Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.
A/N: Critiques on how to improve please. Oh, and I've combined all the chapters in the Random Orphanage Where She Is Staying In Arc into one. Charlene is most definitely not in Whammy's Orphanage, if anyone wants to know. Her brain is too filled with fluff.
Chapter 1
"Bang!" A gunshot rang, rocketing through the silence. The body fell.
Crimson blood pooled on the from the wound, inching, spreading, reaching the centre of the road, and covering the painted white line.
Staining. It. Red.
The slip of a girl crumpled to the floor in relief, gun falling through her fingers and clattering to the ground. Bleakly, she gazed at the blazing cityscape below. Flames hounded buildings, like vengeful demons descending upon Kanto. Skyscrapers with huge holes eaten into its glass and cement sides were crumbling into large projectiles and falling on the Screaming below.
It was all her fault.
The air was thick with heat, smoke and ash, that entered and tickled the cavities of her nose, and blackened her lungs with a layer of dust. Weak, hacking coughs resonated through the remote car park.
A tear trailed a line down Charlene's sooty cheeks, and plummeted down, landing on the gun. It sizzled and evaporated - much like her few memories of happiness with the arsonist. A puff of smoke that caught her eye, spiralled from the hot opening of the gun, twisting and turning through the tense atmosphere, contorting in grotesque shapes - horned demons, a patchwork arm, a worm with thousands of razor sharp teeth, her morbid mind supplied. The guilt devoured her.
"I am -" she rasped.
Something warm and wet tickled her arm, and she looked down. Blood was edging up her drenched silk skirt. Charlene's eyes stared down at her hands in horror as she attempted to frantically wipe off imaginary blood with Arsonnet's cloak. It didn't help, only smearing some - real - blood up the length of her arm, coating her with more of that suffocating liquid, and making her more of-
'- a monster' She finished in a whisper, meant only for her ears.
She screamed. She sobbed.
Eventually, her cries died down. Today, she had murdered her friend in cold blood. Her friend, who had saved her life. Her friend, who had made her smile. Her friend, who had murdered. Her friend, the murderer. She had murdered her friend, the murderer.
"What does that make me, then?" Cheshire asked rhetorically, smiling maniacally at the (pretty?) gun suddenly jammed onto her forehead, before she fell back onto the hard asphalt with a muffled thud. She was enveloped by the welcomed darkness.
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Unknown Point of View
Her body was sat there like a frozen porcelain doll, numb against the icy winter wind that slashed at her with every opportunity.
The only sign of life in her were her closed, oddly sad eyes, and the tear tracks streaked across her face.
Carefully, like one would approach a wild animal, he reached out.
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Time.
It spun and continued. Grains fell, filling the bottom glass, and emptying the top. Those people she loved aged and developed, traveling their own pathways and growing into their destinies.
While she was silently bound in a tangle of wires and a plastic breathing mask.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor provided a rhythm as she travelled back to the beginning.
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Contrary to Mr Smite The rude Law-ear's snarky comments, she was aware that the pro-pry-ate-fer was her mother's hired tutor, would soon be instructing her on the art of becoming a poised, elegant lady. Mother had nurtured her to her fullest potential as a proper, 'spectable young girl who was clever, talented and could certainly spell!
Thus, she was rather stunned when she found herself unceremoniously dumped onto the doorstep of an orphanage one day.
She cursed the driver who had driven her there against her wishes, to the "inferno fiery depths of hell" like someone had once taught her. She knew what an orphanage was, thank you very much. He didn't need to treat her like a re-tard, and add that disbelieving piggy snort in reply either.
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Once, when Charlene was but a wee little four year old baby, not the absolutely awe inspiring girl she has matured into, she had learned that her brother had ran away from home. It was years ago, however Charlene could still recall that memory with near perfect clarity. It was the first time she had witnessed her perfect mother cry.
"Mama, fhy vwater come jour eyes?" Charlene asked glibly, though she didn't expect a reply. Her mother usually ignored her in favor of her prodigious brother whom she often - subtly, of course - bragged about at the mayor's wife's extravagant dinner parties. Charlene whimsically tottered over to the woman on the carpet, who was grasping a letter in her fist.
"Mama- Mama is crying," the woman choked out, as if there was a obstructive lump in her throat impeding her words.
