me like turbulence in a teapot. The used and somehow worn-out wallet has now become heavy in my hand. Was it really possible? Could the girl I had stolen this from be the same person I used to talk to and share secrets with underneath the shade of the old oak tree back in our childhood?
The thought was as unnerving as it was riveting.
No, it has to be a coincidence. There's no way our paths crossed again.
My daydream was then shattered by the recognizable feeling of soft fur caressing against my skin. I turned to my left and saw Ophelia, my black-furred tuxedo cat with enchanting emerald-green eyes. She has obsidian fur around the majority of her body, with only her paws and the lower part of her chest white. She leaped beside me, her purr resembling a low, pulsing rumble, like a distant thunder over a quiet night's sky. It was an easing sound, one that had been my consistent confidante through many rainy nights.
"Ophelia," I called, my voice fracturing the silence enveloping my room. Her name relished of riddle and grace, a suitable exaltation to the mysterious creature she was.
Her eyes met mine afterwards, the strength of their stare penetrating through the daze of my thoughts, pulling me back to reality. The wallet then fell from my fingers, landing with a low thump onto the worn-out upholstery of my bed. My hand found its way to the lavish fur of Ophelia's coat, each stroke a quiet appeal for purity. Her purr continued, quivering against the tips of my fingers, adding a relaxing essence to my anxious mind.
Ophelia was more than just my cat, though; she was my companion, my consistent friend in this cruel world. She had been with me since I first slipped into Elliot's slumberous home. She had been there when my adoptive father took me inside the confines of his home. She is, after all, a part of my life.
"Ophelia," I muttered again, the heaviness of my thoughts exuding into my words. I found myself gushing my heart out to her, about the stolen wallet, about the recollection that appeared to be catching up with me, about the anxiety, the uncertainty, and the trust. Her then-green eyes blinked at me, the deliberate, steady motion was somehow a testimony to her patience.
She didn't respond to me, of course. I mean, what do I expect? My words were just suspended in the air, a quiet speech allocated to her meows. But she doesn't have to respond. Her presence was enough. Her purrs shatter the silence in the quiet room, a tender cue that I wasn't alone and that I had a friend in this untamed and unforeseeable journey.
As seconds passed by, the room was crowded by the undisturbed rhythm of Ophelia's purrs and the soft rustle of my heart. The wallet lay forgotten, a specter from yesterday obscured by the easing verity of the present. I had just finished stroking Ophelia's smooth, midnight fur, whose eyes shone like two emeralds glaring into the crevasse. With a calming purr, she coiled herself into a ball on the shabby rug, and I stood up, my heart smiling a bit at the view of her ease. Leaving her coziness behind, I headed my way towards the safety of the bathroom.
The bathroom was a safe place in my otherwise chaotic world, aside from my room. The damaged porcelain tub held a weird charm in it, a proof of the years it had weathered, much like myself. I twisted the faucet knob on, the scraping sound echoing in the bathroom like an old tune, and stared as the water surged down, the steam rising in slothful swirls. The smell of lavender from my bath soap enveloped the room, lining me with a soft calmness.
Once my skin had been submerged with sufficient warmth, I stepped out of the tub, the cold wind caressing against my wet skin like a frosty feather. I wrapped myself in a knitted plush towel, its frayed patches a gentle sight. Then, I moved towards my old-looking closet, shuffling through my stack of worn-out jeans and faded shirts. I took and wore a pair of jeans, their denim fabric embracing my legs like a second skin, and a plain black shirt, its fabric a bit grayish from countless washes.
All of a sudden, the normal silence of my tiny room was shattered by the sharp ring of my dilapidated cellphone. I looked at the worn-out device, the cracked screen shining with the call notification. My heart sank deep in my chest at the glimpse of the caller ID. Leonidas Vaughn. I mean, what now?
Leo was a single-minded person—a brown-eyed, chisel-jawed man in his mid-20s who had taken a weird interest in my slightly law-abiding habits. His very name appearing on the screen of my phone sparked the common flicker of annoyance, a spark that had been started the first day we had encountered.
When was that? I don't know. I already forgot what day that was. However, I could still remember him screeching in my face about the money I stole from an old lady near the market. It was stupid, I know. But what was he expecting? All the time he screeched like a crow, my eardrums were close to surrendering. It's that annoying. Of course, Leo gets on my nerves every single time, but that day marked my irritation with him.
As I continually looked at my phone, I argued with myself whether to accept the call or let it ring into oblivion. But the spirit of inquiry, as always, won. I took my phone up and swiped the 'accept call' symbol, the cold screen of my phone pressing into my cheek.
"Primmy, good morning. It's Leo," he said, as if I didn't know. Primmy, yes. He's the only person who calls me that trashy name, as if I wanted to be called that way. It irks me, and his voice makes it ten times more annoying.
"What?" I said, annoyed.
"I know you know why I called," he said.
"For what it's worth, no," I said.
"Oh, come on. Have you stolen another wallet?" Leo's voice was rough yet held an underside of unease I couldn't decipher.
"No," I simply replied.
"Look, I know you took it. If you could just come over here and return the wallet, I'll just let you go with another warning," he whispered.
His words pulled my attention to the wallet lying still on top of my bed—a wallet that certainly didn't belong to me. I stared at it, a playful smirk curving on my lips.
"I need you to come to the station, Primmy," he said, his voice wearing what sounded like patience. I scoffed at his words, my heart beating at the thought of me coming over to the station. Again, enough with the terrible nickname.
"How sure am I that you won't arrest me?" I asked.
