Chapter 9

Sevina

“Happy Birthday.” The director of the foster care beckons for me to sit in front of his desk.

“Thank you.” My birthday— April the 3rd. I don’t know if it’s the real one. When they filled in my report back at the police station I had a very strong sensation this date was my birthday—now it is. “Is this about the apartment?”

“Yes, it is.” The director nods, checking his computer. “Since you’re graduating soon and will be able to support yourself fully, we’re sending another girl to join you. She’s turning eighteen in a couple months.”

I mouth a nasty curse under my nose. “What if I find a job?”

“You have to find a job all the same. You’re eighteen now. You have to repay your debt and you have to pay your rent.” An intent expression cuts into his wrinkled face.

“What if I want to leave?”

“You can leave, as soon as you pay for everything as I said.” He scans the screen. “You have eight months of rent unpaid.” Any reasoning with the director is futile, but he’s not all powerful. He couldn’t do anything if I turned tail and went off the record. Runways are common. Those smart and brave enough to understand this place will drive them into a dead end. Not many want to end up being indebted. Yet, if I ran away I couldn’t get a legit job either. Now, I’m in a similar predicament Will was when she came to the city. I have no prospects.

I exit the office and a horde of scampering orphans rush past me. Among them I see my twelve-year-old self; sharp and attentive, but disoriented, ready to follow anyone in charge. I was happy until I realized I didn’t conform with the rest, until all plummeted downhill and I realized I have my abilities.

What a bummer…

I take a long stroll to the police station, thinking I might scan the district for employment ads along the shop windows. Rovy and Mrs. Brice swim in my mind like boats in the ocean. I can’t drown them. Can’t get rid of them… I have to look for jobs. Yet my head refuses to turn sideways.

Will called me this morning and asked to drop by the station. I feel obliged to be there for her. Even want to.

At the station I settle on a bench and text my contentious detective friend. A few minutes later she trots up from the stairwell leading to the basement. This time, her wild hair is bound into a puffy ponytail and she wears a black T-shirt tucked into the coffee-stained jeans. I don’t remember how old she is— late twenties, early thirties, maybe? It’s hard to tell.

“Hi,” she breathes out as if she’s just finished her workout. “Ah, shooting is a good way to let out some anger. There’s a public range nearby. You should try it.”

“I’m not angry.” I find nothing to poke with my foot. “But thanks.”

“I insist.”

My lips tighten, but I sit in place. “I don’t want to shoot a damn gun. You called me. And it isn’t because you wanted me to shoot, Will.”

She puts her arms akimbo. “No, it’s not. Come on.”

We leave the station and get into her messy sedan in the parking lot. “You hungry?” She asks, stalling.

I turn my head to her. “What’s the deal, Will?” I’m on the edge of my nerves, hoping she didn’t do anything stupid. I want to help her as soon as I can, however I can, but stalling is not the way to do it.

“Sevs, can I call you Sevs?” She puts her palms on the wheel, facing forward.

“Yes. It’s fine.”

“I know it’s weird I called you. I’m sorry… I just… wanted to thank you for, you know, helping me, at my apartment. I didn’t know what to do.” She bites her lip and lowers her forehead onto the wheel. “There’s no one left.”

A sigh of relief escaping me, I put my hand on her shoulder and rub it softly. “I’m still here.” It’s just the consolation she needs.

She inhales thickly under my palm, then straightens and composes herself.

“So let’s go grab a bite?” I try to relieve the tension with a strained smile, still pondering over the actual reason she called me.

She nods. “Let’s.”

Will spends a small fortune on the fast food and we park along the bank between the bridges to Clare’s island. It rises from the water like a bleak mountain, pillars of factory smoke dissolving into the air. Even in mid-spring not a speckle of green stands out from the dirty mass. Coats’s the same, at least where we’re parked— all is sooty, metal and black concrete.

“This is good.” I squint with content, chomping on my sandwich.

Finishing her second, Will scoffs. “You’ve never had fast-food?”

“Insta-noodles and Chinese...”

She scoffs again. “How’s your friend? What’s his name, Corrin?”

“Haven’t seen him since you pummeled him into the ground.”

“So you didn’t say sorry?”

“No.”

She stops chewing. I can tell what’s on her mind. Same as on mine. Perhaps, Corrin might’ve had something to do with it after all.

“He’s no older than me, there’s no way,” I say. “But, perhaps…”

Will continues brooding over her food. “It doesn’t matter. They’re still dead. I can’t do anything about it but blame myself.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, shut up with it already, what do you know about it?” She snaps and bends down, grappling under her seat. A liquor bottle, of course. She puts her sandwich away and cracks the door. I follow.

