I SLID THE GLASS of water across the table, my fingers tracing the cold condensation, the droplets pooling in my palm. Elliot's trembling hands reached out, fingers brushing mine. His skin was as cold as the glass. I watched as he swallowed his medication; each gulp was like a victory against time. His chest rattled with every breath, a constant reminder of the enemy within.
His gaze rose to meet mine, eyes as sharp and blue as the midday sky, yet clouded with worry. His attention was on the mottled purple and blue patches that mottled my cheek. Each bruise was a badge of honor, a testament to my grit. But to Elliot, they were a mystery, a cause for concern. It made me think, "No."
"Primrose," he rasped, his voice a whisper against the silence. "What happened?"
Yup, I had already anticipated that very question. He worriedly looked at my bruises as I forced a smile, a feeble attempt to push away his worry. "I fell," I lied, my voice steady despite the unease swirling within me. The lies tasted bitter on my tongue, but they were a necessary evil. Elliot's brows furrowed, his gaze never leaving my face. He didn't believe me, but then, why would he? I was a terrible liar, always had been. Sucks. But this was a secret I had to keep.
"I'm fine, Elliot," I insisted, reaching out to squeeze his frail hand. His knuckles were white against his pallid skin, and his grip was weak yet determined. "You don't need to worry about me."
But he did. I saw it in his eyes—the way his gaze lingered on my bruised face and the way his fingers tightened around mine. His concern was a palpable presence in the room—a third entity, an unwelcome guest.
Around us, the room was silent, save for the soft purring of Ophelia. My black cat lay curled on my lap, a comforting weight against my thighs. Her emerald eyes were half-closed in contentment, her purrs a soothing melody against the tension. I ran my fingers through her soft fur, relishing the simple, comforting rhythm of her life beneath my touch. Elliot's gaze, on the other hand, drifted to the medication on the table, the vials, and the pills, and on me. He knew we could barely afford it and knew that it was a luxury that cost us every single penny we had. But he didn't know how I got it; he didn't know about the illegal arena, about the fight. That was a secret I had to keep. A secret that was as heavy as the bruises on my face and as dark as the shadows in our lives.
His gaze lingered on the medication, then slowly moved to me, a silent question in his eyes. I met his gaze with a small smile, a silent promise that I would keep fighting, keep surviving, for him and for us. He didn't need to know the truth; he didn't need to carry that burden. He had enough on his plate—enough battles to fight.
"I don't want you to get in trouble," Elliot said, his eyebrows furrowed in worry.
"I'm not, Elliot," I assured him. But again, it was a lie.
Elliot sat frail and gaunt in his armchair. His voice was a fragile echo of the robust man I'd come to see as a father, a mere whisper that barely stirred the silence.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his hands trembling as they clutched the worn arms of the chair. Sorry? For what?
His brave eyes, once vibrant, were now clouded with worry and regret. A pang of sorrow jolted through me, but I swallowed it back, forcing a reassuring smile onto my face.
"Why are you apologizing?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. The sound of my own name, spoken with such remorse, felt like a splinter in my soul. Then, he sighed, a weary sound that seemed to echo the weight he carried. "I'm sorry for being a burden to you," he admitted, the words hanging heavy and foreboding in the air. "You're going through so much right now because of me."
I shook my head, the stray hair framing my face dancing with the motion. "You're talking nonsense, Elliot," I said, trying to inject some levity into my voice. "You're my family. It's only natural that I'm here for you."
His eyes, however, were far from amused. They were filled with a sadness that made my heart ache, a sadness that hinted at a truth I didn't want to face. I got up, moving to the table where his half-eaten dinner still lay. The clattering of the ceramic plate as I picked it up provided a much-needed distraction.
As I stood over the sink, the warm water flowing over my hands, I heard Elliot's voice again. "If ever something happens to me, Primrose, I want you to be safe and happy. I want you to be in a happier family."
His words were a punch to the gut. I turned around, the plate still in my hand, my heart pounding against my ribcage. Ophelia rubbed against my leg, her purring a comforting lullaby amidst Elliot's nonsense. Ophelia's emerald eyes glowed in the dimming light, a silent reassurance that everything would be alright.
"Stop talking nonsense," I said, a hint of desperation creeping into my voice. The reality of his words was too harsh and painful to entertain. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew that his words were far from nonsense. They were his fears, his concerns, and his love for me laid bare. They were a plea for me to find happiness, even if he couldn't be there to witness it.
And as Ophelia wound herself around my legs, her purring growing louder, I realized that I would do just that.
***
Later that evening, just when Elliot was asleep, I found myself en route to the pharmacy. His cough had grown harsher, his pallor paler, and the grip of the lung disease was tightening its cruel hold. My heart ached as I thought of his weakened state, but my purpose remained clear: I needed his medication.
I mean, his cough started due to his habit of smoking cigarettes. It was his routine, until he started coughing roughly. I told him to stop, but he didn't listen. Now, I'm so worried about his health. It is pretty evident that he is deteriorating. But still, I won't let anything happen to him. After all, he's the only family that I have.
