CH 1
Rain battered at the little town relentlessly. Dim spheres of light flickered weakly behind cracked windows, barely warming quivering hands and illuminating rundown rooms. Rotten vegetables and litter flowed down the cobblestone streets, bobbing up and down in oily streams of rainwater.
A single anguished wail rose from the back alley of two buildings.
"Hush!" A short, emaciated man covered the mouth of his young daughter, tightly restraining her thrashing body. Wrapped in ropes, the child whimpered in fearful anticipation as his calloused hand came down cruelly on her ear. Fear melted into fiery pain, and the little girl convulsed madly as it numbed the entire half of her face.
A stout woman with a loose, patched bonnet stood beside her husband.
"Hush, girl!" she coaxed and stroked her daughter's ankle, "It'll be over soon—" the woman's gaze hardened as she pressed her nails threateningly into the child's flesh, "if you would jus' hush…"
"Where'd the sly dog go? He should be here by now!" lamented her husband, tiredly scratching at his chin stubble. Visibly bored, he leaned over and flicked his daughter's wet, grimy cheek. "He's comin' for you, girl."
Somewhere behind them, a wooden structure gave way and collapsed against the stormy streets in an explosion of splinters and debris.
Terror colored the little girl's dazed blue eyes. Either rain or tears streaked down her cheeks as she writhed against the ropes that bound her and struggled to tear free of the hand clasped tightly around her arm.
Family is supposed to be the infallible foundation of nurture and support.
The big hand at her mouth muffled any desperate pleas.
Please, Father. Please!
She thrashed as much as she dared, kicking wildly, yet with fearful restraint. Her bare foot rammed against something hard, summoning a wave of pain that finally pulled her under and allowed hot tears to freely flow. The tempest within was screeching and reeling viciously, tenfold more turbulent than the storm without. However, hope is capricious in the best and worst ways, and finds itself burning brightest in the darkest, most fruitless circumstances.
And the little girl realized that her legs were free.
Her father was distractedly scrutinizing the alley opening. Her mother was listlessly picking at rain-washed debris. Inside the dark heart of slums drenched in rain and wallowing in cyclical squalor, an ember of hope flickered inside the little girl's heart. Channeling it into courage, she gave a violent jerk and kicked her father in the chin with all her might.
If it were but a little girl's kick, it would not have fazed a grown man—earning her a hellish beating. But if it were her kick, her agony, her anger and desperation, then it would have possibly opened a new door—earning her freedom.
Immediately, a throng of curses erupted from the short man as he clutched the bruise under his chin. Tripping over his own feet, he staggered into his wife, and a scream issued from the lady's mouth as she went down in a mass of flailing arms.
The girl's bonnet flew off, revealing a short mass of fair hair. Rolling in the filth like a log, she blindly twisted this way and that, trying to rid herself of her tough, sinewy binds. They might have loosened—but did not slide off. Mud and gravel caked her body like wet cement, pulling her down again into deep pools of hopelessness that threatened to snuff out that little spark of hope.
Hope doesn't belong here. Not here, in this dark world.
Her blood ran cold as her thoughts continued racing.
What if Father catches me? He would dash her skull against the hard pavement.
However, she still had her legs. Rolling out into the street, the child sat up against the wall and forced her bony legs to support her weight. With no freedom of movement for her arms, the little girl hobbled shakily out of the alley. Fear clogged her mind; dirt clogged her vision, and ropes clogged her movement—her freedom.
"Girl!" screeched the short man, "Daughter!" Picking himself up, he stepped over a tangle of legs and skirts just as the girl made it onto the cobblestone.
Pursuit began.
The child dreamed of freedom. Each time her bare toes scraped the ground, the tender blisters and underdeveloped callouses underneath burst and bled, and each time she cried out in agony. However, each painful stride was possibly another step less that she must take to reach freedom, and she pushed herself forward. Or, she simply kept going because there was no place to turn back to and no chance to doubt her desperate decision.
Further, she urged herself, just a bit further. Father doesn't love me anymore. I don't think he ever did.
Rain poured from the sky and pattered against the child's skin, soaking her ragged clothes and running freely down the length of her body in webs of murky stream. It prodded insistently at the rancid dirt, gravel, and slime that coated the little girl's body until it all flowed to the ground into frothy brown puddles. A surge of clean newness emerged in the child—not delight, but determination. Not happiness, but hope. She felt as if she now had a true vision of a possible future, an attainable reality that she had the power to reach towards.
Eventually, the frigid wetness took its toll. Numbness crept up her ankles and stifled her movement. The young child shivered so violently that it became hard to run.
"Girl! Daughter! Listen t' your father!" a frustrated wail sounded from behind.
Icy chills tore through the girl's body, exacerbating her anxious shudders. She vacillated aggressively between fear and hope, doubt and belief—struggling as she was simultaneously dragged forward and lurched backwards by these extremely polarized, clashing states of mind. All recent, positive feelings dissipated the moment the voice reached her ears. Fright egged her on, forcing the little girl forward at a frantic pace. Pitiful whimpers rose from her throat each time her bloody feet pounded the ground.