Then the woman's eyes abruptly lit up. The cogs in her brain spun and a second later, she had fleshed out her idea. Slowly and theatrically, as if she was an actress performing for an audience, she stood up gracefully like a swan. No longer shamefully sprawled on the imported Persian carpet, and righted to her intimidating full height complete with her five inch, sharp stilettos, her appearance befitted the matriarch of the family.
Mama pulled out a custom ordered cream embroidered handkerchief from the Prada bag sat on the antique coffee table. She delicately dabbed her puffy eyes, and added several sorrowful sniffs for an empathetic effect.
"Charlene, Mama is very, very sad and very angry with your brother."
There was a pregnant pause.
Charlene sensed the tension and her mother's laser stare burning holes into her pajamas covered back. Her hand immediately shot away from the teddy bear she was previously playing with, as if burnt. Guiltily, she turned towards her mother, tiptoed, reached up and tugged on the hem of her mother's dress, non-verbally urging her to continue.
"I'm sorry, Charlene. Your beloved brother has become insane and run away from home to live in an orphanage infested with lice and monsters." Her mother said sympathetically, as she gently patted her back. "This has made Mama sad."
Enunciating her words slowly, Lucinda bent down, her back arcing like a swan curling its neck, and said severely. "Now Charlene, Mama wants you to listen very carefully."
Mama smiled and went in for the kill.
"Your brother is an idiot. He is evil. He has made Mama sad, and very angry, so Mama has disowned him. You don't want to become a bad girl like your brother and make me sad, do you, Charlene? So you must listen and be filial to Mama, understand? You must forget your brother. Mama will make you smart. Pretty. Successful. Graceful. Talented, and arrange for you a wonderful husband. So you don't need to worry about anything at all. Just listen and be obedient to Mama. Comprenez-vous?" she spoke eerily, varying between harsh tones and an angel's melodic trill. Her French accent oozed into her voice, as she battled her turbulent emotions to keep calm.
Charlene rapidly nodded, wishing to make her Mama proud. Though there was a strange sensation in her gut, warning her that she had just done something very, very wrong.
Of course, Charlene missed her brother, who would always talk with her immediately after his lessons. He didn't treat her as an invisible ghost like everyone else - Mama, Father, the gossiping maids. He didn't treat her like a stupid, bratty child. He listened to her and in turn, shared with her his hopes and dreams and aspirations, whilst her parents would smile and nod obliviously when they felt like humoring her.
She missed his smile. The slight tug at the corner of his lips that just passed for a genuine smile, but still able to incite more happiness than most things could. Because it was especially for her. Only her.
She missed his rare laughs. They were sudden and bubbled out of his throat. Whenever they appeared, he always looked astonished, but nevertheless, still pleased by the warm grin directed back at him.
They had ended all too soon.
She missed her brother. That was a fact. However, her thirst to satisfy her mother's high expectations and the glow of finally receiving her warm attention and a chance to make her love her after being overshadowed by her brilliant brother for so long overwhelmed that.
Thus slowly, all her precious memories of him faded from her brain-bleached mind.
As if he, the only stain on the crest of the prestigious Du Blois family had never existed.
Mama elegantly uncoiled from her kneeled position like a snake and strode out the door. She feverishly beat down on her determinedly rising guilty conscience and convinced herself that the slander and brain washing was not for petty revenge on her eldest heir for having coldly abandoned her pleas and cries, and carved that wound in her bleeding heart. Or to break his miserable black heart when he discovered the stupefying truth that his sister had turned against him.
But was for the best of The Second Child.
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'How dare they!' Charlene thought indignantly, feeling outraged. She, who hailed from a wealthy and influential family of high status, was obviously superior to a lowly driver - with 'ewww, hairy armpits' - on minimum wage. So how could he have disobeyed her wishes and just-just grabbed her and dispassionately dropped her out the car, like she'd was a stinky scruffy street cat? Yes, she would sue them for having handled her, who was delicate as a flower, puh-tite, and had to be handle with utmost care so roughly. Once the Law-ear had sorted out the complicated stuff. Urgh.
Charlene was sprawled on a filthy ground. It was dirty and black with uncomfortably bumps that scratch her poked at her skin. If Charlene had not known better, that floors obviously had to be tiled or set with Japanese mahogany wood like in her mansion, she would have ridiculously thought that the she was sitting on untiled ground.
