Prelude

Cause And Effect

It's all the same unending nonsense: we lose one thing, and after we find it, we lose another. 

   It was a sunny, beautiful afternoon in late October as I walked home from school. The wind was cool and crisp and had the delightful autmny scent of maple trees that made one's mouth water for a thanksgiving feast. I smiled as I passed a group of children in knitted sweaters pushing each other on an old tire swing in their leafy backyard. Squirrels were busy collecting acorns, the geese were flying south, and the local shops were hauling out their seasonal items.

   All of a sudden, as I was at the crosswalk, a store went up in smoke and flames. I fell hard on the curb as fleeing people came running from all directions, screaming. I closed my eyes tight and hugged myself, trying to shut it all out. But when the smoke cleared, the news came, and there was nothing left for me to do but sit in my room. Stonily silent. Too stunned to cry, or even scream.

   From that day it seemed as if I were living in darkness. My dad and I both coped with it in our own ways. For him, it was secluding himself in his office for long periods of time. For me, it was my boyfriend Dugan. He provided me with supportive, sympathetic company, and it was almost as if I'd found hope again.

   My father's depression got worse over the next five months. I like to think it was sheer grief that drove him to his grave.

I was shocked, scared, and alone. Literally alone. And all because a train accident had killed my mother. The train had derailed and crashed into that store.

   I tried to go on with life. It wasn't easy. I went to school, but it just wasn't the same. Every day I walked home with Dugan, and that made me feel a little better, but after that I was completely alone. Living in an empty house; no love, joy, or laughter. Just mundane emptiness and the ghosts of memories that once were.

   One particular morning I climbed out of bed and looked at the tall grandfather clock in the corner of the room. As always, the house was still and silent. In a way, it was kind of creepy. 

   As I walked, the old wooden floors creaked beneath my feet. I used to find this old mansion very beautiful, but now all it'd become was a sanctuary for memories that haunted me. Because of this, I tried to be away from home as much as possible, and often spent my days at Dugan's house. All those months, Dugan had been my rock. He walked to and from school with me, understood why I didn't want to go home. Even ran errands with me from time to time.

   With a sad smile, I ran an expensive and valuable comb through my long, brownish-blonde hair. I brushed my teeth and put on my birthday necklace; a gold chain with a ruby on it. Dugan gave it to me for my birthday on October 16; two days after my mother's death. 

   I dressed in black leggings and pulled a clinging, pale gray long-sleeved shirt over my head. Over this I put on a mini denim vest and addressed my hair. I normally didn't do anything with it, but I supposed I could pull it back with my tortoise-shell clip that my mother had given me for Christmas two years before. 

   After clipping up my hair I grabbed my knitted, cream-colored beanie and pulled it over my head. There. Now I looked cute for Dugan. 

   I grabbed a pair of gloves and my backpack, slipped on a pair of warm boots, then hurried downstairs.

   I wasted no time getting out of the house and found Dugan waiting on the porch for me. He was a gentle boy of sixteen with a slim build and soft features. He had caring brown eyes with a gentle, wistful spark to them, a mellow, ever-present smile, pale brown hair combed nicely on his head, and a splendid nose. He typically wore jeans, a button-down shirt of some sort, and sneakers. 

   Dugan took my hand quietly, gave me a gentle and reassuring smile, then together we walked to school.

   "I don't know for sure, but I feel like someone's following us." I said softly.    

   Dugan threw a precautionary glance over his shoulder and put his right arm around me. "It's okay, no one's there. It's just us. You're probably just jumpy after all you've been through."

   "Yeah," I nodded, "I probably am."

   For days afterward I had the feeling that someone was following us. Dugan always insisted there was no one, and he was always right. Maybe I was just going crazy, but I wanted believe I was not.

   As days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, I began feeling less secure. Something was bound to happen, and I wasn't so sure I wanted to know what or when.

   It was May now, and the school year was coming to a close. Dugan and I were walking home a new way every time to avoid whomever was following us, but lately I'd noticed that these new routes weren't making a difference with the feeling of being followed. In fact, today it was stronger than ever.

   "Isn't it a pretty day, Alyssa?" Dugan asked, picking a new buttercup and tucking it into my hair.

   I smiled at him and nodded. "It is. I love spring. It seems so full of new life...and hope."

   He turned toward me, took my hands in his, and looked down into my eyes. I had to look up at him because, though he was so average, I'm not what could be considered a sky scraper.

   "Lissie, there's something I need to tell you," he began in his quiet, honey-smooth voice. "A few nights ago I figured out why—"

   And with a whistling noise from nowhere, he slumped to the ground as if punched in the back by an invisible hand. Before I had a chance to scream I saw a shadow disappear down the alleyway. I fell to my knees, overcome by shock and emotion, and started sobbing. Hysterically yelling Dugan's name, I rolled him over and put an ear over his heart. It wasn't beating. He was cold. Dead.

