In The Clear: Introductions I
CW: Harmful religious themes, implicit transphobia (subtle mentions)
Myra Ranet, 17, Fredericton NB
Deep down, Myra knows there's something wrong.
She trails barely a step behind her friend, the fog settling where they'd just been. It seems to move with them, carrying the two girls in its invisible pocket. No matter which way Myra looks, there's only one thing to see - curls. The same pattern swirls both in the fog and in Serena's dark hair. Myra swallows down a dry breath and ducks her head as they turn the next corner.
The docks feel too familiar. Even years later, they remind Myra of a time that she doesn't want to recognize herself in. Behind Serena, she normally wouldn't care. The pair have been separable since the day they met. Their shoes had faced each other on wooden planks just like the one beneath their feet right now.
Today's different. Today, Myra feels just as lost as the night her lonely steps first brought her here. Her mother had announced the divorce at the dinner table. Her father hadn't said a word, he hadn't even looked at her. After ten years it was all going to end in awkward silence. Myra's entire life had shattered between the placemats yet no one seemed to know what to say.
Truth be told, Myra doesn't remember when she left. More than likely, she hadn't even waited for dinner to end. All she recalls is fast steps to the garage where she'd hopped on her bicycle - the bicycle her parents had both gotten her for Christmas the week prior.
She rode until she hit the ocean.
She walked the docks aimlessly as night fell around her. What felt like every day after, she did the same thing. Sometimes one of her parents came to walk with her, more often no one did. Myra didn't want them there. She didn't want anyone there. After a few weeks, it became a habit. Myra would come down to the docks and people-watch. She could make up stories about all the faces she didn't recognize. She could pretend their lives were perfect because that was easier than realizing hers would never be again.
"Isn't she awful?" Serena whispers. Myra follows her gaze to an older woman, her cellphone pressed tight to her ear and a hand held up rudely to the restaurant employee. It looks like they're having an argument, but they're too far away to hear it. Truthfully, Myra doesn't need to. She's seen the woman's type before.
"So awful," Myra echoes. She watches the woman a moment longer before her eyes peel along to the next person. Serena's gaze, however, doesn't waver.
"Go ask them for directions."
Myra's brows furrow and the sinking feeling only grows. "Why?"
"Just do it," Serena shrugs, a playful smile tight on her lips. Myra turns back to the hostess, to the woman that's only gotten more aggravated. Neither of the girls needs directions; Myra's lived nearby her entire life.
Yet, she's never had a reason to doubt her friend.
Myra throws her bookbag down beside the curb before depositing herself atop it. Her hands come up automatically to cover her face. It's a pitiful attempt after how many people have already seen her completing her mandated community service. Still, without chores to pull her mind away, the shame resurfaces tenfold.
They got caught, of course they did. Myra was more surprised at how long it took, yet the consequences still felt like a stinging slap across the face. She knew it was wrong. Myra knew she shouldn't have followed Serena, but saying no felt like it would burn her deeper than any outcome. It's not like they were hurting anyone. Serena only chose targets that wouldn't miss whatever the girls were going to take.
Yet, the hollow feeling in Myra's gut never let up. Not after weeks of stalking the same streets she used to aimlessly wander. Not after a half-dozen victims that never seemed to notice them.
Myra knew.
Yet she couldn't stop. After so many years of feeling more lost than a kayak in the St John fog, more pointless than a rock beneath the bridges, any purpose was better than none at all. Myra had Serena - finally a friend that didn't skip with the vacant tides. Serena didn't stop inviting her places because she was "hard to talk to". Even if Myra never bothered to explain her silences, Serena stayed.
When did that become the only thing that mattered?
Probably when no one else in Myra's life bothered to try. Not her parents, who shuffled her between their homes every week. Not her old friends, who comforted her for a few days but ultimately decided she wasn't worth it. Everyone left Myra in her temporary misery that slowly lost its brevity.
"Hey kiddo." Myra lifts her gaze as the car window rolls down in front of her. "Come on, before you get rained on."
She cranes her neck and feels the first drops splatter on top of her ponytail. Her dad grins from inside the car, but all she can think about is why her mom didn't text to say it wouldn't be her. She should be used to the plans changing by now.
