THE MORNING LIGHT sifted through my room from the damaged curtains as I stirred from a restless slumber. My body gnawed in pain, and my stomach rumbled, reminding me of the hunger I have ignored for the past few hours. I haven't eaten much, though. My eyes oscillated open, and I then focused on the familiar sight of my old room: the peeling wallpaper, the old furniture, and the dusty windows. I sighed, stretching my arms above my head and feeling as my tired muscles extended.
"Good morning," I whispered to my cat, reaching down to stroke Ophelia's black fur as she curled up beside me. She purred contently, nuzzling her head into my hand.
As much as I wanted to stay in my old room, my stomach protested with a loud rumble. It had been two days since I escaped the clutches of Miss Alice's home, and the gnawing emptiness within me could no longer be ignored.
The groaning of the wooden stairs beneath my feet echoed through the house as I descended, hoping to find something to eat in our meager kitchen. The coolness of the morning air sent a weird sensation, and I pulled my tattered shawl closer, wrapping it tightly around my body. The soft pattering of Ophelia's paws followed close behind. And then, as I reached the kitchen, I held my breath, opening the cabinet door, only to be met with a hollow emptiness. My heart sank because of the sight.
"Of course," I said. Of course, there's no food.
Ophelia meowed pitifully as I sighed, turning away from the barren cabinet and moving towards the storage box in the corner, hoping for a miracle. As I lifted the lid, my heart ached yet again at the sight of the empty space that greeted me. Nothing. Not even a single crumb.
A rumble emanated from the depths of my stomach, gnawing at me like a wild animal. This time, it was louder. I remembered the money I had stashed away in my room. Ophelia and I raced back up the stairs here and there, her meows filling the air. But upon reaching her, I reassured Ophelia with a gentle stroke, whispering words of comfort. I turned my attention to the old cabinet, opening its panel with haste. But to my horror, my belongings were strewn about, tossed aside in a chaotic mess. My heart raced, realization dawning on me.
Someone had been here. While I was away at Elliot's, while I stayed in Miss Alice's academy, and while this home was empty, a thief may have invaded our home, taking the last of our money. I sank to the floor, feeling the weight of despair crushing me. The world seemed to collapse around me, my vision blurring.
As I sat there, broken and helpless, my gaze fell on Ophelia. Her eyes were clouded, and her body was shivering. The growl of my stomach served as a distasteful reminder of our state. The desperation within me grew, and in that moment, I questioned my own moral compass.
Should I stoop low again to steal from people? Should I go back to the life I once left? Could I bring myself to take what I needed? The thought of it twisted my insides, but the gnawing hunger and the sight of Ophelia made the choice painfully clear. I would do what I had to do.
I stood up, glancing once more at Ophelia. Her eyes seemed to understand the choice I had made, and I could only hope that the world would somehow forgive me for what I was about to do. I sat up, my thoughts drifting back to the time when Elliot was still alive, when I was scraping by in this very house. The memories of our struggles to make ends meet flooded my mind, as did the one reliable source of income I had. I knew it was not the most honorable means of survival, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
With a heavy heart, I looked down at Ophelia, who gazed back at me with her wide, green eyes. "I'll be right back," I promised, my voice barely audible. "I just need to find us something to eat."
With that, I mustered the strength to pull myself from the floor and stepped into the creaking floor. The familiar creak of the floorboards accompanied my every step as I made my way to the front door, pausing for a moment to inhale deeply. Then, as I stepped out of the house, the bustling town of Perthlochry stretched before me, its streets teeming with people of all statuses and backgrounds. The marketplace was a sea of activity, with merchants hawking their wares and customers haggling for the best deals. I thought that it might be the perfect environment to spot potential victims.
I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head, concealing my face as I wove my way through the crowd, my eyes scanning for potential targets. A well-dressed gentleman caught my attention, his pocket bulging with the unmistakable outline of a coin purse. I carefully sidled up to him, my heart pounding in my chest as I reached out with trembling fingers, my skills rusty from disuse. However, I failed. He almost caught me. Noticed. Whatever. Though I felt a twinge of guilt for my actions, the thought of the warm meal that awaited me and Ophelia was enough to quell any lingering remorse.