As I continued walking, the pharmacy stood at the end of the main street, its neon sign flickering like a lighthouse in the encroaching twilight. I could already smell the sterile scent of antiseptics and the faint undernote of medicinal herbs that hung around the store. As I moved closer, my hand instinctively went to the necklace nestled against my chest.
I recalled yesterday when I faced Raunn in the underground arena. I was the underdog; the lamb led to be slaughtered. Raunn, towered over me, his muscles sculpted from years of ruthless combat. I could still remember it. The spectators roared for blood, their cheers echoing ominously in the dank stone pit. I had no chance of winning. Yet, I did.
There was a moment in that fight—a moment that defied logic and reason. My necklace, began to glow, and this radiant, ethereal light, as though the heart of a star had been captured within its delicate design. I didn't understand why or how, but that glow ignited something within me—a surge of strength and bravery I never knew I possessed.
I touched the necklace now; its cool metal was warming at my touch. I stared at it, my reflection caught in its polished surface. There was no way, I thought, that it could have glowed like that.
But it had. And it had changed everything.
The door of the pharmacy jingled as I pushed it open, pulling me back into the present. The scent of antiseptics was more potent here, mingling with the musky scent of old paper from the prescription slips. I navigated the narrow aisles, my eyes scanning the shelves for Elliot's medications. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, and I continued looking for his pills.
I was alone, aside from the elderly pharmacist who nodded at me from behind the counter. His spectacles hung low on his nose, and his eyes were kind and weary from years of service. I returned the nod, offering a small, appreciative smile. I felt a strange sense of peace in the pharmacy, surrounded by remedies and cures. Once I found the medications, I picked them up and I walked towards the counter. Slowly, I touched the necklace again, rolling the pendant between my fingers.
What happened yesterday? I asked myself, mentally. The pharmacist scanned the items, and I paid everything using the cash I won yesterday. He placed the pills inside this brown paper bag and bid farewell as I left the counter. I headed towards our home, always wondering how my necklace did what it did yesterday. And me winning, does it have to do something with the necklace?
As I trudged along the uneven stretches of the cobblestone street, the orange prescription bottles clinked against one another. I was halfway home, swallowed by the gloom of the impending night, when a chill shivered down my spine. It was a familiar feeling. A sensation. A weird sense that something was off. It was as if an icy finger had traced a line down my back—a sensation that I wasn't alone. I then spun around, the hem of my coat twirling around my ankles. The street behind me was deserted; the only company I had were the crumbling, ancient buildings stooping low under the weight of time, their vacant windows gazing at me like blind eyes. I laughed, a short, self-deprecating sound that was lost in the evening breeze. I was letting the solitude get to me, I thought, shaking my head, and I resumed my trek home.
The town of Perthlochry was bathed in a sickly orange glow from the sodium-vapor street lamps, the only defense against the night's encroachment. The buildings, once full of life, were now cloaked in grime and dust, their facades covered in graffiti and protest banners. The streets were littered with rubbish, and I was still continuing with my walk. The once-vibrant town was reduced to a barely living, wheezing entity. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, a mixture of rotting garbage and the acrid bite of pollution.
I couldn't help but feel a tinge of resentment. A sense of betrayal. I mean, the police, the ones elected to protect and serve, had turned a blind eye, their greed blinding them to the plight of the very people they vowed to serve. Their deceit was reflected in every rusting bin, every pothole, and every dilapidated building. They just used the people's money for their own benefit—corruption, if you will. Once, they caught this innocent man, who they forced to plead guilty to a crime he didn't commit. They planned it already, as they were giving him a chance to be free by paying fines. As if the money he paid went for the betterment.
People would just abuse their power, huh?
As I rounded a corner, a flickering street lamp caught my attention. Bathed in its stuttering glow, a man stood, his figure cloaked in black, his face obscured by the broadsheet he was reading. He seemed as out of place as a penguin in a desert. Something about him twisted my insides into an uncomfortable knot. His presence was like a blot of ink on a pristine white sheet.
As I passed by, he lowered his newspaper just enough for me to glimpse a pair of cold, black eyes under the brim of his hat. They peered at me, dissecting and analyzing. A shudder of unease coursed through me, but I kept my gaze steady and my pace unfaltering. And then...
A brief, sharp "snap."
I shook my head. That was undeniably a camera's flash.
I looked in the direction of the ominous man and saw him lowering his old-fashioned camera. I didn't know who he was or why he was here. But his presence was as unsettling as the desolation that Perthlochry had been reduced to. And as I walked away, the cold knot of dread in my stomach didn't unwind. It only tightened. I quickened my steps, the sound of my shoes echoing ominously in the empty street, a rush of adrenaline cutting through the quietude. As the silhouette of the ominous man grew smaller in the distance, the weight of the bag in my hand became less of a burden and more of a lifeline, pulling me towards home and away from the unknown.