Her heart gave a squeeze at the thought of her family. Just a month ago, she was their pride and joy. Just a month ago, they were still alive. Just a month ago, she had everything a child could ever want. Whether it was presents, toys or another personal maid. Her lips quivered, and eyes shone with unshed tears. Nevertheless, Charlene held them in. She screwed her eyes shut and desperately flailed around her mental space, swatting away all thoughts of Mama, Papa, the mansion and the fire, the charred skeleton of the house and their unidentifiable remains.
Charlene scrambled to her feet and ducked her head. She closed her eyes and released all her sadness by exhaling deeply - and audibly too. A coyly smiling couple passing by who were holding hands and acting like lovebirds stopped and glanced at her oddly. Charlene blushed, removed her scarf and clumsily rewrapped it around her head, hiding majority of her face. Oh, how she wanted order Marla the maid(but she can't, 'cause she's dead as a doornail) to crack the tiled ground, and dig a hole, so she could jump into it and never come out! Only a month had passed since her mother's closed casket funeral, and here she was, already letting her down. She could almost imagine the look on her face when St Peter reported to Mama(who is now a gorgeous angel) on her latest mistake.
'Mama- and Papa would be ashamed of me!' Charlene thought morosely, adding her father as an afterthought. She was not particularly close to him, nor did she want to be. He was a intimating man of six foot tall, and frequently left France soil to travel to his homeland, Ame-rick-ca for business. Mama had always pleaded for him to stay, and he always reluctantly agreed. But every single time, he would break his promise and escape, bringing nothing but a briefcase packed with all his business-y stuff. Mama would always forgive in the end and allow him lodging in her mansion, because she was too ecstatic with his arrival to argue with him. Charlene didn't know what Mama saw in him. She supposed it was just love. And its queer way of affecting people.
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Charlene exited her reverie at the end of her train of thought. She stared down at the lacquered pink luggage juxtaposed to the toe of her heeled leather winter boots. Finally deciding that staring at it would achieve nothing, she primly huffed and straightened her back. She worked out the kinks in her neck from the airplane ride from France to Japan, before grabbing the handle of the luggage and lugging it up the cheap wooden steps of the dilapidated orphanage.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull...
An eternity of muscle achingly drags later, Charlene and her problematic baggage were on the creaking top step. For a few moments, she uneasily waited for the door to open. Then she remembered that they were peasants and didn't own automatic motion sensor unlike her. Well, she used to.
So she politely pressed the door bell's center once as Mama had taught her - with uncanny precision and delicacy to make up for her previous embarrassment. She tapped a foot to a catchy tune from her folk dancing lessons, as she patiently waited. And waited, and waited.
Half an hour later, she was at the end of the rope, and wanted to tear her hair out. Her hands were clammy from fear of the 'what ifs' and feet sorer than a thumb after going through a thumb screw, from tapping and standing. She had never felt this awful in her life. Her painstakingly perfectly curled hair that cascaded elegantly down her neck was beginning to frizz and form an afro. The bitter cold was turning her rosy lips blue, and even her coat could not protect her from dying alone in the snow much longer. Fear held her heart in its vice like grip, as she ran windows and peered in, desperately knocking on the glass. The rooms they were fitted on were all dusty and empty.
Just when she was on the verge of giving up and collapsing in exhaustion, she glimpsed a rusty bell above the worn, tattered and washed out 'Welcome!' mat on the top step. Charlene dragged her feet towards it and her luggage, and rang it multiple times.
"Dong! Dong! Dong!" Charlene winced. Too loud, she felt as if her ear drums were about to burst from that ungodly ringing.
The door creaked open. Charlene's platinum blonde afro head whipped towards it with a 'crack!' A gray haired woman beckoned her in with an extended bony wrinkled finger.
Charlene looked towards the darkness beyond the door and hesitantly entered.
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Charlene was tired.
It had only been half a year in the orphanage, but she felt like it was a year. The orphanage was destroying her. Mr Law-ear still had not replied her with a letter, and she was growing very impa-shient. She wondered what was taking him so long, as Mama hired naught but the absolute best, which he had to be. Charlene wanted out of this place, and it'd better be soon. The children were getting annoying, and she disliked her chores.
Charlene tired of being confined in her small four poster bed room every night. Tired of flopping on her bed and squeezing her eyes shut, but eventually standing up and pacing blisters into her feet once again. She missed home, and sleeping on her king-sized bed. She was fed up with the bed bugs crawling around in their miniature city, built of uncomfortable springs that scratched at her back every wakeful night, and a woollen cover with more holes than a mouse bitten cheddar cheese.