***
I attempted it a few more times after a couple of minutes. I was able to steal a merchant's purse, though, but I barely escaped. My heart pounded in my chest as I darted into the dark alley, the weight of the coin purse I had just snatched from heavy in my hand. I knew I needed to act quickly before the poor man sounded the alarm. With trembling fingers, I fumbled with the purse's clasp, finally managing to pry it open. My eyes widened as I surveyed the purse's contents. The money was enough to get by for now, but it wouldn't be enough to keep me going for long. My stomach churned, sending waves of nausea through my system.
"Primrose, get a grip," I muttered to myself, wiping the sweat from my brow. "You've got to do what it takes to survive." I tried to convince myself that my actions were justified and that I had no choice. But deep down, I knew that I was just as much a victim of my own choices as the people I'd stolen from.
I emerged from the shadows of the alley, my eyes scanning the crowded streets for my next target. The sinking sun cast long shadows over the city, like a veil of darkness threatening to swallow me whole. My heart raced as my gaze fell upon a well-dressed lady in the street, her purse hanging carelessly from her arm.
I took a deep breath and charged towards her, my hand reaching out to snatch the purse from her grasp. The instant I had it in my hand, I bolted, my heart thundering in my ears. The lady's scream echoed behind me, her shock and horror fueling my flight.
But I hadn't anticipated the nearby police officer; his stern face appeared in my peripheral vision as I raced down the street. Panic surged through me, my legs propelling me forward with all the strength I could muster. The lady, too, had joined in chasing me, her cries of distress spurring the officer on.
I zigzagged through the bustling streets, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The wind whipped at my hair, and my vision blurred. I knew that if I was caught, it would be the end of the line for me. I couldn't let that happen.
As I rounded a corner, I spotted space: a dense crowd up ahead, gathered around street performers. This is just like how I escaped the officers a couple of weeks ago. Without hesitation, I plunged into the sea of people, hoping it would be enough to throw my pursuers off my trail. The world seemed to slow down as I wove through the mass of strangers, their faces a blur and their voices a cacophony in my ears. My heart pounded in time with my footfalls, the adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire. I couldn't see the officer or the lady anymore, but I knew they were still out there, hunting me down.
But I would not be caught. I would not be stopped. Not when I had come so far and sacrificed so much. In that moment, as I sprinted through the crowd, the only thing that mattered was survival.
The cacophony of voices and footsteps enveloped me like a heavy fog as I made my way through the bustling crowd. The adrenaline still coursed through my veins from my narrow escape, and I could feel the stolen purse pressing against my side, its weight a constant reminder of my actions. I couldn't help but glance nervously from side to side, my heart pounding in my chest as I prayed that the police officer and the woman I had stolen from were far behind me.
As I continued to weave through the sea of people, the sound of laughter and applause caught my attention. I turned my head, and a group of street performers came into view. They were a motley crew-jugglers, fire breathers, and acrobats-all dressed in vibrant, eye-catching costumes. The jugglers deftly tossed brightly colored balls into the air, creating a mesmerizing pattern. The fire breathers, with their faces painted like fearsome warriors, belched great plumes of flame that lit up the faces of the astonished onlookers. And the acrobats, their lithe bodies adorned with shimmering ribbons, twisted and contorted through the air, their every movement a graceful dance that seemed to defy gravity. I then remembered Eli.
Despite the danger that still loomed over me, I couldn't help but pause for a moment to take in the scene. The performers were a vivid splash of color and life amidst the gray, monotonous cityscape, and their fearless displays of skill and daring momentarily made me forget the troubles that weighed so heavily upon me.
But the spell was soon broken, and I forced myself to continue on my way, pushing through the throngs of people with a sense of urgency.
I mean, the air sure was thick with the scent of sweat and smoke, but I felt as though I was wading through a murky swamp. I could feel the stolen purse burning a hole in my pocket, and I desperately wanted to rid myself of its ill-gotten contents. Finally, as if by some miracle, I emerged from the crowd, gasping for breath like a drowning sailor. I found myself standing before a small meat shop, its windows fogged and greasy from years of use. I hesitated for a moment, but the rumbling of my empty stomach and the thought of Ophelia waiting at home spurred me on.