She should be used to everything changing. That's been the only constant these past years. The divorce, the weekly moves, and this - fifty hours of court-mandated community service. The change in driver is nothing in comparison, yet Myra's on the verge of tears as she approaches the passenger door.
"How's takeout sound?" Her dad asks as she reaches for her seatbelt. "It's Thursday, we could try the Hilltop."
The Hilltop. Her mom used to pick up appetizers every Thursday after work. Myra would gorge herself on spinach dip before anyone else could touch it. Eventually, they had to start ordering two. It's been years since the divorce, years since Myra's even thought about Thursday night takeout. She doesn't blame him for trying, but the only response she gives is to burst into tears.
Her dad rests a hand on her shoulder. He's always been quiet, the whole family cut from the same cloth but Myra desperately wants him to say something. They suggested counseling years ago, but Myra couldn't make herself say a single word to that man. It seems they all deal with things with the same complacency, the same silence.
It's what got Myra into trouble these past weeks. It's the only thing she can use to push Serena away now. She can't continue down this river path. She knows it's not going to lead anywhere she wants to go.
But is staying barely afloat really much better?
Myra shivers inside her cell, the wide-open bars offering none of the safety she craves. The concrete is frigid at her back; the air like fog seeping through her lips. If she makes herself small enough, no one will know she's here. If she can calm the tremor that runs up her spine, there'll be no reason to be afraid.
"Is he dead?"
Myra's hands shook against the grass. Even with the dark night surrounding her, she saw everything. She felt the drying stain as it nailed her shirt to her chest. No amount of scraping was enough to peel the blood from beneath her nails. Every time the tears cleared enough to see past the garden they crouched in, Myra felt like she was going to be sick.
"We can't stay here," Serena whispered. Myra only vaguely registered the hand on her shoulder. It felt like a vice, ready to squeeze the life from her body. Myra remembered the pallor that took over her friend's cheeks. She remembered the empty breaths Serena kept trying to take.
It was supposed to be easy. No one would be in the house until early morning, Serena talked about it like it was already done. The pair would break in through a back window and take whatever they could carry. The couple was wealthy enough that they wouldn't even notice anything was gone.
Except he was home. He heard them. He grabbed Serena while Myra was in the other room. She heard her friend gasping for air and ran back to the kitchen to find her in a chokehold.
And then…
"Is he dead?" Myra whimpered. She didn't have it in her to scream no matter how badly she wished to. As always she was quiet, not silent but quiet. Myra never spoke until it was too late. She didn't regret anything until her hands felt like sandpaper and there was a flooding river in her ears.
Myra clamps a hand over her lips as the memory crashes through the brittle dam. All she's done since arriving here is cry. The past few weeks feel like a tide of broken memories, all of them collapsing down on her at every opportunity.
"Stop crying, they'll smell it." Those were the first words her cellmate spoke when Myra arrived. She's barely seen the girl since, doesn't remember her name if it was ever given.
It's smart.
She was right.
The only thing Myra's tears have proven to the other inmates is that she's weak. Her sobs are like the lighthouse beacon that brings the boats home. Except all they bring in this case are laughter and tightly wound fists.
Footsteps start down her hallway and Myra coils herself into an even tighter ball. The cells aren't dim enough to hide her. They know where she'll be because Myra can't yet force herself to go anywhere else.
She feels as lost as the rest of that fateful night as Myra stumbled through the alleyways. Serena told her to get to Carleton Park, that she would meet her there. It was safer to move alone. The police were no doubt looking for a pair.
"I'll find you, I promise."
It's been weeks, but those are the only words holding her together. Myra never made it to the park, but she has to believe Serena's still coming. As terrified as she feels, she has to be hopeful.
It's all she has left.
Ramsey "Ram" Thorn, 17, Vancouver BC
- CW -
Every restraint is too tight, but Ramsey forces themself not to think about them. Their heart beats steadily in their chest as the covering is finally pulled from their eyes. It doesn't take more than a minute for all of their suspicions to be confirmed.
They're in a van.