She was bored to death of waking up to a colony of them scurrying about her body. Never had she felt a more disgusted with anything, than with their nibbles at her vulnerable bare skin. She hated having to squish them, and feel their juice and the blood stolen from her veins mix and stain her thumb.
She was sick of - well, being sick.
Initially, she had sympathized with the smaller children who had caught the Scar-lert Fever, but was never truly concerned about it. She always had capable doctors on hand and had the best of health. Until she had had become the latest victim of the outbreak.
The symptoms had revealed themselves by the irritatingly dry and painful sensation in her throat a few days before, whilst playing hide and seek with the children. Then, she had dismissed them with a roll of her eyes. However, they had rapidly evolved into a full blown fever. No one dared to enter her room now, after peering through door cracks and seeing the contorted and agonized faces of those who had, the children were too frightened of contracting the fever. It was a stark contrast to just a day ago, when they were playing and arguing in her room.
Sure, she hadn't been overjoyed to play games with them. She was already twelve and had no interest in such childish things. Dancing, twirling around the mansion's ballroom with her wonderful fiancé to the symphony of the waltz was what she really wanted to do. But the children had pestered her for so long that she had no choice but to concede defeat.
Looking back, she was glad that at least she hadn't been alone then.
In the empty room with none but her illness for company, Charlene's future seemed bleak.
Alone, she miserably writhed and twisted in her sheets, the unbearable heat burning her from the inside.
Alone, she suffered through the fever as sweat soaked her sheets.
Alone, she kept her spirits up as she celebrated the flakes gruesomely peeling from the face, from lack of celebrated events.
Alone, she smiled amongst the darkness. She welcomed death. Even if she had to die alone and rather anti-climactically in her tiny cot, with no comfort during her last moments.
If it meant that no one else would die.
If it meant a happy ending in heaven.
She closed her eyes.
And slept.
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Charlene's eyes fluttered open, but instantly squinted shut when rays of sunlight attacked her them. Her blue pupils hidden behind her eye lids slowly peeked out, as they adjusted to the brightness. They skimmed across the room.
Charlene's shoulders sagged with despair. Nothing had changed. Wooden floorboard still splintered, Walls mouldy, prison-like metal windows rusty and cracked. No pure, white clouds or golden halos in sight. There was no miracle, and she was not merrily floating about in heaven. Glancing down, she saw that her hands were as populated with rashes and rough as they had been just before her death, and her cheeks as gaunt and ghostly.
'Heaven doesn't exist after all. If I'm not an angel, then I must be a spirit.' Charlene thought with gloomy acceptance. The vast change in her once pampered, now frugal situation had resulted in an unfortunate need for quick adaptation. When it had first occurred, Charlene had panicked and believed that the tragic death of Mama had morphed her into a connard, bi-pole-lar bear. Or whatever it was that Mama often angrily called her Papa when she read his haplessly sent emails.
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Late at night on the days he returned home, Charlene would climb out of her cozy bed covers to observe him with childish curiosity. She would creep around, avoiding the creaking winding staircase steps and corridors until she reached the kitchen where a candle was burning, and he was eating a simple sandwich.
The candle light reflected his face with an orange glow. Charlene had been surprised when she first caught a glimpse of his face. He was neither handsome nor attractive, but was not Hephaestus-ugly either.
Unlike her mother's aristocratic aquiline nose, his was stubby like a garlic. And smelled like one too. Charlene very much preferred Mama's trademark Chanel five perfume scent to his sweaty, tangy odor. She had to physically restrain herself from rushing in and spraying him with some of her pocket perfume. His eyebrows were thick and wiggled like platinum blonde caterpillars whenever he furrowed them, as if thinking deeply about one of his company's problems.
Charlene could not comprehend how her father could look so average. The unvocalized 'when she didn't' was implied.
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Charlene forced herself to crawl out of bed. She wanted to see the children once more, and wave them goodbye before she departed on her journey to reunite with her parents. Like in fairy tales. The children were annoying, and were the cause of her death in the first place, but somehow despite all that, a heart string had become attached to them. As she wandered past the few rooms, feelings of nostalgia bloomed inside her like a vibrant flower, watered with her and frankly quite friendless, but nevertheless, treasured memories at the biased orphanage.
Eventually, she drifted to the playroom.