“Take it.” She places the bottle on the hood and confused at what she’s up to I grip the bottle. Will opens the back door and retrieves two medium-sized corrugated boxes on top of each other.

As we walk to the edge of the bank I cover my eyes from the sun. “What are those?” I lean on the shabby railing.

“The ashes. I still have them.” I blink at the boxes. “I don’t know what to do with them,” Will whispers. “It didn’t seem okay to flush them into the toilet, you know.” I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “I thought you might want to… be here too.” No— she is serious about this. Oh, I’ll need to eat a ton of ice-cream to push this experience down.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Yes, of course,” I stifle and look aside into the dark waters.

Will reads me instantly. “You hate being here.”

I give her a reluctant nod. I don’t want to see the only people I loved and the only hope I had scattered into the wind without a speck of respect. The dead should be honored. But they’re dead, they don’t care. And those boxes contain nothing but ashes after all.

“Oh, well, let’s get it over with.” Will opens one of the boxes and angles it over the railing. Dark particles escape the container and pour in a thin pillar of gray dust, sparkling in the sun. Will opens another one and it too scatters into the air, lone specks reaching the shimmering sea. I don’t even know which box was which. I bet Will couldn’t handle looking at their name tags on the cardboard.

“All it takes is one shot to end someone. It’s funny when you think about it.” Will pulls the bottle from my hands.

“I try not to.”

“Yeah, me either.” She unscrews the lid and takes a short swing, then struts back to the car. I linger on the railing for a while, my hand resting on Rovy’s bracelet.

Unwillingly I turn my back to the ashes, now lost in the wind and the ocean, and let give me a ride home.

“Sevs,” she says when we pull to a stop by the entrance to my apartment building. Despite a few sips of liquor we arrived safely. “Thank you, again.”

I nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“No.” She states. “I don’t want anyone else close to me. I won’t risk your life too. I’ll call you once in a while. Maybe we’ll catch up in some discreet place, but don’t expect anything more. We’re not going to hang around and comfort each other like a bunch of high school buds.”

“But—”

“No. You take care of yourself. Find a job or whatever. Better yet, leave this goddamn place.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“At least stay away from me as much as you can. I’m accountable enough as it is.”

I feel let down. “And what? You’re going to sit here, feeling sorry for yourself?” At my concern Will smiles with her lips pursed. I turn in my seat and look briefly into her somber dark eyes and I know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

She taps on the wheel. “Yep.” At least she’s honest.

I frown. “Come on, Will. Get a grip on yourself. It’s not your—”

“Enough of it, get out!” She growls.

I clench my fists. How is she so oblivious? “Fine, go ahead, drink yourself to death. Like I care!” I leave the car and slam the door.

“Hey! No door slamming you little shit!” She calls from the car but I hurry into the building.

Oh, I care. Finally, when I never did, I care. Maybe my outburst will make her come to her senses? There are people willing to help. But on the other hand, I understand her— comfort in a bottle is much easier to find.

That crime family she worked for owns her now. If in exchange for my life, or any life in fact, they asked her to come back, I’m sure she would agree. At least, she implied she would. It might be the case soon. What other reason do they have to leave her alive other than as a replacement? She’s one extra disposable body. A broken and terrified mind that is primed to follow.

I slam a box of ice-cream on the counter, hopeful to calm myself by binging on it. All I do is stare at it like I could melt it with my eyes.

I grab it and throw it across my tiny apartment. It hits the opposite wall and falls to the ground, intact.

“The hell with you.” It’s not gonna solve my problems anyway. I find myself pacing from wall to wall in my apartment, agitated. Rovy’s and Mrs. Brice’s deaths made me care, but it doesn’t change a thing. I can’t do anything. I can’t help Will. I can’t change the way things work. I can’t find the man who’s responsible for those mayhems. I’m the lone, fretful girl I’ve always been, with my good for nothing mysterious powers.

I’m the girl with a mop.

…

Two months after scattering the ashes and in light of recent events, I almost don’t pull through my exams. As if it couldn’t get any better a new girl is out to invade my space in a week and the last thing I want to do is build another relationship. Or hateship if she doesn’t like me, which she won’t. Plus, I’ll have to buy another sofa. The foster care increases the rent if two people share the apartment. And what if she brings a boyfriend here or something? What if she’s a lazy drunk whom I’ll have to support? And I still don’t have a job…

Unable to let out the anxiety, I braid my hair and hide it under the hood of my sweatshirt before heading out into the dark night. It’s the twentieth time in two months I’ve dealt with my problems by walking long distances.