"I won't, really. Just come over and we'll talk it through. The owner needs her wallet back."
I scoffed.
"I won't bite," he reassured, a hint of laughter flowing into his voice. But it wasn't his biting that I was bothered; it was the certain havoc that accompanied every interaction I had with him.
As I dropped the call, a piece of me knew that I wouldn't be able to evade this confrontation. With a swift drag, I jerked the thick, fraying towel off of my shoulders, and my feet hit the bumpy, wooden floor. I gripped the sole of my worn-out shoes and teetered on the fringe of the shaky staircase. The house groaned beneath the weight of my presence, as if it too was stirring up from a long, dream-riddled sleep.
As I made my way downstairs, every step I took somehow echoed through the silence, the whimpering of the house's walls the only reply to my arrival. I saw Elliot in the kitchen, his figure illuminated by the sun's glow, sieving through the stained kitchen window. His hair was a mess of silver and black waves, and his eyes, a soft shade of brown, held a warmth that contradicted the stiff lines of his weather-bested face.
"Good morning," Elliot greeted, his voice a calming sound in the quiet morning. His hands, coarse and calloused from years of intense labor, waved towards the simple breakfast he had made. A small, cracked plate and a spare serving of fried eggs, alongside a slice of bread browned to a golden perfection. The smell of cooked eggs cloaked the area, and for a moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the scent.
"I wish I could stay," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, "but I have to go somewhere important."
The question that was etched across my father's face made my heart nervous. "Please, Prim. Eat something before you leave," he said, his stare never leaving mine. His eyes folded in despair. But I couldn't afford the joy of a nice morning, not today. There were things to finish, tasks to be fulfilled, and, most of all, a Leo to face.
With a final, prolonged look at Elliot, I smiled. "I'll eat when I get back," I said.
Elliot then smiled. I headed towards the door, my feet slapping against the crisp and worn-out floor, whipping up tiny clouds of dust. The door, run down and weathered like the rest of our tiny house, complained at my persistent thrust. I stepped out of our home, the coldness of the morning air cloaking around me like a sheet.
"Stay safe!" Elliot yelled, a cough accompanying his words.
As I turned, the house—in its humble state—looked at me, and Elliot, still standing in the soft glow of the morning sun, smiled. Ophelia then perched near him, softly meowing as I walked away from them.
"I will," I said before finally leaving the porch of our home.
I will.
***
A flurry of cold air came into contact with my face as I opened the heavy glass doors of the police station. The familiar smell of untouched coffee, printed paper, and a hint of glossy ink entered my nostrils. The mixed sounds of chiming telephones, busy bodies, and whispered talks welcomed me. It was draining, honestly; and if it weren't for Leo, I would be in my home—in my room—resting.
"Dawson," a raspy voice leaped out, pulling me away from my reverie. I turned and found myself staring at Officer Johnson, a man I referred to in my head as the grizzly bear since his mustache could somehow rival that of a walrus'. It doesn't make sense, I know.
"Leo's been waiting for you. His office," Officer Johnson said, pointing towards a door on the far end of the area.
My heart pounded like a caged bird inside my chest. A huge slab pressed itself into my throat, a physical sign of anxiety. My fingers reflexively patted against the side of my jeans, where the stolen wallet lay concealed. Walking through the sea of desks and officers, I couldn't help but discern the sideways glances and low whispers. I was the constant face inside this station, the girl who is very familiar with the police station's premises, the town's negligent girl. Primmy, as Leo refferred to.
I stopped outside Leo's office, my breath raising as I noticed a sight of an unknown figure through the matted glass. A lady of some sort with short hair falling down just above her shoulders was settled in front of Leo's table. I swallowed the slab in my throat hard, disregarding my unease and inhaling a deep breath before slowly pushing the door open.
As soon as my foot crossed the threshold, Leo welcomed me with his familiar smile, his eyes twinkling with a combination of annoyance and relief.
"Primmy, finally!" he said, leaning back in his chair. There goes.
I barely gave him a look, my stare fixated on the girl. She looked back, and for a quick snap, I felt as though the world had ceased from revolving.
Her eyes, a distinct shade of dark brown, met mine, and a ripple of nostalgia came over me. Leo's office somehow shrunk in size, and a vortex of memories swirled in my mind, dragging me back to a time when life was simpler, and our biggest worry was who got the last piece of candy.
"What's your name, by the way?"
"Primrose," I simply said.
"Nice to meet you, Primrose. My name is Mamori. Mamori Tanakuchi," she replied.
"You want this bag of candy?" I asked.
"Sure," she replied, wiping her tears off of her face. "Why did you help me, by the way?"
I looked away. "Because," I started, "you can't just stand back and watch things happen. If you have the capacity to help, then help. You are just, as much, part of the problem if you are just watching and not standing up for the people."
And then, Mamori smiled.
"M-Mamori?" I called, my voice inaudible. The name hung heavily in the air—a ghost from my past.
She then looked at me, her face a cryptic mask. For a second, her face was a painting of confusion. But after a few seconds, she made this weird expression. I felt a piercing dart of doubt. Was this really her? The Mamori I used to talk to? The same little girl I gave my candy to all those years ago?
No answer appeared; only the repeated question inside my head bounced off the corners of my mind. The silence was very loud, a hardened calmness before a storm. The only thing I could do was stand there still, my heart beating loudly in my chest, as I waited for any response coming from the girl in front that could potentially answer my questions.
"Nice to meet you, Primrose," the girl said. "It's been a while since we saw each other."