The chill evening air stung my skin as I continued walking. Fear gripped the very back of my throat, and I constantly looked behind me to see if the man followed me. As I quickened my pace, however, I bumped into someone. I looked up and saw a familiar face: his gruff, uniformed form becoming an unwelcome shadow. His eyes, piercing as the midnight sky, meticulously examined the violent expanse of purple and blue that had claimed territory on my face. The scrutiny felt as heavy as the shackles of a prisoner. I was not some damn porcelain doll to be pitied.
"Primmy?" he called.
Of course, it's him. Leo's face was a muddled swirl of concern and annoyance, a strange cocktail that left a bitter taste in my mouth. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep canyon of worry lines on his forehead. I could almost hear the cogs in his brain grinding as he tried to piece together the puzzle of my battered face.
"Into some trouble again?" His voice was like gravel scraping against the smooth tarmac, harsh and grating. The familiar smirk curled at the corner of his lips, his trademark sarcasm dripping from every syllable. He would always be Officer Leo, the annoying gnat buzzing persistently in my life, ever since those days of my misadventures as a petty thief.
I glared back at him, my eyes throwing daggers. The nerve of this man. He was a constant reminder of a past I was desperately trying to unwrite, a past that clung to me like a stubborn shadow. I was no longer that desperate child, pilfering for survival.
"You're too young to be living like this," he chastised, his tone shifting like the tides, from mockery to a semblance of sincerity, with the occassional tsk. But I wouldn't be fooled by the sudden softness in his voice. He was still the officer who had chased me through the narrow, winding streets, the echo of his pounding footsteps a haunting lullaby that still gave me nightmares.
His words rattled around in my head like the loose change in my pocket. "Young," "future," as if these terms held any meaning for me. I had been forced to grow up faster than the kids my age, my innocence stolen alongside the bread and trinkets I had lifted.
"What happened to your face?" The question hung in the air, a loaded gun with its trigger pulled.
"Just fell. Tripped over my own feet," I replied, my voice as cold as the frost-covered ground beneath us. The lie slipped through my lips easier than any stolen goods ever had.
Leo's eyes narrowed, and the skepticism in his gaze was palpable. He didn't believe me, but I couldn't care less. He was about as welcome in my world as a fox in a henhouse.
"Even the bravest of us have a lot to learn, Primmy," he finally said, his voice softer, almost paternal. But his words, meant to comfort or guide, only fueled my annoyance. I didn't need his advice. I didn't need anyone. Screw him.
I shrugged off his words like an unwanted coat. Leo and his so-called wisdom could take a hike. He knew nothing about me—nothing about the life I was forced to lead, nothing about the battles I faced every day.
"What do you want?" I asked him, annoyed.
Officer Leo's stern gaze continued to scrutinize the bruise on my face until he finally broke the silence, his voice a low growl of authority: "I'll be keeping my eye on you, Primrose Dawson. As long as you're in Perthlochry, you're under my watch. And if I find you're up to no good, believe me, I'll come down on you hard."
His words didn't send shivers down my spine, as he probably intended. Instead, a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I had been through far worse than a few threats from a small-town cop. I raised my chin, my eyes meeting his in an unspoken challenge.
"Thank you," I replied, my voice steady as I clutched the small bag of medications for Elliot tighter in my hand. "I appreciate your concern."
I brushed past him, my heart pounding against my ribs not from fear but from adrenaline, the kind that comes from staring danger right in the face and then turning your back on it. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the scent of rain and the distant whisper of the sea. Perthlochry, with its cobbled streets and thatched-roofed houses, had a timeless charm that belied the undercurrents of secrets and whispers that ran through its veins.
As I strode down the dimly-lit street, my mind drifted back to the tall, shadowy figure that had been haunting my thoughts. The man in black. His presence had sent a chill down my spine; his aura was ominous and foreboding, like a storm cloud ready to burst. Had I been hallucinating? It was not the first time I had that kind of feeling, and it sure wasn't the first time I experienced this flash. I also encountered that when I was in the dumpster. The question is, who was that man?
The question gnawed at my mind, like a moth drawn to a flame. The logical part of me wanted to dismiss the memory as a figment of my overstressed mind, a trick played by the darkness and my own fears. But another part, a part rooted in my instincts, kept pulling me back to that moment, refusing to let go.
I paused, my feet coming to a halt on the dew-damp cobblestones as I tried to shake off the unsettling thoughts. The street was deserted now, the only sound being the distant hoot of an owl and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. I turned to look back at the spot where I'd seen him, half-expecting to see his silhouette again. But there was nothing. Of course, there was nothing. Just the empty street beneath the dim light, the shadows dancing like ghosts on the ancient stones. My brow furrowed, and my mind churned, struggling to make sense of the enigma. Who was that man? And why did he fill me with such dread?
With a soft sigh, I continued on my way, the weight of unanswered questions heavy on my shoulders. But I knew one thing for certain. Perthlochry held secrets—secrets that might be darker than the charming façade of the town. And I had the unsettling feeling that I had just scratched the surface.