This time, without exception, my rage evaporates into the endless spectrum of fluorescent lights and the urban symphony of humming cars. Clatter and buzz dies off as Coats calm for the night.

I could flee. Pack my bag, grab my remaining paper and take the train somewhere far. A fresh start. A new yet unfamiliar and scary place. Begin everything all over again.

I stop in the painfully familiar street; by the building I’ve known for over two years of my life. Six times I’ve stopped in front of it like this and gazed at the restaurant's shielded windows and boarded doors, yet not once I had enough guts to imagine what had happened inside.

What would Rovy have done? Would he support me if he knew I’m about to leave his drowning aunt? If he knew that I’m not even trying to help?

People get shot everywhere. I said that to Rovy. How insensitive it was.

Something inside me awakens and it’s as if an unknown force pulls me forward. If I decide to run I have to get a grip on myself, or I’ll end up like Will. Last time her bottle looked tempting. I have to look at the restaurant, see it from all sides, remember it…

A roaring curse echoes down the street. Two drunks amble along the walkway, scaring a few other people. I sprint into the alley. Drunks are common this area and I don’t want to deal with anyone, especially them. I slink to the restaurant’s back door and grab the doorknob with a hint of hope it might be open.

The door creaks and I tense with surprise as it glides open. A silhouette of a darker shadow stands out from the depths of the kitchen. It shifts, turning.

The hair on my nape jumps to attention and I leap away.

I should’ve turned back into the street, but I grasp the idea too late as I’m already bolting deeper through the back alleys.

Is he after me? For all I know it might be the same murderer. The one who killed Rovy!

“Hey! Stop!” A male voice rings from behind. I take a sharp turn into an alley, cutting back to the street—

My body jars to a stop when someone snatches my arm. I call out, discerning a shadow-covered face. My assailant, a bulky man, tightens his grip on my upper arm.

“It’s a girl.” He crinkles his face, surprised himself. It’s one of the drunks who was plodding down the street.

“Let go,” I breathe out, glancing back. “There was someone chasing me!”

He swings his palm and my head snaps to the side, cheek burning. “Shut up!”

“Where is the boy? I swear I heard his voice!” Another wide-shouldered scoundrel comes down the alley. In the same instant a scruffy figure rounds the corner, the man who chased me. In the murky light I can’t make out his face, but his long hair sways in a ponytail and his cheeks are overgrown with stubble.

“Finally,” the man who holds me says. “Come on, give us back what you stole and we’ll leave it all be.” He extends his hand forward. The young man totters in his place, unsure. I swear I’ve seen him before.

“Do you know this girl?” The brute’s breath smells of sharp spirit.

“I have it back at my base,” the guy says. “Let her go.” The tone of his voice sounds familiar.

Corrin?

The brute yanks me up and his ugly hands grab my collar. He shoves me into the wall and his fingers tighten around my neck. “That won’t do!”

“Hey, we don’t want people to call the cops.” His less intoxicated partner puts his palms out. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Shut up!” The brute spits at him as well.

My head pounds though his fingers are not squeezing my neck… yet. He turns his swollen head at me, inspecting my face.

“Maybe we’ll take the bitch instead and no one will get hurt.” A set of yellow teeth shows up on his face as his eyes rake my face. “Gorgeous eyes you have, missy.”

I have to escape, I have to do something. I need his weaknesses.

In a faint light I take on his stare, embedding my eyes into his.

I gasp, my body tensing, but, for some reason, a wave of dizziness passes me quickly and I’m not thrown into a panic fit.

A miserable creature he is. A fish, swimming in a pool of booze. He has a crippled knee from a recent bar fight. Covered by his jacket and tucked into his waistband sits a gun. He forgot it’s loaded because he’s been drinking.

Adrenaline runs through my veins, pricking at each nerve and muscle. I raise my leg and kick him into the hurt knee. Screaming out, he doubles over and releases me. My fingers clench into a fist and I send it into his chin. When he eases backward I yank the gun out from under his jacket, seconds before he arches forward and his bulgy hand curls around my upper arm. As he yanks me to himself I toss the gun to Corrin, at least I hope it’s him, and watch as it slides across the ground in front of him. With a corner of my eye I notice the brute swing out, his fist headed to the back of my head. A short jab of pain travels over my eyes and the next thing I know I’m on the ground, my ears ringing and my vision darkening. I hear myself heave, my body resisting the fear, the danger, like on the day I got beaten…

Distant shots reach my ears as I’m pulled into oblivion.