   Tears came forth so hard that they nearly clogged my eyes; everything was blurred. I found a perfect bullet wound in his back; clean into the heart. And another one just so in his head. Killed him immediately. That someone must have dead-accurate aim.

   Wait a minute, I thought, that Someone. He's been following us.

   With nothing better to do, I stood up and walked over to the pay phone which we were so conveniently placed by. Funny, the killer must've planned all this out.

   I first dialed Dugan's parents, then the police. At least I knew I wouldn't have to bury Dugan on my own, the way I had with my dad.

   Now I had nothing to do but wait. I sat crisscross on the sidewalk, took Dugan's demised body into my lap, and hugged him tightly; my tears splashed onto his face and in my overcoming loneliness I bent down and kissed his lifeless lips.

   Mornings later, I was awakened by a loud banging sound. Ugh. Someone was knocking at the door. I wished they would go away. Groaning, I pulled the covers over my head and shut my eyes. The knocking persisted; the door knocker slammed down several times. This annoyed me so much, I threw off the covers in quite the opposite of a calm surrender, and took my time getting dressed. Then I stormed downstairs and made some oatmeal. Since the knocker was annoying me, I'd annoy them by taking forever. 

   Bowl in hand and a mouth full of food, I opened the door. "What's up?" I asked with casual irritation, dipping another spoonful of oatmeal and shoveling it into my mouth.

   It was the landlord. He was angry, holding a piece of paper in his shaking, pudgy, dimpled hand. The landlord was a short, pudgy, balding, gray-haired little man with a twisted, cranky face; round, tight, puffy red cheeks and small, beady blue eyes. He was always cross about something, especially when the time came for the monthly house payment.

   "Where's your dad?" He asked in a gruff, cigar-spoiled voice. 

   "He isn't home." I replied with the same ice-cold, deadly calm. He bristled with fury, then said in very quiet tones that I must pay the house rent in the absence of my father. I mumbled an explanation for my father's not being here. The landlord, Mr. Cummins, did not act the least sympathetic. Really, I never expected him to; all he cared about was money. And he hated children. But more than children, he hated teenagers.

   "Well, then you pay it or else I'll have to turn you out."

   I offered to sell all the furniture and use the money to make this month's payment, but he shook his head. "I'd rather sell this place to someone who can afford it, not some irresponsible teenager who—"

   In shock, I spat my oatmeal at him. Splat! It was actually sort of satisfying to see that maple-sugary goodness slapped across the left lapel of his coat. 

   Mr. Cummins looked down, horrified. "Okay, that settles it. You're disrespectful. You have till tomorrow evening to gather the necessary things for your plight, then I will have my cleaners come. When they have finished, I shall list this mansion for rent. Good day, Ms. Carpenter."

   He left, shutting the door in my face. I stared at the heavy oak door in awe and horror, then my bowl of oatmeal slipped from my hands. It broke on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere, but I was too frustrated to clean it up. I raced up to my bedroom, chose one backpack, gathered 'necessary things' into it, then decided to sell my other personal items so I could at least have some money for emergencies.

  The very next day, the last of my possessions were sold. It was amazing how many people wanted my things, and how much they were willing to pay.

   Now that I had my money and the landlord was giving me the death stare, I decided I'd better be on my way. Under the gathering clouds, I started down the street with my backpack. I walked for a long time, and came to a highway bridge. I looked up at the sky and listened to the distant roll of thunder. The storm wasn't there yet, but I wasn't going to wait for it. If it caught me, so what.

   However, after months of walking, my essentials ran out. I didn't have any money left, I was a mess, and I had no idea where I was. I guessed that didn't matter, though, since I was homeless and all that.

    I spent my summer on the streets. I lived under a bridge most of the time. Eventually I left my hometown and lived in other places. I stole when I had to, which made me feel horrible, but I had to stay alive somehow. Dumpster-diving became something I was quite good at. But once, an employee of a restaurant saw me diving and chased me off. I fled to the woods to avoid any suspicion, and there I stayed as summer gave in to fall.

* * *

"...M-morning already?" I rolled over and blinked as the dull morning light hit my dreary eyes. All night it had rained, so I was cold and miserable. I sat up and rubbed my head. My fingers caught a knot in my hair and it hurt so bad I nearly cried.

   I decided I'd had enough. I was going to do something to try and make my life better. All I had to do was find a train and hop on. Maybe I'd even give myself to an adoption agency. I was at the point where I almost didn't care anymore; I just wanted someone to love me again. I wanted a place I could call my own.