The Lucielle Box - 3 : The Secret !

CHAPTER TWO

Outside the window, the world always seemed loud and pleasant. On a stony piece of land outside the walls of the Orphanage, street kids would holler around with a ball in hand, bickering over potential teams and points scored in the last match. Their basket was a worn-out plastic bowl balanced on the edge of the wall, always withering, when left empty, with the gusts of wind. Anyone standing on the inside could spot about five different bowls scattered on the ground, having succumbed to the fate of abandonment and the recipient of no human making retrieving attempts.

Isadora would stay at her seat’s edge as the match would grow more intense by the second, everyone’s homework on the line as loser’s weight to bear. The notes of Vivaldi’s winter warmed the tension in the air, involuntarily breathless, Isadora would just stare. The ball would dribble and be passed, sometimes a catch was missed, sometimes a basket was scored. She would exclaim and swear with great mirth and disappointment, mumbling to herself about all the ways she could have avoided the other team’s defeat. Though, her fate was one of a great observer but never an intervener, a helpless god overseeing the fate of people with great detail but possessing no ability to undo it.

The best Isadora could do was look away.

Her eyes fluttered open and the extravagant jewels etched in the dome shaped ceiling caught her attention. She swung up and the delicate engravings on the wall in front made her squirm back, into the cushiest pillows to have ever touched her undeserving back. “What in the…?” the words left her hoarse throat as her eyes scrutinized the lavishness around. Gold walls, shiny blackwood furniture engraved with precious stones, the mere spaciousness of a playground and overwhelming grandeur of paintings staring down on her.

“Was I kidnapped again…? Sold off to some rich sleazy bastard…? No, no, no, that would not be cannon appropriate,” she mumbled to herself; the words came out raspy, owing to her parched throat, yet skipping the covered glass of water placed on the bedside table, she got up and wobbled over to the desk and chair placed in front of an imperial window. The large table was littered with papers, documents and she shuffled around until she spotted a seal placed over a bunch of manila envelopes.

“Runa…me, I should have been dead…did the,” she picked up the seal and turned it over to reveal the golden crest of a sword with wings. “Fuck, did he really…” she grabbed the letters and all of them were addressed to, ‘Arizel Delmore, the thirteenth of Isdarien.’

“Of all people…why him?” she bit her lower lip as she pondered over the misfortune of the thirteenth prince, “He’s the first to die…tsk.”

She placed the letters and the seal back in the place and meandered around the room, only to stop in front of the full-length mirror encased in gold engravings. It was her appearance that caught her off guard and made her stand and stare. She used to be a simple girl with dark hair and dark eyes, no distinguishing features to set her apart from the common populace but here…here she was Runa Don Russet, petite and pale with curly ringlets of burgundy hair flowing to her waist and eyes as clear as morning dew. Though out of all miracles, the fact that she had hands was the most blessed one. She raised her hands in front of the mirror and gazed at them with much love. They were pale and slender attached to dainty wrists and long fingers, certainly made for a character who wasn’t a survivor. Nonetheless, her heart swelled with gratefulness.

“Woah…” she touched her small face and felt her dainty features, “It couldn’t get more fictional, could it?” she snorted as she tugged at her hair and genuinely felt the sensation in her scalp. Then, she realised that she was clad in a loose silk shirt and lacey shorts – did someone change her clothes? Of course, they would have gotten rid of her bloody dress but…her line of thought was interrupted by a sudden thud.

She flinched and instinctively turned to face the sound. On the window, perched like a wounded bird, was the thirteenth prince staring at her with an amused smile. His dark hair flowed with the wind, freely, a stark contrast to the bloodied white shirt stuck to his torso. Was it his blood or hers?

“Oh! You’re up, I could get used to this,” he smiled as he jumped inside the room and instantly started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Woah, woah woah, what do you think you’re doing?” she uttered, nostrils flared and brows scrunched with exasperation.