"Give it back!"-
"Stop touchin' my toys!"-
"Those aren't yours!"-
"Yes they're!"-
"No they are not!-
"Yeth!"-
"No!"
"Yeth th'imes a g'azi'thllio-"
"Stop fighting!"
Voices of bickering and an exasperated peacemaker floated out from the closed door of the room in front of her. Charlene pushed open the door - the knob had been knocked out along a tooth during a fight - and entered the room, smiling softly. Ah, Mama always said she was too sentimental. But for once, she decided to put away all thoughts of becoming a perfect daughter and simply bask in the emotions of warmth, while it lasted. Three children were sitting in a tight circle and squabbling over the ancient ABC blocks that had gone out of fashion centuries ago. A grey, baggy shirt was worn - no, hung - over each of their bony frames.
It was a familiar scene.
"Thock". The wood block fell to the floor.
But the paling countenance of the terrified children as they gaped at her - not through her - was not.
No. Nononononononono.
She was not a ghost, an invisible memory from the past.
She was not a spirit about to travel on a grand journey to find her parents.
She was not dead.
But soon, one of them might be. Because of her fatal mistake. She took a step back, and another, and another. Until she was running - faster than a hurricane - back to her small confined room, as tears streaked across the air behind her. She burst into her room and slammed the door shut. Clutching her chest, she slid down the door; her beating heart was caught in her throat with no way of falling back down; it was pounding - too fast, too fast. With dawning, unspeakable horror, her fingers clawed at her face until the skin broke and a rivulet of blood gushed out, from the angry scratches on her cheeks.
Charlene wished that Mama was here to hug her and whisper words of motivation to help her through this. For she didn't know what to do to fix this.
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Charlene never managed to fix it.
The orphanage in black stood before a wooden box, as blessings were solemnly recited by a priest.
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She watched as a coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, and eventually buried with soil.
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Since that day, she would visit the grave.
Of a child cursed with a tragic and untimely death.
Of a child with a mysteriously donated marble tombstone(She remembered the long hours spent working to scrounge up the money to buy it).
Of the mischievous child with a lisp, who would forever be mourned by his friends.
Of a child named Kidoru.
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Sasaki Momoki was curious.
She was a very curious child indeed. Not because of her unnaturally bright red hair - no, that could be blamed on her mother's Scottish descent. Nor was it because of her love for creepy crawlies of all shapes and sizes. Rather, it was because of the very fact that she was curious that made her such a curious and fascinating - but precocious child in the eyes of the adults. In the twenty-first century, cities were populated with sky scrapers and other high tech gizmos.
Such as phones.
Nowadays, a phone could be more commonly found in a child's hands than a simple card game or a book. Toddlers could be seen playing Match The Dots games, or watching cartoons. Teens could be seen laughing at the latest text message received, and replying with practiced typing. Even the responsible adults had succumbed to this latest trend. Thus it was surprising that she had not.
The reason for this was not because she didn't own one. Her family was rather well off, and had bought one for her recent seventh birthday. But because she preferred her - odd - hobby to playing with the metal gadgets that emitted annoying beeping sounds.
Sasaki had a hobby.
It was nothing innocent like making paper cranes.
It was nothing as magnanimous as selling lemonade to raise money for the elderly.
It was nothing as glamorous as modelling children's clothes.
It was visiting the cemetery.
Sasaki enjoyed skipping down the cobblestones from her house that led to the cemetery at the foot of the hill covered with hairy, long stalks of grass. Whenever she pushed open the gate, it would creak loudly and vibrate in her palms for a moment, before eventually relenting and allowing her entrance. The cemetery was barren and the trees bald and branches bare. The grave stones marking each body were dusty and rarely cleaned, the names of the deceased covered by dried autumn leaves from a lifetime ago that have not been swept away.
The cemetery which had been around since eighteen ninety nine - almost two hundred years old - was ancient and largely abandoned. Perhaps that was the exact reason why Sasaki liked it so much. She had always loved to eagerly hear her mother, a history professor, weave stories about the ancient past, centred on both heroes and villains, some triumphant in their ambitions, others not. The cemetery gave her the extraordinary feeling of travelling back in time, to trace her roots.
Few visitors graced the place.
So Sasaki was surprised when she found a girl, just a few year older than her kneeling before a grave one day.
Unlike most visitors that came, the girl returned everyday.
So it was not completely unexpected, when Sasaki approached her a month later when she decided that she could no longer contain her curiosity.
