Chapter 11
2861words
I hugged the crow plushie close to my chest, brushing my fingers against it soft fabric.
I'll treasure this forever, Mr. S'dala. Isn't that what people normally do?
The memory of him handing the crow to me flickered in my head... so soft, so rare. A moment of peace I wasn't used to having. That... warm feeling. I suppose I like it. Cause I don't want it to go away ever... never.
As I neared my apartment, I heard the familiar sound of the clay being molded. Mr. Or'dara, looking at his work. His hands were dusted in dry gray.
... He's so old. Every time he smiles, his wrinkles are always just... there. But I suppose it's not a bad thing. He does make things a little bit... easy when I walk through these same damaged halls.
"How was school today, Slyvian?" he asked.
"It was fine," I replied, barley above a whisper. I didn't slow down. I didn't meet his eyes. My gaze stayed glued to the plush crow in my hands.
"Did a friend give you that?" he asked, nodding toward the toy.
I hesitated at my door. Just for a moment. Then gave a small nod. Without saying a word, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
Behind it, I heard him chuckle softly to himself. "Good," he murmured.
I leaned against the door, letting out a deep breath, I went in my room, grabbing my notebook from my closet.
Home... if I could call it that... was still in is usual mess. The stale smell of nove-cig's, the sound of the TV murmuring behind my mother's door, trash on the counters. And yet... the crow in my arms made me feel something different.
Safe? No. Far from it.
But I guess its...
I paused, my pen hovering over the page.
I stared at the words. Did I mean them? Yeah, I did. I hugged the crow to my chest. Writing one more thing before I laid down. The floor didn't feel as cold tonight. For once, I drifted off without dread pressing on me.
Thank you, Mr. S'dala.
Meanwhile.
In the dim hallway, Mr. Or'dara's fingers busied over the clay, he was lost in his thoughts when suddenly the elevator doors opened. The doors creaked, breaking his concentration as he glanced up. There, that man, he's here again. The man stood tall at 7.6 feet tall in the long black coat. The coat's high collar framed his neck. Heavy, black military boots rose to his calves, reinforced with long, angled heels.
He wore a wide-brimmed obscuring his face in complete darkness. He wore a matte-black gloves clung tight to his large hands.
"It's you again," Or'dara muttered, his hands pausing mid-motion. The man looked down the hallway towards Slyvian and her mother's apartment, his mere presence is unsettling. Dread crept in Or'dara's gut as he watched the man, always cloaked, his face always obscured.
The man approached the apartment door and reached inside his coat, pulling out a small, nondescript box. Or'dara's only stared. This... ritual was every year, without fail, the man arrived, box in hand, leaving it.
As expected, the man paused, turning slowly to face Or'dara, towering over him. The older man swallowed hard, his heart is racing as he looked into the stranger's gaze, but... those eyes... every time, they were the same.
The man tilted his head slightly, his voice low, smooth, and deep.
"What do you see?"
That question. It was always that infernal question. Or'dara mouth went dry, he felt the words bubble up against his own will. He didn't know why he felt compelled to answer, why the words seemed to rise unbidden every year, but he could never stop himself.
"I see..." he hesitated, focusing on the swirling visions behind his eyes, it's like his psychic powers are back. "I see storms. Endless storms. Destruction, chaos... and grief. So much grief."
"Good, it hasn't changed," the man replied.
Or'dara swallowed hard, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He wanted to ask questions, who is this man, why he brought those boxes each year, why he asked that cursed question every year. Yet, he couldn't. The words wouldn't come.
The man turned abruptly, his coat billowing slightly as he strode toward the elevator and just like that, he was gone.
Or'dara slumped back in his chair. His gaze drifted toward the plain box left in front of Slyvian's door.
"What are you to them?" Or'dara whispered to himself.
In the morning.
For once, I woke up feeling no dread, the usual fog that I felt, wasn't there. I didn't feel like I had to brace myself for anything. Mr. S'dala... that crow plushie you gave me. You didn't have to give it to me. But you did.
I know it wasn't because you merely forgot my birthday. You remember everything. It's something different.
You truly care for me. Why else would you give me this crow for?
Maybe I shouldn't cling to that thought It's dangerous. Teachers and students shouldn't... couldn't... but I don't care. Mr. S'dala was the only one who'd ever looked at me like I mattered and I won't let him go by some policy.
I moved through my morning routine as quietly as possible, careful not to make any noise. Mother wasn't a morning person, and waking her usually led to yelling or worse. But as I walked into the kitchen, but then I froze.
