Amor que Poena
By Acacia Thorn
To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. – Anonymous
I
Her first word is "why", and in hindsight, it is rather fitting. Though when she says it, it is not a chaste question, it is a declaration of fact.
Perhaps this is why, when she is seven and at her father's funeral, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is: "Why."
She supposes she has been born into a normal family, just her with her mom and dad, but she knows that she will never be like the kids from school, the ones that are rich and loved and spoiled.
Her father had been everything. When she was younger, he would take her to the beaches near their home, and they would just walk along the shore and talk.
Often enough, she would stop and admire the sea. The sea is always glittering, always crystal-like. She thinks of the ocean to be blue, but then again, are seas and oceans the same thing? The sea sparkles green while she is sure that the ocean glimmers blue.
The sea gave her a warm, homey feeling, and over the years, the sea is a fragile painting in her mind, imprinted there, her only true memory of her father—and it hurts.
Still, she stays by the sea; maybe because it was the one place she and her father could be alone, in solitude, with no disturbances or troubles other than themselves.
For it is perfect along the shore, and she thinks that that is why she spends almost all of her time there. Her family lives very close to the beach, and she knows that their original plans of moving would never be carried out, not now, not after her dad's death. So she has the sea to herself, and she is the picture of perfection, looking out at the horizon, though nobody can mistake the fat diamond of a tear that lingers on her cheek.
Where is mommy? The question has been haunting her mind for weeks now, and she is thoroughly frightened. She hasn't had much time to worry about it, but now that she is alone, she can think.
They had been moving her around a lot, and she doesn't pay attention too much, because as soon as she memorizes one place they whisk her off to another. It's a lost cause, she thinks, and she'd rather mull over other matters.
There are only two facts that exist in her mind—that her father is dead, and he won't ever be coming back, and her mother is gone and doesn't want to come back. She knows this for sure, and despite the onslaught of pain and misery the thought brings, she refuses to cry more than she has. If she has to cry, it will be for more than that, and it will all happen at once, so she will never have to cry again.
She is eight years old when she makes this compromise.
She officially runs away not long after. She doesn't run away because she feels neglected, but simply because she can, and no one is looking out for her. She can finally be free.
But then, of course, she doesn't know where to go—so where else but Central Park?
The air is misty and cold when she first steps out, and mentally she reprimands herself for not bringing a jacket. As the frost bites at her cheeks, she sighs, watching the tendrils of white breath snake out into the night. It is cold, but not so much that she has to go back to her temporary home, the one she is staying in until they find her mother.
Frankly, she does not want to find her mother. She doesn't want her because she left her, and she knows that if her mother wanted her back, she would come back. It did not seem as if she were coming back, so the girl refused to associate herself with that woman anymore. So far, it is not working.
Her mother is the only thing people could identify her by. "Oh, that's Mandy's daughter, the poor thing," they would say, or sometimes even "Oh, you look so much like Mandy!" She is not her mother, she never would be her mother, she didn't want to know her mother, and yet this is what she faces every day. She is Nancy, not Mandy, and it will always be that way, no matter what.
Blinking, she returns herself to her surroundings. Central Park looks eerily beautiful at night, she decides. Moonlight paints the petals of flowers faint silver, and distant breezes ripple the grass. Shadows squeeze themselves into every available corner, leaking into the world from the coal sky, and the wind whisks away the few noises made by small animals. But this is New York, after all, and so it is never entirely calm.
"You lookin' for sum'un?" a slurred, drunken voice asks. The girl's eyes snap up to meet the stranger's, and with a shocking, sad jolt, she realizes that this is no stranger at all.
"Mom?" she whispers, the word leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. "Is that you?"
It certainly is her mother, she knows that much. But her hair is sticking up in odd angles and her clothing looks dirty and is ripped in several places, and so she is wishing that this isn't her mother, though she knows that her wish will not come true.
"Ain't no 'Mom' w'ere I'm a-comin' from," she slurs, a wispy smile curling her lips. "Bu' ya do look famil'r."
Her heart lifts slightly, though not much, because at least her mother could tell that much.
"I'm your daughter," she says slowly, cautiously, watching her mother's ungraceful moves.
"Are ya, now? Gots me lots of those." Her grin becomes more pronounced, and Nancy frowns. Is it just the alcohol talking, or is her mother telling the truth?
"What do you mean?" she asks, and randomly she wonders why her voice is so hushed. She has the freedom to speak at whatever volume she pleases. Perhaps she is unable to make her voice any more audible than that.
"Been here 'n' there, drunk stuff, did some bad things." She is too caught up in her mother's words to realize that she no longer sounds drunk.
"What do you mean?" she repeats, eyes wide and round.
"Nancy." Her mother's voice is strong—determined. "I messed up."
"Everyone messes up," she says, childishly perhaps.
Her mother shook her head impatiently. "That's not what I mean. I've done bad things. I left you. And…and I did a lot of things I'm not proud of."
She is more confused than ever. "What are you talking about?"
Her mother sighs, seeming resigned. "I'm not good for you, Nancy. I can't keep lying to you."
This is not something one explains to a child, but her mother is doing it anyway. And the girl, she is not getting a word of it.
"What?" she asks, lips trembling. "I don't understand."
"You don't have to!" her mother snaps, and she recoils in surprise. "Damnit, just listen to me, you ungrateful brat! Just—just leave me alone! Get the hell away from me!"
She is crying, and her mother is crying—harsh, shuddery sobs that rack down her spine and echo in the stillness. She, herself, is only hiccupping, but she is still crying, even after she promised herself not to.
"But I—"
"No, Nancy! Go away! Leave me! Now!"
Nose running and tears spilling from her eyes, she runs away, into the dark, back to the place she must now call home.
Yancy Academy.
Is it right to hate it for no particular reason? She thinks so. With its dull, washed out signs and faded bricks, Yancy is not a place she wants to spend the rest of her life at.
Everything would be different. She would be different. She would be better, improved.
Suddenly, Yancy didn't seem so bad, simply because everything would be different. No more neglect, no more hurt. She could start fresh here.
And as she waves goodbye to the family that had provided her with a home for the past three months, she cannot wipe away the smug grin that has found its way onto her face.
A/N: …I am a terrible, terrible person for poisoning your minds with this. I can't write romance. At all. But this chapter wasn't romance. Still, I am sorry for the short chapter. They will get longer…actually, no, only the last part is somewhat long…huh. Anyway…R&R, por favor…CC is loved, flames are expected…hm. Also, this is AU in the sense that Yancy isn't only for troubled children, and that Nancy is actually a mentally stable child (she's not a kleptomaniac), and the AU applies to the last part of the fic as well.