"Hi," Sasaki said after bounding towards her. "What are you doing?"
The girl turned, surprised. Sasaki thought that it was probably because she could speak English - her mother had taught her - in a Japanese country. The girl gave a strained, tight, broken smile and said sadly as if remembering a painful memory, "I am... Looking after someone."
"Ehhh! Whose grave is it?" Sasaki asked.
Then she realised it was probably too personal of a question and rapidly waved her arms in a cross and backtracked," I mean, it's all right if you don't want to tell me or anything!"
The girl with the odd hair colour - like her! - replied easily, "no, it's fine. My...friend Kidoru's buried here."
At this, Sasaki fell silent.
She couldn't imagine what it would feel like if her best friend in the entire world, Kasa, died. The girl must feel awful. Sasaki spied a fluffy dandelion persevering, still growing despite the odds against - the unfertile soil, the choking weeds - a few meters away.
She dashed to the plant and plucked it out, twirling it between her finger and thumb as she returned to her previous spot.
"Here. If you blow it and make a wish, you'll feel better afterwards!" Sasaki said with a bright toothy smile that lit up her entire face and held it towards the girl encouragingly.
Charlene stretched out and took it into her palm. She lifted it at eye level and closed her eyes.
A puff of air escaped her lips and scattered the white, umbrella like dandelion seeds to the winds that will carry them across shores, and create a new life for them on other lands where - perhaps - they could be given the chance to grow to their true potential.
As if a great weight had been lifted from her chest, a small smile slowly but surely unfurled across her lips.
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Charlene hummed as she skipped down the corridors. Most of the children were snoring, fast asleep, so she was left alone to her ponderings.
The outbreak of Scarlet fever had mysteriously cleared up after Kidoru had died before it could infect someone else. A twinge of guilt tugged and coaxed her to return to the grave.
Resolutely, she hummed louder, and ignored it. Her days of wallowing in self-deprecation were over.
'Over!' Charlene thought determinedly to herself.
Self-pity was for the lower class! Which someone as busy as her didn't have time for. Mama had told her that, when her golden koi fish Koi had been found belly up and glassy eyed in the family pond when she was three.
Of course, she still felt guilty about his death, but it was not it unbearable self-disgust and hatred it had been three months ago. Charlene supposed she had gotten over his demise rather quickly and disrespectfully.
But it could not be helped. They had not been close friends that shared secrets behind cupped hands and giggled when happy together, and cried when separated.
Kidoru and his friends had absorbed her into their tight knit group, because games were much more fun when more people were involved. If they had more of a choice, they would not have chosen to induct her in.
If she had been younger, perhaps she could have forged a friendship between them. Perhaps she would be able to laugh more. Perhaps she would -
"Kyarin Du Borise! Chotto matte!" The wooden spoon-waving crazy matron hollered, running towards her. Charlene's thought was cut off, as she skidded to a surprised stop.
'Perhaps I would have someone to take over her chores', Charlene thought wistfully as her tiny feet pattered on the ground in a rush to escape.
Heart pounding, she spotted a familiar window to her right and jumped to reach it. Perhaps this time, she would manage to escape!
Charlene strained and pulled herself up. Secretly hiding her gritted her teeth behind closed lips - Mama always said it was beastly to bare your teeth - she climbed out.
"Free!" she gasped when she was almost out of the window.
She was hung on the cool window frame, her torso and head out in the breezy spring air. She continued using her palms to push against the wall. Slowly, her hip and legs were being shimmied out of the narrow window.
"Eeeeeep!"
She jumped in fright when something grabbed her leg. Adrenaline warmed her body. Panicking, she scrambled out the windows to escape.
A hand had clamped on her ankle and was furiously towing it back. Her nails scratched at the wall to find excess and peeled more paint off it, as a final attempt to stop it.
But it was useless.
Eventually, she was dragged back into the corridor.
She bowed her head in faked defeat, as she suffered through the matron's scolding which went in one ear and out the next.
But not due to the lack of trying.
For a while, she had tried very hard to listen to the matron's words, as Mama had told her that it was very rude to ignore people. But no matter how hard she tried, it proved fruitless. Useless.
After all, how would she understand the matron's words, if they were being spoken in a foreign language?
Slowly, her thoughts faded and she returned to reality. The jumbled mess called Japanese and some specks of spittle that had hitched a ride, was still spewing out of the matron's mouth,"mina-san... Tomoni hataraku desu! Nande... Anata wa ... Desu!"