Mother was already... awake?
She stood by the front door, a box in her hands, I can't read her expression. it's unreadable. When did she wake up? She never wakes up before me.
...I shrugged it off for and I turned back to the kitchen, I began straightening the counters.
I heard a sound of a box being torn opened. Then came a gasp.
It wasn't the sharp, angry sound I was used to. No, this was different. It was soft, trembling... almost fearful.
Fear? From her?
I couldn't remember the last time I had seen her afraid. She wasn't fazed by her string of boyfriends, no matter how violent they got. But now, she stood frozen, staring into whatever contents that's in the box... it's as if it held something against her. I wonder what's in it.
"...Mom?" I said. I hate using that word.
She didn't respond at first, her eyes fixed on what was inside. Then, without warning, she slammed the lid shut, her hands shaking as she gripped the edges of the box.
"Another damned year, why? Why does he keep entertaining this?" she muttered under her breath, her voice cracking. It wasn't directed at me, which made it more curious on what got her so scared. I want to know. That fear in her eyes.
It's... what I want to see from her.
"What's in it?"
"None of your business!" she snapped, the fear in her eyes quickly morphing into anger the moment she looked at me. She hugged the box tightly to her chest, as if protecting it or perhaps protecting herself so I wouldn't see what's inside. Yes, that's something she would do.
Her reaction only made me more curious. "Mom, is it-"
"I said leave it! And stop calling me that!" she yelled, cutting me off. Her voice always sharp, but there was an unmistakable tremble underneath it. I knew she was afraid of something. What's ever in that box, I must know it.
What's gotten into me? Why am I so curious today? Is it really just merely seeing her like this made me feel this way? I suppose I must see more of it.
As she retreated to her room with the box, slamming the door behind her, I was left standing in the quiet kitchen. That delicious light feeling was replaced with something dark. Something new.
After cleaning, I changed into my school uniform. I straightened my tie and looked down on the crow plushie on the floor. It's beady black eyes staring back at me. I see Mr. S'dala's smile looking at me through those eyes.
I walked out of the apartment.
Wait... I paused mid-stride. A wave of realization hit me.
Nathaniel.
I have completely forgotten about what he had planned after school.
Today, I was supposed to go to his father's company building... and I'm suppose to get something formal to wear. My previous feelings are gone, my heart sank as I looked down at my uniform, the only other clothes I have is a worn T-shirt and pants in my room. Neither would suffice Nathaniel's taste.
Nathaniel wouldn't tolerate me showing up looking... improper.
My chest tightened with anxiety, and my fingers curled into fists as I debated my options. The thought of asking for help made my stomach heavy. I didn't want pity, but there was no other choice. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Or'dara could help. He had always been kind to me.
Sighing, I walked over to where Mr. Or'dara was seated, molding clay with his weathered hands. The old man looked up from his work as my shadow fell across him, his wrinkled face breaking into the familiar, gentle smile.
"Good morning, Slyvian," he greeted warmly, setting down the clay. "Oh, let me grab your lunch money." He reached into his back pocket, already pulling out a couple of credlings.
"No, um..." My voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to stop him mid-motion. "I need... I need formal clothes. Do you have any in my size?"
Mr. Or'dara's eyes widened, and he had a look of delight. "Formal clothes?" He said in a surprised voice, I suppose it makes sense. I never asked him for help with... well... anything.
"Yes," I murmured, staring at his clay. My fists clenched tighter. I hated asking for anything, but I hated Nathaniel's wrath more.
The old man's face lit up with a broad, wrinkled grin. "Oh, yes, yes! I'm sure I can find something for you. Come in, Slyvian." He stood up from his stool and opened the door to his apartment.
I hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.
Mr. Or'dara's apartment was cozy, on the inside it's completely different from the worn-down building we both lived in. The living room was warm and... I suppose, inviting. A brown couch, its cushions slightly indented from years of use, sat against one wall. A vibrant red rug with patterns sprawled across the floor. A state-of-the-art holographic TV played the news about the recent killing of Velkon by Blinding Sun. The kitchen was small but clean.
There was a faint, calming scent of incense in the air, its a improvement from the musty, sour smells that often in the apartment I live in. A small ceramic burner on a side table held a glowing stick of incense, its spirals of smoke curling lazily upward.
I hesitated to step further. "Your apartment is... nice," I said quietly, glancing at the polished wooden bookshelves filled with neatly arranged books, clay sculptures, and other trinkets.
Mr. Or'dara chuckled, "I'm surprised you don't remember being here due to your great memory," he said, closing the door behind us.
