The TV was snowy again. A haze of static flickered over the washed out picture of the latest contest winner, a bright eyed young thing with an obsession for the color red. Red was a color that seemed to find its way into everything: the floorboards, the walls, the home appliances, the clothes, the food, the water- all of them were red. Red was the color of the roaches hiding in the cupboards, the color of the roaches when you stepped on them, and the color of your shoe after stepping on the roaches. Red was the color of the flowers that wilted solemnly by the windowsill. Red was the color of the fake jewels hidden under the floor so no one would ever find them. But Red was not the name of the person watching the television.
Now the news had switched to a new story. An impossibly clean reporter stood rigid in front of a large, residential looking building. A man had been murdered; a clean gash dividing his torso into two equal parts. A crack team of scientists were squawking about how their DNA tests and forensics could find the culprit if only there were just given more time, just a little more time. Somewhere, the victim's family might have been crying, but that was not the best time to show it. Now was the time for excitement, the thrill of the hunt, where the determined and courageous agents of the law began their quest to apprehend the villainous murderer. The family could have their moment after the killer had been thrown into an industrial fan.
The girl watching the news piece had evidently grown tired of it, for her arm slowly found its way to the remote and searched for the power button. As she switched the TV off, she idly wondered if a man could walk if he had his legs sewn on backwards. At any rate, her legs functioned adequately as she went downstairs. Perhaps her mother would know something else about the murder. She mulled it over in her head as she was walking, and decided that there was a remote possibility that she might have learned something significant about it. She did have a subscription for a print newspaper, after all.
Her mother took a while to hear her come down the steps. When she did, she turned around enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with delight.
"Oh, Leaf! I was looking for you!" she said.
"My name isn't Leaf, mother."
"I was reading the newspaper, and I came across the most fascinating article! This man, he's a psychologist, he says that all children should leave the house by the age of twelve!"
"I'm twelve, mother."
"Then it's time to start your very own journey!"
The girl stood still, for she was still confused at how anyone could say something like that and genuinely believe it. The mother did not, for she had already gotten up and ran towards the girl, and now was dragging her towards the door. Without hesitating, she shoved the girl outside and locked the door.
A mother evicting her daughter to make her travel across the region.
How strange.
Well, if there was a place for a young, journeying person to go, it would be the professor's. The professor, a veteran of such an experience himself, was always willing to give advice to any prospective travelers of the region. He had set up shop in a dingy brick hostel at the edge of town. No one knew for certain what kind of work the professor did at that place. He was suspected of having friends in odd places, friends that a man like himself would not normally have. All of these things were merely suspicions, however, as the girl walked inside the hostel. She caught a strong scent of mildew as she looked around the dimly lit room covered with a stained grey carpet and peeling wallpaper. A metal counter took up the most space in the room, where the professor was engaged with something that the girl could not see. He did not here her come inside, so she gently tapped her hand on the counter until he stopped what he was doing to look at her.
"What do you want?" he said, refusing to make eye contact with her.
"I'm going on a journey."
"Ah, yes- hold on a minute." The professor walked to the back of the room, where he opened a door to some kind of storage facility. He returned with a Marill and a knife, the latter of which he laid on the countertop.
"That should be everything you need. Now, don't come back."
"What is the knife for, professor?"
"There is no knife."
The girl decided to take the knife just to be safe, and then left the shop with the Marill.