The man stopped mid-unbuttoning and looked up with a smirk, “Commonly, in a situation like this, someone would wail, ‘who are you?! Where am I?! what do you want with me?!’  but you said none of that!”

She frowned.

His dark eyes held her light ones, piercing with interest. All the while his nimble fingers worked their way through the buttons. He got rid of the sticky shirt and it was cue enough for her to yelp and turn on her heel.

“Have some shame, you pervert!” she gasped, only to realise that she was now facing a high-definition mirror with him being perfectly reflected in it.

“So, it looks like you can see far into the future but the immediate second, got it,” he chuckled as he caught her eye again, through the mirror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she gasped and looked away, “What are you yapping about?!”

“Ya-yapping? What is that? Nonetheless, you do not have to be on guard with me, I know your secret and—”

“—Wait, what, how the heck?” she cut him, brows afrown, as she turned to face him and immediately regretted it. She placed her hand strategically ahead to over his muscular torso from her vision.

“You did not even ask, ‘what secret’ tsk…you’re suck a horrible liar.” As if to test her patience, he walked towards her and with every step he took, his torso would get clearer in her vision so she would bring her hand closer and closer to her eyes until the only thing in her vision was the back of her hand.

“Wh-what secret do you kno—” her words were cut off as she felt a hand gently caress her head. Her body stiffened upon his touch and chilly words escaped her lips, “What do you think you’re doing…?”

The man hesitated for a mere second upon receiving the chill question, looked at her narrowed clear eyes and immediately retreated his hand. “Why,” he scoffed awkwardly, “I was trying the little witch to like me so that she can heal me, ha ha…”

“Heal you…?” she frowned.

“Ah-ha! So you accept that you’re a witch!” the man exclaimed.

“What!? No! Oh holy—oh my, no, I am not a witch dude, what the heck?!”

“Do not dude me, Lady, and do not lie—” he stopped mid-sentence as he stared at the look of genuine confusion on her face. Her wide eyes stared into his with equal scandal. “Oh,” he uttered.

“Duh,” she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.

“Lady, I LITERALLY,” he turned to expose his bruised and bloodied back in her face, “THREATENED MY LIFE AND STATUS TO SAVE YOU!”

He turned back to face her. She merely stared, stunned beyond speech.

“I am not trying to guilt-trip you, obviously,” he seethed, “But you insinuated that you were a witch!”

“Accusations! I did not!” she snapped.

“Holy Sael!” he exclaimed and shoved his head in his hands while pacing back and forth.

“Were you always this imaginative and gullible…?” she asked, partially amused, partially horrified and wholly exasperated.

“Oh, you don’t know what I have done,” he turned to face her, eyes blown wide and forehead bunched with frowny stress, “You don’t know!”

She hesitated to ask, jaw clenching, but the curious words escaped out of her mouth without permission from thought or consideration, “What did you do…?”

“So,” he licked his lips and pressed his hands over her small shoulders, as if to ground her in case she would recoil upon hearing the news and jump off the open windows. The pervious shyness of having his bare chest in such close proximity was veiled by the uncertainty their future held. “You see, lady, I thought you were a witch and you would get us out of the pinch, so, so I well, announced, claimed? No, no, announced, ah-declared! In front of the entire family, oh did I mention that we were royalty? Yes, I said that you will be my wife.”

There was a moment of silence that rained down upon them like piercing swords.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” she questioned, frowning.

“I got hit for it but they—well, I got it to work somehow…” he gulped and removed his hands from her shoulders to scratch his neck.

“There is no way you got the entire royal family involved, dude—”

“—your royal highness,” he corrected.

“—Does it really matter?! WHAT DID YOU EVEN THINK I COULD DO?!”

“WELL, I DO NOT KNOW HOW WITCHES WORK BUT A MEMORY ERASING SPELL WAS MY FIRST CONSIDERATION!”

“oh my,” whispered, holding her head in her hands, “DID YOU NOT, FOR A MOMENT, CONSDIER THE FACT THAT IF I WAS A NIFTY WITCH THEN WHY WAS I IN A PICKLE IN THE FIRST PLACE?! WOULDN’T I HAVE SAVED MYSELF.”