They don't know the eyes that stare from the rearview mirror nor the body that turns to watch them from the passenger seat.
The landscape that passes outside their window is unrecognizable. The empty mountainscape makes their uncle's neighborhood in Hope look like the big city. The panic they'd been feeling for the past hours feels like it's about to boil over.
Where are they taking me?
Strangely enough, the first thing they want to do isn't scream but laugh. How many times had Ramsey wished to be taken away, to anywhere other than Hope, British Columbia? Ramsey doesn't think they'd be able to count if they tried. It's only been a couple of months since they moved in with their uncle's family. Truthfully, Ramsey didn't think they'd last eight more.
Even if they did, where would they go when they turned eighteen? Ramsey's mom hadn't written a will; she hadn't even turned forty yet when she went braindead on their kitchen floor. They bite their lip, unsure if what's going to come out is a sob or a painful laugh. That was how Ramsey and their mom dealt with things. She wouldn't hate them for laughing. She said it herself, nothing would ever make her hate them.
Ramsey had their own life in Vancouver, but she'd always been their favourite part. She didn't bat an eye when they came out to her a few months into high school. She didn't care that Ramsey wanted to be everything that her religious family scared her away from. She loved them and that was the end of the statement.
Life since she's been gone has been hell. End of statement.
Ramsey having to move in with their uncle's family and integrate into whatever overzealous shitshow they called church has been hell. They said they were trying to be patient. They said they didn't want Ramsey's life to change too much. They said that this is what family had to do for each other.
Maybe being handcuffed in a van headed to who knows where isn't the worst option after all.
Still, Ramsey has to do something, right? These people took them from their uncle's home in the middle of the night. They haven't said what their plans are, but they can't be innocent. Ramsey should be afraid of them.
"My family will come looking for me." They can't tell whether it's a lie. Their uncle doesn't approve of Ramsey, but would he leave them to some unknown kidnapper? Rachel would do something if no one else. Their cousin would call the police.
They'll have to come, right? Ramsey swallows down the fact that they don't know the answer. They push it so far down that neither of the people staring at them will be able to see it.
"They're who arranged this."
Ramsey's throat goes dry. "Arranged what?"
Their only answer is a fast slap across the face. Ramsey hits the back of their seat hard, a stunned expression on their face as their cheeks continue to burn. No one's ever hit them before. Not on purpose and not outside the roller rink.
Their skin shivers as Ramsey turns to look out the window. They want to fight back, but their hands are still tethered. They want to ask more questions, but every single one is suddenly gone from their mind.
Maybe it's because, deep down, they believe them.
Saint Catherine's Camp for New Beginnings.
It's hard to look anywhere without seeing those words. Ramsey's own clothes are covered in the name right down to their socks. They don't have to guess at the reasoning behind the branding. If any of the kids escaped, the world would know where they came from. They'd know who they belonged to.
Ramsey isn't allowed to know how many days they've been here. Their guess is somewhere between eight and ten, but their count was washed away with their first shower. The first three, they weren't permitted to speak. They were to follow behind their group - four girls with matted hair and about as much life behind their eyes as porcelain dolls. The moment Ramsey strayed more than a few meters behind, their name was shouted into the forest air.
Well, not their name, a name. A name they haven't heard in years. Not even their uncle's family dared say it.
Ramsey's almost too exhausted to react. They've been woken each morning long before the sun. The counselors pour water on their cots if it takes even an extra instant for them to rise. Each day starts and ends with prayers that Ramsey barely recognizes. The rest is filled with menial labour, chores, and more harsh words than they've ever experienced.
They're almost too tired to care, almost.
The others might have complacency or fear behind their eyes, but not Ramsey. Behind their glassy gaze that's littered with fatigue and allergies is something else entirely. They won't be broken. They're not afraid.
This place might be hell on earth, but they've never had a camper like Ramsey.
The trees around them are unfamiliar, yet at the same time look like every other hike the group's taken. This time when Ramsey falls to the rear, it's purposeful. Near, instantly they feel more eyes peel in their direction. Rough hands shove them forward but Ramsey is ready. They dig their heels deep into the mud. Another shove. They don't move.
