It was dark in the room that Emily had directed me to go into. As I opened
the door, my eyes had to adjust to the immediate gloom that greeted them. I
closed the door, scrutinizing the room I had just entered.
There were several velvet-covered chairs sparsely spread around it, and a
fire was burning dully in a marble hearth. There were many windows as well
that had been curtained from the outside world. It was a closed off room,
and it looked, by the darkness and the silence that it would stay that way
for a while.
"Anna.or A.C.?"
I abruptly turned to the place where the noise had come from. Scanning
through the semi-darkness, I saw a shadowed figure sitting in one of the
velvet chairs.
"Excuse me?" I asked, realizing how close I was to the chair, and promptly
taking a step back.
The figure stood up, his impeccable posture, and army like stance, towering
over me. Finally, through the darkness, I was able to see my patron
clearly. He was tall, but not monstrously so. He was lean as well, looking
satisfactorily exercised for his age, just as my father did. Also like my
father was the mustache he possessed. It was a dark brown speckled slightly
with the gray and white of many long years. He looked about fifty as well,
my father's age.
As I stared at this man that had saved my life, I felt myself reminiscing
slightly about a question Melanie had asked father once when we had been
younger, innocent.
"Daddy, why are you so much older than Mr. Capton, when Gracie and I are
the same age?"
Gracie Capton had been a daughter of one of my father's business partners
and a playmate of Melanie's.
I remembered how father had stared at her, shocked into silence for a few
moments. He appeared to be contemplating on what to say. His mouth almost
opened, willing something out that might have shocked us, but finally he
had said,
"Your mother and I waited eight years to have Anna. We were both older parents, Melanie."
"I was simply inquiring which name you would like to be called. It is not a very difficult question, now is it?" I started again as the harsh voice wrang through the air. His impending nature was edgy and startling, but still, there was something likable to it. He looked like a man that could "get things done"; make changes if he needed to. "I go by Anna," I answered, watching him walk to the fireplace. He lit a match and threw it into the fire, the heat gracing the room as well as the bright light the flame caused. He started pacing in front of the fire, his slow movements showing deep contemplation. His long legs leisurely dragged away from the rug and were just as leisurely placed back on. I found myself fixated with his movements. They were so practiced, so precise. As if he had walked this route every day for his entire life. "Do you daydream often?" His questions were random, and to me seemed pointless. I could not see how my wandering mind made a difference to him. It rarely made a difference to me. Nevertheless, I answered. "Not really daydream, sir." My manners were a first and very shocking to me. The "sir" I used had been a thoughtless add in. "Then what would you call your engrossed eyes staring at nothing? They become very wide, round and lifeless. Is that not daydreaming?" I shrugged, looking around the room. "I was just thinking. Doesn't everybody?" He stopped pacing, turning his head slowly towards mine. Our eyes met and his face turned from a cold since of resolution to a shocked stare. Again he commenced pacing, seeming more thwarted than I first saw him. "So, Anna," he said, accentuating my name to the point of almost dislike. "I have several questions for you to answer." "I have several questions for you to answer as well, Mr. Shatton," I replied, using the same emphasis on his name that he had used on mine. "But I go first," he replied, smiling slightly. One finger was poised in the air as he said this, giving him an almost regal sense. It was all very interesting, so I nodded, permitting his terms. "Now, I give myself reason to wonder," he started, pacing back and forth again, "Why in the world a girl your age takes to running on the streets that late at night." "And I wonder too," I replied, "At why one so prominent as yourself was walking the streets so late at night as well." Surprisingly, he smiled. He pulled his hands behind his back and looked at me once more. His eyes studied my figure, my messy hair and then, once again they met my eyes. He turned away. "Ms. Anna does not miss a clue, does she?" "I do not," I replied. "Not when my life is involved." "Very intelligent," he muttered, "But back to my question though. What were you doing on the streets that night?" Something in his stance, in the way he twitched his mustache, made me feel as if I had to tell the truth, completely and fully. I felt trustfulness in his presence and a very secretive air that matched my own; however, I decided to be vague. "I was running away." At this, he bent down and stirred the fire, pondering upon what I had said. I pondered too, feeling no more clarification than I had started with. Finally, he looked toward me. "Anna, let me tell you a story," he muttered. "Take a seat." I did as I was told, seating myself in one of the velvet chairs as far away from Mr. Shatton as possible. I was frightened by his story, for his face plainly reflected pain and internal struggle. This was not going to be a happy tale. "You say you were running away," he whispered, no longer pacing backwards and forwards. He remained completely still. "You say it so easily, as if it is nothing. You say running away as if everyone does so. There