With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I stepped into the shop. The bell above the door jingled cheerily, and the owner, a stout, middle-aged man with a bushy mustache, looked up from behind the counter. The scent of raw meat wafted through the air as I ventured into the familiar surroundings of Mr. Henley's butcher shop. The pungent aroma was enough to make most people's stomachs churn, but for me, the smell was oddly comforting. I approached the counter, my eyes scanning the impressive array of meats that Mr. Henley had on offer. He then greeted me with a familiar nod, plastering a wide smile upon realizing who I was.
"Prim! Haven't seen you in a while. How's you?" he asked, wiping his hands on a blood-stained apron.
I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the meat displayed before me. I was in no mood for idle chit-chat. Really. The stolen bills tucked safely in my pocket weighed heavily on my conscience, a reminder of the desperate measures I'd taken to survive. I tried to push the thought away as I focused on the task at hand.
"Still cold and introverted, eh? Well, I sure do hope you'll find something here," he said.
The butcher's shop was a mix of reds and pinks that pulsed with the essence of life itself. There were cuts of beef, marbled with fat, that had been aged to perfection. The pork was a tender pink, and the sausages were plump, promising a burst of flavor with every bite. The lamb chops, nestled in a bed of rosemary, looked as if they'd been sculpted by the gods themselves. However, it was the poultry that caught my eye-the golden skin glistening under the warm glow of the overhead lights. I pointed to the row of chickens; their bodies were plump and succulent.
"I'll take one of those," I said, barely raising my voice above a whisper.
"Of course," Mr. Henley replied, picking a chicken from the display and placing it on the cutting board. His knife sliced through the air, the blade glinting as he made quick work of preparing the bird. He wrapped the chicken in brown paper, tying it up with a bit of string, before handing it over to me.
"That'll be six pounds, Primrose," he said, his mustache twitching as he smiled.
I hesitated for a moment before reluctantly pulling the stolen money from the purse. As I handed over the bills, I felt a wave of shame wash over me like a torrential downpour.
"Thank you. Have a lovely day!" Mr. Henley said, pocketing the money without a second thought. I nodded, clutching the chicken tightly to my chest as I stepped back out into the street.
The moment my foot hit the pavement, I watched and noticed that the lady and the officer that chased me earlier were nowhere to be seen. I then continued walking since my home is just a few blocks from here. However, as I stepped my foot on the pavement, I felt a strong hand grip my arm, causing me to freeze in my tracks. I looked up, only to see the stern face of the police officer who had pursued me earlier. His eyes bore into mine, a mixture of anger and disappointment.
"I thought you could get away, did you?" he growled, tightening his hold on my arm.
***
My heart pounded in my chest as I watched the police officer slam the evidence right there on the table in front of me: the chicken I bought using the stolen money, the woman's purse I snatched, and the coin purse I pilfered from the merchant. I could feel the cold steel of the handcuffs biting into my wrists, reminding me of the graveness of the situation.
The woman who had chased me down, however, stood nearby, her piercing gaze never leaving me. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of shame, but I quickly pushed it down, unwilling to let her see any hint of weakness. The police officer, a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache and a no-nonsense attitude, scolded me like I was a naughty child caught stealing cookies from the jar.
"Now, young lady," he began, his voice stern and authoritative, "you've really landed yourself in a whole heap of trouble this time. You're lucky you didn't hurt anyone during your little escapade. Tell me, why did you do it? What on earth possessed you to steal?"
I looked into his eyes, my own expression a blend of defiance and irritation. I didn't owe him any explanation, and even if I did, would he understand? Probably no. Would he be able to comprehend the gnawing hunger that drove me to desperation, the cold night spent huddled under a flimsy blanket, or the sting of rejection that had become all too familiar? I doubted it.
As the silence stretched on, the police officer's expression shifted from annoyance to concern. "Primrose Dawson," he said, reading my name off the report in front of him, "you're only a teenager. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Don't you want a better future for yourself? Can't you see that this path will only lead to more pain and suffering?"
His words cut through my defenses, but I refused to let him see that. I stared at him, my eyes unyielding and my jaw set. The woman who owned the purse finally spoke up after him, her voice wavering with emotion. "You didn't have to steal from me, you know. If you needed help, all you had to do was ask. There are people in this world who would have been willing to help you, but now you've gone and ruined any chance of that."
Her words stung, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what might have been if I had taken a different path. If I had swallowed my pride and reached out for help,.
I mean, I don't know.