Charlene had not chosen to learn the language despite the inconvenient inability to communicate with most people. It was too difficult, and the thousands of hiragana made her head spin. This sensation was particularly annoying, because it reminded her of the fact that she was too poor to even purchase some pain killers.
Plus, why would she need learn the language of Japan? She would be going back to France anyway, so there was no point in doing so. Once Mr Law-Ear sorted the thing-ies out. Whatever they were.
...Now that she thought about it, he still hasn't replied.
She wished this long long long (one sided) 'conversation' - it was not much of a conversation, since the matron was the only one talking - would end soon.
Charlene sighed inwardly - it was rude to interrupt - and covertly glanced out that dratted, small window. She wished she was outside. No matter the filth of the soil. Anything was better than chores, which she would probably be dragged off to complete after the lecture. She wondered if the red-headed girl she met three months ago, but had never summoned the courage to meet again was ever assigned chores.
She sighed again when the depressing thought of the countless stacked plates surfaced. Because she had been skipping her last few shifts, she now had an outstanding pile of dishes to clean. Knowing the matron, she would probably be punished with the extra job of cleaning the toilets.
Expect her not to exit the kitchen, or the toilet till a hundred years later.
Outside, thousands of pink Sakuras were flying through the air like soft snow. Petals swirled off the swaying branches of the lone tree with each gentle touch of the wind.
'Its's beautiful,' Charlene dreamily thought, ensnared by the enchanting tree. She guessed she would not be completely opposed to coming in contact with soil.
A moment later, the matron abruptly stopped her passionate tirade and turned sharply to where Charlene was staring at.
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'How dare she!' The matron brimmed with outrage at her ward's blatant disregard for her well-meaning words. Did this foreigner not understand her- shame roiled her stomach as the matron deflated like air rushing out a gallon. Of course she didn't. Though the foreigne- Charlene was
lazy as a sloth, it was understandable, as she was struggling to adapt to this new environment. She doesn't even speak the language. The poor girl. Here she was, condemning her, when she should have been more supportive! Her desire to help the unfortunate children was the reason why she had accepted this underpaid job in the first place.
Exasperated with her troublesome ward, the matron stared at her pointedly and released a loud sigh that seemed to extend forever. Charlene blushed. She had embarrassed mama again. Mentally, she made a stern note to slap herself later. Mama had always done that whenever she made a mistake. It was a miraculous trick, because afterwards, she never made the same one again. Perhaps it was magical stinging feeling on her cheeks that improved her performance?
"Go and scrub the dishes," the matron said wearily, pointing a finger at the kitchen located at the south.
"Hai..." Charlene mumbled morosely, good spirits extinguished as she trudged away.
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.
Charlene stood alone in the room, a year and a half after she had arrived.
A crisp, newspaper was crumpled in a loose fist. She couldn't believe it. It shouldn't be true. It couldn't be true. It had to be a lie. She glanced down at the article. Tears shone, rolling down and splashing on the paper. Ink from the condemning words swirled and gathered in the teardrops, mixing and morphing them black. So this was why the Mr. Anderson the lawyer - not Law-ear - hadn't answered her. So this was why the older children were making fun of her, jeering and knocking her down. "Baka," they sneered. Stupid. She supposed she was. Having so foolishly signed those papers. Having so naïvely signed away her possessions to him.
She hated him. She had never hated anyone as Mama had preached that it was wrong. Good girls were nice and kind. Good girls weren't revenge thirsty hooligans affiliated with gangs. Good girls didn't have a monster, burning with dark fury just waiting to be unleashed, breathing inside; and she was usually good! But she supposed would make an exception this time.
She was "near illiterate" the matrons said. It was her fault that she hadn't asked Mama to teach her how to read and write. Now, she had nothing left. They had already taken and sold away all of Mama's jewellery and clothing, while she was obliviously living in the orphanage, skipping chores. She crumpled the paper tighter and fell to the floor. The old, yellowed dictionary pages scattered into the air.
She cried. She cried. Doing nothing as her world shattered into pieces around her, and her hopes to return home were pierced by the cruel arrows of truth. Because the world ran on money; and she had none.
'Stupid,' the thought echoed in her mind, endlessly in rewind.
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.
She vowed to become smarter.
A day later, she opened the dictionary for the second time in her thirteen years of life.