She failed to notice that the waterlogged ropes around her arms were loosening.
Fast, anxious feet echoed behind her, scrabbling down the cobblestone path, clashing with and cutting through numerous, tiny water droplets. The child's heart hammered loudly in her chest as her ears dizzyingly rang. The world spun, and she fell and tumbled several feet, heaving and hacking on her knees at the muddy ground, suffering attacks of nausea and vertigo when she tried to stand.
Stop chasing me! Please! I want to live. I really want to live, Father.
She gazed over her shoulder, where his black silhouette could now be seen amidst the falling rain.
"Mummy truly cares 'bout you too! Don't you trust us? We're your blood!"
Fresh tears burst from the little girl's eyes as renewed fright pulsed through her veins. She tottered drunkenly away, barreling through a row of forgotten linens still hanging on clotheslines. A basket of apples rolled across the street, spilling ripe, red fruits into the unsightly streets. The wind howled, projecting some mysterious anguish of its own into the storm.
A soundless scream escaped the girl's mouth as a something clasped around her shoulder. Instinctively, she whirled around and battered and kicked at the figure behind her.
"Girl! Daughter!" Her father's screams went under her vicious kicks and bites. "I love you t'death, child! I swear! Please return with us—"
Liar!
Barely tearing free, the little girl bolted some building that turned out to be a liquor store, scattering shards of broken glass across the wooden floorboards and leaving her father behind as she bolted the door and threw a chair against it. His yelling gradually faded. The cruel hand that had grabbed, clout, and bruised her so many times was gone.
Panting and dripping wet, she hobbled deliriously around the counter and rows of dark, liquid bottles. Black, kaleidoscope-rimmed spots bobbed and swam across her vision. Suddenly, her balance gave way and she crashed into the floorboards, facedown. The girl struggled to support herself, but her arms were still bound. She wailed in alarm and writhed blindly on her side, growling in frustration and anger.
Damn ropes! Stupid, blasted—
Something grabbed the back of her collar.
Her muffled scream rocked the building. The little girl found herself dragged out onto the streets, body scraping against the rough ground. The door barricade must have been breached, but she could not hear beyond the ringing in her ears.
It's Father…must be Father.
Head lolling limply, she gave up.
I'm sorry, Father, I'm really sorry I really am I want to live…
Her bound body was dropped heavily on the ground. At that moment, there was no more thunder or lightning. As suddenly as it came, the rain ceased to fall.
Ribbons of red-laced water leaked from the splinters digging into the child's skin, seeping into the dirt beneath her. She lay there lifelessly, eyes glassy.
Am I dead? Father can't kill me if I'm dead. There was salvation in that.
A cruel foot jabbed her in the stomach.
Rolling over in pain, the little girl clutched herself, blubbering, "I'm sorry Father I'm sorry I won't run away again I'm so sorry—"
She focused on the figure looking down on her.
That's not Father.
"This is it?" mused the tall, strange man with a clean-shaven face. His voice carried the certain, pompous edge characteristic of opulence by birthright. "Pitiful." He turned around narrowed his eyes critically at the two hunched figures behind him.
"She's jus' a tad knocked up. Tried to run away, you see," the girl's father offered with forced bravado.
"Indeed! I believe rebellion is a sign of i-intelligence," her mother sputtered.
It was strange. The child had never witnessed either parents in a position of such fearful submission. They were always authoritative, with her world and pain grasped tightly in their palms.
"You must understand—broken products aren't of much worth, if any at all. I'm afraid it isn't as valuable as we have discussed before."
"N-no, I suppose not, sir," muttered her father.
The tall man lifted her by the arm, twisting her this way and that. The shaggy couple watched, unmoving, as he inspected the frail child. Finally, he shook his head remorsefully. "Can't be more than five pieces."
"But we agreed on twenty!" cried the girl's father. He nudged his wife.
"Right, dear! She's very healthy and such, and you really don't need to feed her a lot. Starvation builds character, you understand, a-and our girl has loads of that—"
"Is that right? You certainly enjoy trying me," the tall man chuckled, "What character!" His voice hardened menacingly, "But you agree, don't you?"
A tense silence followed.
"Spectacular. Six years old, I recall?" inquired the strange man.
"Er, five—"
"Six!" his wife interrupted quickly, "You have such horrible memory—"
"Name?"
"Well," the woman answered, "We haven't quite—namelessness builds character! Have I mentioned how much of that our little girl has—"
The strange man tossed a few dull coins into the mud.
"Good 'day, folks."
Rueful laughter echoed in the back of the child's head. I'm not six, Mother. I'm seven. Horrible memory…
The rhythmic movement of transport lulled her into unconsciousness.
Five pieces. I'm worth five pieces. The last thing she felt before she blacked out was a tiny touch of scorn.