I sat slumped in the hard plastic chair, staring at the coin purse that lay accusingly on the table between me and the police officer. I could feel his eyes boring into me, as if he could pry the truth from my mind with a mere glance. But I held my ground, my lips pressed into a firm line, and my eyes fixed on a spot just above his left shoulder.
"Dawson," he began, his voice a mixture of irritation and thinly veiled anger. "You have been caught red-handed. I'm going to give you one last chance to tell us if you have stolen anything other than these items in front of you."
I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he waited for me to say something, anything. But I stubbornly remained silent, unwilling to give the officer the satisfaction of hearing me speak. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"Damn, this kid is testing my patience," the police officer said in frustration. The lady behind me then stood up.
"Officer, might I have a moment alone with her?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle.
The officer hesitated for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher her intentions. But eventually, he nodded, reluctantly stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with the woman. I tensed, my heart racing like a trapped bird in my chest. The woman's gaze flicked between her purse and me, seeming to take in the tension that hung thick in the air.
As the door clicked shut, I lifted my gaze to meet hers, the irritation in my eyes daring her to say something-aanything-tthat would give me a reason to unleash the storm of anger that had been brewing inside me. But instead of scolding me or reprimanding me for my actions, the woman simply sighed and looked at me with an expression that was a mixture of pity and understanding.
"I don't know your story or why you felt the need to steal, but I can't help but feel that you must be desperate," she said softly, her eyes never leaving mine. "Where do you live? Do you have a place to stay?"
I stared back at her, my lips pressed firmly together, refusing to offer her any information. I saw her gaze flicker to my wrists, where the handcuffs bit into my skin, and she frowned, the corners of her eyes crinkling with concern.
"I promise I'm not here to judge you or make your situation worse," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to help."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to utter a word. Help, huh.
As I continued to stew in my own shame, the lady glanced at the table in the small police station interrogation room, where the chicken meat sat untouched. Her gaze then shifted back to me, lingering on my hollow cheeks and the way my thin frame trembled ever so slightly. I held my stomach, the gnawing hunger becoming more and more unbearable, but still, I refused to meet her eyes.
Then, the door creaked open, and in walked the annoying officer while carrying a cup of steaming coffee. He eyed me warily, then looked at the lady, as if questioning her decision to stay in the room with me. He took a seat and sipped his coffee, the smell of freshly brewed beans filling the room.
"Alright, Primrose," he said, his voice gruff. "I'll be processing your warrant in a moment. You'll be held overnight, and we'll see about your court date tomorrow."
The lady's expression softened, and her eyes filled with sympathy. "Officer Thompson, may I have a word with you outside, please?" she asked, her voice kind but with an undertone of firmness.
Surprised, the officer nodded, stood up, and followed her out of the room. As the door closed behind them, I couldn't help but feel relieved for the temporary reprieve. But as soon as their voices became muffled, my thoughts turned to Ophelia. I knew she was hiding somewhere in the house, but the thought of her being alone and hungry tore me apart big time. And I mean it. I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat, but it grew larger with the weight of the shame. Even though my stomach cried out in hunger, my mind was only focused on Ophelia. After all, she's all I have, anyway.
I barely noticed my vision blur with tears as I stared at the cold, impersonal walls of the interrogation room. Although the conversation outside the room was barely audible, I strained to hear it, hoping against hope that the lady would somehow be able to help me. The weight of my actions bore down on me, and I knew I deserved whatever punishment awaited, but I couldn't help praying for a miracle.
The muffled sounds of conversation filtered through the closed door, and I continued to strain my ears to catch any snippets of the exchange between the lady and the stern-faced police officer. My heart beat erratically in my chest, like a wild bird trying to escape its cage. The seconds stretched into minutes, and my anxiety grew. Was she going to press charges? Would I end up in jail?
Then, as I thought that the minutes would last longer, the door swung open, and the officer stepped inside, his face a storm of irritation. The lady followed, her gaze softening when she saw me. I kept my eyes lowered, afraid to meet her gaze directly.
"Dawson," the officer growled, casting a reproachful look in my direction. "She's decided not to press charges, on the condition that you return the items you stole."
I remained silent, my fingers digging into the plastic chair I was sitting on. The officer's gaze bore into me, his voice low and threatening. "But don't think you're off the hook. If I ever catch you stealing again, I won't hesitate to throw you in jail. Do you understand?"