The shouting forced her into a violent coughing fit.

He paced across the room and fetched her a glass of water from the bedside table. While she sat and drank the water, crouched onto the floor, beside her feet and mumbled like a dejected child, “Wow, I really did not think this through.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snapped, voice hoarse again.

“It’s Arizel, that’s my name.”

“Mine’s Runa.”

“What now?” he looked up and asked.

She shrugged before saying, “Thank you though, you did save the world and your family by saving me. It was a good decision so I hope you don’t—”

“You’re doing it again,” he snapped, frowning.

“Doing what?!” she all but cried.

“This enigmatic old wise witch woman thing,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes at that, realising that she was, indeed to be partially blamed for this blunder.

“What now?” he asked again, eyes narrowed at her.

From her height, she could see the bruises on his back. They seemed deep and letting them remain open and untreated for too long would encourage all sorts of infection. She shrugged again, “I don’t know…let’s get you fixed first,” she sighed.

“You cannot fix it,” he sighed.

“Why?”

“They’re poisoned blades. I already feel my head growing foggy.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SITTING ON THE FLOOR, BEING SO CHILL ABOUT IT, YOU MADMAN?!”

He laughed at that.

“At first, I was hoping you would save me – you know? I sort of wagered my survival against these so that they would let you marry me. Dumb idea, is it not? It seemed brilliant then. Do not worry though, m’lady, I was being poisoned way before this, I am quite resilient…maybe I will make it. Don’t miss me too much though.”

Though, she knew, he wouldn’t make it.

ill timed — 3

Ill timing of a fangirl's bite — chapter 3

"Your name?"

"I—uh, um…don't know…?"

Headmistress Lissy tipped her navy beret an inch overhead, watching through her cat-eye glasses the audacious presence of a stinking child soiling the beautiful teal velvets of her wingback chair with her soggy arse. "Peculiar," she worded out with utmost resistance. 

Henrik turned to stare at the girl, almond eyes widened as if to say 'it-is-no-time-to-conceal-your-identity-when-confessing-will-let-you-off-with-detention.' In the sophisticated blue and gray palette of Headmistress Lissy's office almost glaring at Henrik's cherry bomber jacket and neon chunky sneakers coordinated over the plaid blues of his school uniform, the small boy pursed his lips with utmost submission, while his mind mused 101 ways to get rid of Kairos Rodrigo without leaving evidence. 

 

Way one: hiding his best friend's body in a trashcan and closing the lid shut.

His murderous reverie was interrupted by the trashcan girl's curious explorations of the stationary placed on Headmistress Lissy's woodcarved tabletop. Her dark eyes greedily took in all curious details, rubbing her fingers over the intricate designs on the table edge and sniffing the fake lilies bottled atop. 

To ask Henrik if he felt more embarrassed than betrayed would be too obvious of a question. 

"What happened to you?" Headmistress Lissy narrowed her jelly-gold eyes at the form of trashgirl's face pressed against her aquarium. The girl had sucked her cheeks in and pursed the ends of her lips to form a fish pout. She hid the fishes from perspective with her big head and aligned her wiggling lips to fake the sight of blowing out bubbles from her mouth.

"Hehe, look, I'm making bubbles!"

Henrik, in that moment, decided to never acknowledge this strange creation even as an acquaintance. They shall remain strangers, forever. 

Headmistress Lissy was taking this ill timed intrusion, rather well, against her reputation of damning a child with detentions at every breathable misconduct.

"How did you reach Crestmoore Elite? I understand that you were found in a trashcan by the East Crest Soccer Stadium, but, how did you get inside the premise without proper identity credentials?" Headmistress Lissy gestured her assistants with her piercing bespectacled gold gaze.