My brow furrowed, confused. "What do you mean?" I asked, glancing at him. I don't remember ever being in his apartment. I'm sure this is my first time stepping inside his apartment.
"Well," he began, walking past me and gesturing to the couch. "I took you in for a short while when you were a baby. Back when your mother... well, when she was often gone from the apartment." He paused.
I'm not surprised hearing mother doing something like this. She likes going out for longs periods of times.
"I'd hear you crying from her apartment, it was very deafening, heart-wrenching cries," he explained, his tone softening. "At first, I tried to ignore it, hoping someone else would step in. But after hours of hearing you cry, I just couldn't let it go."
Mr. Or'dara sighed, "When I got there, the door was unlocked. It was almost like your mother wanted someone to break in. But when I got inside, I saw you, there you were, lying on the couch. No clothes, just a frail little thing with short black hair. You were so skinny... too skinny for a baby your age. It broke my heart to see you like that."
"So I took you here," Mr. Or'dara said, gesturing around the room.
"Fed you, cleaned you up, and made sure you were warm. I kept you for a while until your mother came back after a couple of days. She was so furious." His voice dropped, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"... I didn't know," I whispered, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric of the couch.
"Well, knowing that you didn't remember, you were just a baby, Slyvian." He straightened up and clapped his hands. "Now, let's see about getting you those formal clothes, hmm?"
... I wondered what it must feel like to live in a place like this, a place that feels safe.
I glanced around, taking in more details in his apartment. A framed photo of a young girl and boy sat on a nearby shelf.
"That's my daughter and son," Mr. Or'dara said, he got up from the couch and walked to another room.
"My daughter's name is Sylira. She was your age before she..." His words trailed off; he didn't need to really say anything; the words speak for themselves.
I looked at the photo again, the girl's eyes were dark like mine, and the boy, who had his eyes closed, was making a silly face expression. Something in my stomach tightened.
What if I had a sibling?
"I didn't know you have a son," I said quietly. I stood up from the couch and walked down the hallway. One of the doors had a sticker on it that read sculpt room.
"Yeah... I don't talk about him much," Mr. Or'dara replied from the other room. His tone was casual, but I can tell there was something heavier in his voice.
"He doesn't talk about me much either. Betty made sure of that." He said.
I opened the door to the sculpting room and stepped inside, my eyes darting to the many sculptures scattered throughout the room.
"Who's Betty?"
"His mother," Or'dara said from another room. "She... well, let's just say she wasn't too fond of me after our separation. Took him far away and never looked back."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, my attention drawn to a particular sculpture on the table. It was a detailed depiction of a swamp.
Mr. Or'dara chuckled as he entered the room, carrying a neatly folded black-and-orange dress in his arms. "It's not your fault, Slyvian. No need to apologize for an old man's past."
I leaned closer to the swamp sculpture. It featured five miniature figures: four that unmistakably resembled my... bullies and one that looked like me. The figure of myself stood at the edge of the swamp, as though moments from falling, while the others loomed nearby. Why would Or'dara make something like this? Well... I didn't dwell on it for long, though. I turned my gaze to the center of the room, where a massive sculpture is at the center of the room.
The sculpture was of a woman, nude, with tree branches sprouting from her arms, legs, stomach, and neck. Her hair flowed down her body, long enough to cover her chest. Her face was frozen in rage, mouth slightly parted in mid-scream, and a large gem was embedded in her forehead.
Or'dara noticed me staring. "Ah, that one caught your eye?" he asked, setting the dress on a nearby stool.
I hesitated before turning to him, unsure if I should ask the question lingering in my mind. Finally, I spoke.
"Who is she?"
Or'dara folded his arms and looking at the sculpture thoughtfully. "Hm... I honestly have no idea. But I see her in my dreams often."
"She looks... powerful," I murmured, more to myself than to him.
Or'dara chuckled. "Powerful, yes. But when I was sculpting her, I felt that she is burdened. Like she's carrying the weight of something far beyond her control."
I examined the rageful face. "...Why do you dream of her?"
" I don't know myself. Maybe she's some part of me I've buried. Or maybe she's a warning, a symbol of something to come."
He looked at me, his wrinkled eyes meeting my eyes. "We'll never know," he said softly.
Breaking the moment, he grabbed the dress from the stool and handed it to me.
"Now, you should head off to school. I don't want you to be late."
I hesitated, glancing at the dress in my hands before looking back at him.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome, Slyvian. Go on now."
With a small nod, I turned and left the sculpting room and his apartment.