was another sixteen-year-old girl like yourself. Pretty, smart, educated. She could have done a lot with her life. She was only running away. Only running away." He paused looking up at the ceiling. I noticed how hard set his mouth was, and how his eyes glistened with a hurt and abused emotion. I had no idea what to think of all he said. I had no idea where he was going. One thing I did know was that this Mr. Shatton was slowly becoming revealed to me. Maybe in time, he would divulge himself completely, showing me truth and leading me in the right light. Maybe not. "The poor girl didn't know what she wanted, so she ran. Instead of staying and trying to solve things, she ran." Again, he paused, staring now at the ground. His eyes slowly turned to me, hardened slightly from their soft, sad state. I stared back at him. Apparently, this sixteen-year-old girl was indeed dear to him. I felt slightly flustered and uncomfortable, hearing this tale of sadness. It seemed that I should be attaining some hint from this, I should be referring it to my life, but all I could see was my patron's long drawn face and the boatload of memories that caused it. This had nothing to do with me even though he was trying to make a comparison. It was now too obvious to reject. "That blue dress fit her well," he said, after several moments. I looked at my outfit, no longer feeling the stiffness in the material. I studied how old it seemed, the style and the faded blue giving away the age. "She wore it often, but.when she went, she left it behind. It fits you as well I see." He continued his stop/start process, making me want to yell at him to continue. Only too soon did he say something that struck me as relative: "She had never fit in here, you know. Even later in her life. There was no way for her to escape the inevitable. She had made too many wrong choices. I told her to leave well enough alone, but she thought she was in love. I told her to stay away from people like that, but she went anyway. Perhaps." he trailed off, not finishing the statement. I continued to say nothing, knowing there was more to come. This girl he described intrigued me; however, she seemed to repel me a well. I wanted to know of her, yet I wanted to stay far away, realizing that she was too close to the edge for me to tread on her subject. My feelings baffled me, and luckily were interrupted by Shatton's continued story: "I suppose," he began again, after another several moments of silence, the fire crackling in the background, "That I ran on too long of this poor girl so like yourself. Besides, sadly enough, the moral of this story is, after ten years of the girls running, she ran the wrong way." Running for ten years? Mr. Shatton's words suddenly became not as literal. He wasn't plainly describing a running scene. This was emotional. This was a situation that had lasted for ten years of this girl's life. How horrific to live ten years, "running away". "Ms. Anna, I do believe you are running the wrong way as well." Finally, I felt the need to speak up to this. I felt the defiance rise in me, replacing the sorrow I felt for the girl previously. "How do you know that I am running in the wrong direction if you don't even know what I'm running from?" My question caused a silence in the room. My harsh voice rang throughout the air, making me regret my tone. I sounded unfeeling and cruel. But truly, he had no idea of what he was speaking of. He didn't know me well, he had never seen me before. "I have an idea of what this mysterious force is that you're running from, and I have another feeling that this is not the first time you have run," he said, taking a seat in another velvet chair. "Really," I replied. "Well I suppose your feelings are interesting, but they truly don't give you any right to insult my reasoning and compare it to the other girl you know!" He ignored my comments. "Knowing this, I must say that it only suits you to be running away from a workhouse." I closed my mouth stunned. How perfectly he had struck the truth of it all. How frightening it was to hear the truth come out of a complete stranger. "And," he continued again, "I also know that you did not start your life on the streets. You are much too intelligent to have grown up as a mere street urchin. Though you display a good amount of dirt and grit, you have grown up nobly, and just so nobly have you run away from that as well." My shock was plainly clear on my face. I could not even try to hide it. This man knew me, knew me more than I thought. How did he know me? From where? I had never seen this man before in my life? I had no connections to him. Then I thought of the diaries and I paused, my eyes becoming wider. Still, he continued, "And I must say, Ms. Anna, that seeing your circumstances, seeing all that you've run away from, I can already see the wrong direction you have chosen. You are already dead while standing." I stood up as he said this. I felt compelled to leave; I felt compelled to run. The word "dead" struck a very harsh chord in my body, making my muscles tense "I'm tired," I muttered, turning toward the open door behind me. Not caring for my comforts, his voice again rang out: "Ms. Anna, how does it feel to not know the world you are living in? To make all the wrong choices at once?" I turned toward him, squinting in disbelief and anger. I had not made the wrong decisions. I knew the world I was living in. I could see the future clearly! I had done the right thing! It had been so sure, so unmistakable that I had done it. I had chosen the right path. I had been so sure of everything.