Henrik slithered to a safe side as Headmistress Lissy's assistants gloved their hands with medical gloves. While one of them held the girl's wrists hostage, the other conducted a thorough search of the girl's tattered shirt, brown plaid skirt and ruined socks. She resisted with minor pursuits, but eventually gave up when she spotted a poster of Yasin Hadid pinned next to a door.

He was in his soccer jersey with a headband reading C. E. A. His mouth was pulled in a wide grin as a soccer ball was tucked under his right arm and his left arm was extended in a big thumbs-up gesture. 

"Who is he?" the girl asked with bubbling glee, her knees had gotten jittery and dark eyes pooled genuine prying.

"Why do you want to know?" was Headmistress Lissy's crisp reply.

"He saved my life. I am in love with him," was her straightforward clarification.

Henrik, who was sat on a chair with his legs crossed over his knees, scoffed just as audibly as Headmistress Lissy snorted. Disney certainly was not lost to her. 

"You don't know your name but you know what love is?" Headmistress Lissy sounded amused, the skin around her small eyes crinkled as she placed her elbows on the tabletop and cupped her chin in her palms. Her thin peach lips stretched to a smirk, intrigued by the person standing before her.

'Is she hiding information to avoid punishment? Or...a spy, perhaps? Intresting, nonetheless.

 

"Irrelevant. I just needed occasion to use all these words in my head. Decapitated. Why is that in my head? Hallucinogen? What even? I don't know. But, what I know is, that, he is handsome and I want to know him." The girl's index finger pointed sharply at Yasin's smiling face. Immobile. Unaware. Henrik tsked a little sound of pity for the soccer player. 

Headmistress Lissy frowned at the girl's odd selection of words. Someone who looked eight could possibly not have the word 'Hallucinogen' in their vocabulary. 'What had happened to this girl?' 

Headmistress Lissy's assistants backed away from the girl's body, empty handed. They had found nothing that would not have been visible to a naked eye. Her eyes travelled to Henrik Stratford, son of Jung and Mina Stratford, owners of the biggest Law firms in Crestmoore. Her eyes skipped to the paper in front, reading in bold, the names of Kairos Rodrigo and Yasin Hadid. 

The finest kids Crestmoore had to offer. 

 

'Such a strange gathering of elite folks around a trashcan, finding a missing person… with no memory…did they find her…or was it all a scheme?' Headmistress Lissy's brain ran a mile a minute. 

Henrik's brown hair were stuck up in an odd angle, curtsy the girl's vomit. His face too was smudged with dirt and he too stank of rotting breakfast and misfortune, just not as badly as the girl. He had an air of nonchalance, as always, he sat with confidence and there was no physical giveaway of him having possibly abducted a girl around his age and having shoved her in a trashcan of his school.

'The son of two immensely successful lawyers would know enough to comprehend it a bonkers plan to begin with.'

'Also, there was no motive.'

'Right?'

Headmistress Lissy pondered in her head as the girl had jogged up to Yasin's poster and tried flipping it over, to check out the back side, all the while Henrik's soul abandoned him slowly for he tried crossing his hands at his wrists, whispering, "No! Trashcan! Don't touch it!" and even fell off his wingback chair to gain her attention. 

All of his efforts were vain to her. 

His knees rubbed against the rough carpet underneath and tingled with burns. Instant regret 101 by Henrik Stratford. He sucked in an agitated breath, caressing his poor sacrificed knees over the silky fabric of his uniform, while giving the girl a stink eye.

 

The alleged villain of a girl stood grinning in front of the poster, head empty and all thoughts abandoning self concern. Her eyes only registered the pinned smiling face looking down at her. She in her ragged clothes, he in a uniform that belonged to him. She with no identity of her own, he whose achievements shone as bright as his kind smile. Worlds apart. Yet, for a moment, he had held her whole world in his small hands. 

At her moment of eight, spinning controllably like an abandoned ball, he was there to hold her still.