Still, I said nothing, the lump in my throat rendering me mute. The lady stepped closer, her expression a mix of sympathy and understanding. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small wad of cash, holding it out to me.
"I know times are tough, and I can see you're struggling," she said softly. "Take this. Get yourself something to eat, and use what's left to help get your life back on track."
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I hesitantly reached out, my fingers brushing against the crisp bills. The kindness in her voice and the empathy in her eyes were too much to bear, and I choked back a sob.
"Thank you," I whispered, barely audible.
The lady smiled, her eyes filled with an unspoken promise of hope and redemption. "Just promise me one thing. Promise me you'll try to make better choices from now on."
I nodded, the weight of my guilt slowly beginning to lift. As the officer led me out of his interrogation room, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and I heaved a heavy sigh.
***
The papers lay spread out before me like the aftermath of an explosion at a paper factory. Each document bore a list of fines that seemed to multiply with every passing second. My hand ached as I scribbled my signature again and again. I had done it. I had committed a crime. Stealing, of all things. It wasn't something I ever thought I'd do again, but life has a funny way of throwing curveballs at you. Desperation can push you to the edge, and I had reached mine.
As I signed yet another paper, my eyes wandered to the door of the police station. There, standing just beyond the entrance, was a figure whose face seemed familiar. His hair was shorter now, but his eyes still held that same intimidating and calming aura in them. I squinted, trying to ask if it was him, but the man turned around and exited.
Before I could delve deeper into my thoughts, the sharp, mocking voice of the officer who had arrested me cut through my thoughts like a knife. "You should've thought twice before stealing, Dawson," he sneered, a cruel smile curling at the edges of his lips.
I clenched my jaw and shot him a glare that could've frozen a lake. "Yeah, sure."
"Huh, and just when I think that you're a mute," he snorted and shook his head, clearly amused. "You're a piece of work, you know that? You're lucky we're letting you off with a warning. Next time, maybe you won't be so desperate to steal."
Whatever. These stupid officers are nothing but a bunch of clowns and hypocrites, anyway.
The urge to throw something at him was overwhelming, but I managed to restrain myself. Instead, I focused on finishing the last of the papers. My thoughts, however, drifted back to the man at the door.
As I finally signed the last document and pushed it away, the officer handed me a slip of paper with something printed on it. "Do something stupid next time, and I'll make sure you won't leave this place," he said, his voice lacking any semblance of compassion. "It'll be even worse for you."
I snatched the paper from his hand and stood, my knees feeling as if they were made of jelly. I then made my way towards the exit, glancing back at the man with the short hair. He was still there. He had a familiar figure, but his hair was much shorter than I remembered. I mean, is this Augustus?
I shook my head. No, that couldn't be him. There's no reason for him to be in Perthlochry. But I couldn't quell the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, so instead of leaving, I followed him at a distance, my heart racing. My curiosity was a torment as I trailed the man through the streets of Perthlochry. I tried to convince myself that it couldn't be Augustus, but the more I thought about it, the more it dawned on me that it could be him. However, as the man was about to turn in my direction, I decided to stop following and head home. I walked away from the place he was standing and decided to let it pass as I made my way home.
Upon returning to my small, dimly lit home, I set to work preparing the chicken. It had been days since I'd enjoyed a proper meal, and my stomach growled in anticipation. As I cooked, the savory aroma filled the air, and I tried to forget the events of the day.
Finally, dinner was ready. I settled down at my tiny table, Ophelia weaving between my legs, her purrs demanding attention. I fed her a morsel of chicken, watching as she gobbled it down with gusto. As I ate, my thoughts circled back to the man I'd seen at the police station. The idea both made me anxious and terrified me. I'd spent so long running from Miss Alice's home, trying to escape the enigma of that place.
I finished my meal and cleared the table, feeling the weight of my unanswered questions and the uncertainty of my thoughts. But despite it all, I couldn't shake the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'd seen Augustus. And if he was here, that meant he was able to locate me. But if he did, why didn't he confront me earlier?
No, maybe it was Leo.
I stroked Ophelia's fur, her purring comforting me with ease. "Did I see him, Ophelia? Is he really here?" I whispered into the darkness.
But of course, she couldn't answer.