"Move along - " Ramsey blocks the next word from their mind. They've heard it too many times. It's hurt them too many times. This time, they refuse to let it.
Instead, Ramsey turns around to face the woman. "Go fuck yourself."
They don't even see her hand, it moves that quickly. Ramsey blinks but doesn't allow themself to flinch with the slap. That seems to anger the counselor more. Ramsey can't claim that wasn't the goal. As they hold the woman's gaze, they half-expect her to slap them again.
She doesn't. Instead, she blows a whistle and the group pauses just ahead. She waves them back and points to the ground. "Drop and give me a hundred. You can all thank your new friend here."
Ramsey swallows before lowering themself down beside the others. Almost immediately, their hands disappear into the muddy trail. They feel the embarrassment flush in their cheeks as the counselor starts to count. They hadn't meant to get anyone else in trouble.
They catch the gaze of the girl beside them and whisper a clumsy apology between breaths. She looks up at them, her eyes more lucid than they've ever seen them. She looks absolutely furious and they almost can't blame her.
Still, the slur that escapes her lips hits Ramsey harder than a slap ever could.
The power's not going to stay out forever. They might be in the middle of nowhere, everything in the camp might be half-broken on a good day. Still, Ramsey knows it won't last. If what they heard is correct and the generator doesn't power the surveillance cameras, they're going to fix it.
And Ramsey needs to be long gone before that happens.
They've buried so much to try and stop themself from being a burden. They don't want to bring others down, don't want their anger to affect everyone else but that's impossible. The counselors see it. The other campers see it. Everyone sees that Ramsey doesn't belong, yet they refuse to let them go. Maybe they're in denial but Ramsey isn't. It's not simply that they don't belong, it's that they won't belong. They refuse to let this place break them.
Weeks, months, or years here, it doesn't matter. Nothing's going to change.
Nothing but their sanity. Nothing but the anger they've buried so far it's like the magma beneath the earth's crust. Nothing but the fact that Ramsey is two steps from a volcanic eruption that'll flatten the entire camp.
All they've ever wanted was to be happy, yet no one wants them to have it. Their uncle can't stand a happiness that he doesn't understand. New Beginnings can't allow a happiness that they can't control. For the past months, it's been all about what other people can tolerate. No one cares what Ramsey wants.
Happiness is too far away to imagine. They've been beaten, screamed at, and outcast until bitter tears became more comfortable than a smile. There's no ounce of joy left when there used to be nothing else. Ramsey doesn't recognize the simmering hatred that sits below their vacant gaze. They despise it, but it's the only thing left.
So if they can't have happiness, they'll take the next best thing - freedom.
Ramsey takes a hard left as a flashlight beam starts around the corner. They don't know if they've been discovered missing, but they don't care. Ramsey sprints along the wall, taking every necessary second to make sure the beams aren't tailing them. It feels like they've been out here for hours.
Their next turn takes them to a familiar trail, the only one that's been protected from the forest's overtaking. Clean blocks line the path and Ramsey looks up to find that even the chapel's flowers have been shielded from the night's heavy winds. This building is the only thing anyone cares about. Every morning and night ends here. Even now, as a windstorm ravages the camp, it's somehow untouched.
Ramsey doesn't realize they've climbed the path until their hands wrap around the covered lantern. They stare inside, watching the innocent flicker that's so protected, so cared for. It doesn't dance along in the wind. Like the chapel, it sits untouched by the chaotic winds while Ramsey's very core feels lost in them.
They pull open the white doors and throw the lantern inside. It shatters against the wooden altar, the flame finally escaping from its perfect cage. Ramsey remains in the threshold, their eyes lit up with flames as they rise between the polished trinkets. Once it begins, it only grows. In the silence of the building, the fire rises until it seems as though nothing will be able to contain it.
Revenge. Chaos. Freedom.
It's not enough, but it feels so good.
A/N: Hello! Here we are with the first of nine introduction chapters. For those of you new to my stories, this is the general format I like to use for them. If you have the time, let me know what you think of Myra & Ramsey!
Next up will be Amadis & Casimir!
~ Olive