Unintentionally so.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

The door clicked open and in walked the man of her dreams, pulled by his reddening ear, curtsy the chubby hands of Mr. Plod, along with a wave of nasally, "Ow, Ow, Ouch! Why! Ow! Wow! Why?! No! Wow! Ow!"s in tow. Quite similarly, but much calmly, followed the dragged, lanky, form of Kairos Rodrigo with an upturned smile.

The girl's newfound heart almost lurched out of its cage. She may not know much about the world. She may know nothing about herself. Maybe her mind was plagued with random gibberish like, 'Oral,' 'Amity,' or 'Syndicate.' But the only anchor in her memory is the face of Yasin, who helped her. Whom she must be loyal to. Whom she must protect. 

"Caught 'em sneaking inside the Main Crest Hall," Mr. Plod announced with his smug, thick accent. With a boy to punish on either side, his heart swelled with pride. Henrik, too, cheekily poked his tongue at Kairos' don't-say-anything-i-have-given-up-on-you face. 

The girl, stupefied by the harsh treatment of her newfound idol, rushed to the best, sanest, possible conclusion one could attain instinctually. 

She jumped at Mr. Plod like a spirit from the jungle. Like a true descendent of the monkey ancestors. Like a squirrel at its nut. Like a proper wild animal out of its natural habitat. Like a beast hungry for revenge. 

And bit off Mr. Plod's hand from Yasin's ear. 

ill timed — 1

All Good Things Take Time — Chapter 1

All Good Things take time: if and when one is earnest enough to invest their last shred of Hope and a progressively receding Will-to-survive into a fresh brew of dire discomfiture. One must hold on in pursuit of 'A Better Tomorrow,' a strange concoction of raging optimism garnishing your dish of Hope 'n Will with a smidge of Patience on the side. 

A big nom leads to All Good Things!

Unfortunately for little Orielle, the ingredient list seemed out of bounds in the confines of the huge trashcan from the open mouth of which her stocking covered legs dangled in a to-and-fro motion. Her immediate, dare I say, respite… consisted of a week's worth of lunch, more abundantly rotting spinach, eggs and bananas, swarming over her dull brown hair. The stench emanated from the aforementioned participants lingered around her with constancy, bordering memory…or far worse, nostalgia.

Through her dull eyes she could see the yellow plastic of the half open trash can, delightedly beaming under the presence of harsh sunlight. 

"Yellow is a happy color, my students! Color the sun yellow so that your drawings will be a happy place!" Ms. Prisms, her art teacher, had once said. The memory evaded Orielle's brain, along with an afterthought, 'So, is the trashcan my happy place?' that was not strong enough to reach her lips. It sure was peaceful though, inside the trashcan, away from people. 

Her little feet rocked to a beat of their own before strange giddy hands found their way to her buckled black shoes and unstrapped them with a swish. She squeaked an unpromising protest. 

There were laughs.

The voices brought familiarity she despised, a hiraeth she did not long for. Her thumbnails greeted her index finger with sharp caresses, teeth digging into the flesh of her cheeks as her brown eyes blew wide in fear, panicked irises, stomach rumbling, feet freezing and heart racing against time itself. 

"Guys! Look! Orbin's in the trash again and she got no shoes!"

"Ha! Wait till Mr. Smod catches her and makes a spectacle of her beating!"

Her breath hitched, she sunk her teeth harder, dug her thumbnails faster into her fingers, succumbing into herself. Her shoulders curling inwards as she tried to make herself smaller, further seeking refuge in the burial hosted by rotting food.

"Do not make haste; there is something better I can do!"

A snip, a tear, and Orielle could suddenly feel the sunlight attack her bare feet like hungry leeches to a fresh body. The yellow trash can felt like a happy jail. It protected her with the dregs that resided in it. 

"Look! Orbin has got holes in her socks! Torn socks! What rags!"

"I know, let's call her Orag! Or O'binrag! Oh! I know an even better! Binrag!"

And they laughed again. 

And she felt miserable again.

Oh! It was a cycle, a dreadful one, but it would soon end for the better. 

After all, All Good Things Take Time.

Unless you lose all sense of it.