Now my worlds just seemed to crash down with his words.
"How does it feel," he whispered, staring just as harshly back, "To have your whole world turned upside down right when you thought you knew everything about it? Does the future scare you, Ms. Anna?" I backed up still staring at him. He was scaring me. His frightening sense of knowing and intelligence of my past was mind-baffling, but even worse was he seemed to read my deepest thoughts. The ones that not even I chose to recognize. I did fear the future. I did hate my past and would continue running from it as long as I could. "Ms. Anna," he said once more as I began to walk horrified out of the room. "Don't follow in footsteps that will only lead you to further destruction."
I walked out the door, somehow knowing exactly what he was talking about.
"Your mother and I waited eight years to have Anna. We were both older parents, Melanie."
"I was simply inquiring which name you would like to be called. It is not a very difficult question, now is it?" I started again as the harsh voice wrang through the air. His impending nature was edgy and startling, but still, there was something likable to it. He looked like a man that could "get things done"; make changes if he needed to. "I go by Anna," I answered, watching him walk to the fireplace. He lit a match and threw it into the fire, the heat gracing the room as well as the bright light the flame caused. He started pacing in front of the fire, his slow movements showing deep contemplation. His long legs leisurely dragged away from the rug and were just as leisurely placed back on. I found myself fixated with his movements. They were so practiced, so precise. As if he had walked this route every day for his entire life. "Do you daydream often?" His questions were random, and to me seemed pointless. I could not see how my wandering mind made a difference to him. It rarely made a difference to me. Nevertheless, I answered. "Not really daydream, sir." My manners were a first and very shocking to me. The "sir" I used had been a thoughtless add in. "Then what would you call your engrossed eyes staring at nothing? They become very wide, round and lifeless. Is that not daydreaming?" I shrugged, looking around the room. "I was just thinking. Doesn't everybody?" He stopped pacing, turning his head slowly towards mine. Our eyes met and his face turned from a cold since of resolution to a shocked stare. Again he commenced pacing, seeming more thwarted than I first saw him. "So, Anna," he said, accentuating my name to the point of almost dislike. "I have several questions for you to answer." "I have several questions for you to answer as well, Mr. Shatton," I replied, using the same emphasis on his name that he had used on mine. "But I go first," he replied, smiling slightly. One finger was poised in the air as he said this, giving him an almost regal sense. It was all very interesting, so I nodded, permitting his terms. "Now, I give myself reason to wonder," he started, pacing back and forth again, "Why in the world a girl your age takes to running on the streets that late at night." "And I wonder too," I replied, "At why one so prominent as yourself was walking the streets so late at night as well." Surprisingly, he smiled. He pulled his hands behind his back and looked at me once more. His eyes studied my figure, my messy hair and then, once again they met my eyes. He turned away. "Ms. Anna does not miss a clue, does she?" "I do not," I replied. "Not when my life is involved." "Very intelligent," he muttered, "But back to my question though. What were you doing on the streets that night?" Something in his stance, in the way he twitched his mustache, made me feel as if I had to tell the truth, completely and fully. I felt trustfulness in his presence and a very secretive air that matched my own; however, I decided to be vague. "I was running away." At this, he bent down and stirred the fire, pondering upon what I had said. I pondered too, feeling no more clarification than I had started with. Finally, he looked toward me. "Anna, let me tell you a story," he muttered. "Take a seat." I did as I was told, seating myself in one of the velvet chairs as far away from Mr. Shatton as possible. I was frightened by his story, for his face plainly reflected pain and internal struggle. This was not going to be a happy tale. "You say you were running away," he whispered, no longer pacing backwards and forwards. He remained completely still. "You say it so easily, as if it is nothing. You say running away as if everyone does so. There was another sixteen-year-old girl like yourself. Pretty, smart, educated. She could have done a lot with her life. She was only running away. Only running away." He paused looking up at the ceiling. I noticed how hard set his mouth was, and how his eyes glistened with a hurt and abused emotion. I had no idea what to think of all he said. I had no idea where he was going. One thing I did know was that this Mr. Shatton was slowly becoming revealed to me. Maybe in time, he would divulge himself completely, showing me truth and leading me in the right light. Maybe not. "The poor girl didn't know what she wanted, so she ran. Instead of staying and trying to solve things, she ran." Again, he paused, staring now at the ground. His eyes slowly turned to me, hardened slightly from their soft, sad state. I stared back at him. Apparently, this sixteen-year-old girl was indeed dear to him. I felt slightly flustered and uncomfortable, hearing this tale of sadness. It seemed that I should be attaining some hint from this, I should be referring it to my life, but all I could see was my patron's long drawn face and the boatload of memories that caused it. This had nothing to do with me even though he was trying to make a comparison. It was now too obvious to reject. "That blue dress fit her well," he said, after several moments. I looked at my outfit, no longer feeling the stiffness in the material. I studied how old it seemed, the style and the faded blue giving away the age. "She wore it often, but.when she went, she left it behind. It fits you as well I see." He continued his stop/start process, making me want to yell at him to continue. Only too soon did he say something that struck me as relative: "She had never fit in here, you know. Even later in her life. There was no way for her to escape the inevitable. She had made too many wrong choices. I told her to leave well enough alone, but she thought she was in love. I told her to stay away from people like that, but she went anyway. Perhaps." he trailed off, not finishing the statement. I continued to say nothing, knowing there was more to come. This girl he described intrigued me; however, she seemed to repel me a well. I wanted to know of her, yet I wanted to stay far away, realizing that she was too close to the edge for me to tread on her subject. My feelings baffled me, and luckily were interrupted by Shatton's continued story: "I suppose," he began again, after another several moments of silence, the fire crackling in the background, "That I ran on too long of this poor girl so like yourself. Besides, sadly enough, the moral of this story is, after ten years of the girls running, she ran the wrong way." Running for ten years? Mr. Shatton's words suddenly became not as literal. He wasn't plainly describing a running scene. This was emotional. This was a situation that had lasted for ten years of this girl's life. How horrific to live ten years, "running away". "Ms. Anna, I do believe you are running the wrong way as well." Finally, I felt the need to speak up to this. I felt the defiance rise in me, replacing the sorrow I felt for the girl previously. "How do you know that I am running in the wrong direction if you don't even know what I'm running from?" My question caused a silence in the room. My harsh voice rang throughout the air, making me regret my tone. I sounded unfeeling and cruel. But truly, he had no idea of what he was speaking of. He didn't know me well, he had never seen me before. "I have an idea of what this mysterious force is that you're running from, and I have another feeling that this is not the first time you have run," he said, taking a seat in another velvet chair. "Really," I replied. "Well I suppose your feelings are interesting, but they truly don't give you any right to insult my reasoning and compare it to the other girl you know!" He ignored my comments. "Knowing this, I must say that it only suits you to be running away from a workhouse." I closed my mouth stunned. How perfectly he had struck the truth of it all. How frightening it was to hear the truth come out of a complete stranger. "And," he continued again, "I also know that you did not start your life on the streets. You are much too intelligent to have grown up as a mere street urchin. Though you display a good amount of dirt and grit, you have grown up nobly, and just so nobly have you run away from that as well." My shock was plainly clear on my face. I could not even try to hide it. This man knew me, knew me more than I thought. How did he know me? From where? I had never seen this man before in my life? I had no connections to him. Then I thought of the diaries and I paused, my eyes becoming wider. Still, he continued, "And I must say, Ms. Anna, that seeing your circumstances, seeing all that you've run away from, I can already see the wrong direction you have chosen. You are already dead while standing." I stood up as he said this. I felt compelled to leave; I felt compelled to run. The word "dead" struck a very harsh chord in my body, making my muscles tense "I'm tired," I muttered, turning toward the open door behind me. Not caring for my comforts, his voice again rang out: "Ms. Anna, how does it feel to not know the world you are living in? To make all the wrong choices at once?" I turned toward him, squinting in disbelief and anger. I had not made the wrong decisions. I knew the world I was living in. I could see the future clearly! I had done the right thing! It had been so sure, so unmistakable that I had done it. I had chosen the right path. I had been so sure of everything.
Now my worlds just seemed to crash down with his words.
"How does it feel," he whispered, staring just as harshly back, "To have your whole world turned upside down right when you thought you knew everything about it? Does the future scare you, Ms. Anna?" I backed up still staring at him. He was scaring me. His frightening sense of knowing and intelligence of my past was mind-baffling, but even worse was he seemed to read my deepest thoughts. The ones that not even I chose to recognize. I did fear the future. I did hate my past and would continue running from it as long as I could. "Ms. Anna," he said once more as I began to walk horrified out of the room. "Don't follow in footsteps that will only lead you to further destruction."
I walked out the door, somehow knowing exactly what he was talking about.
