A House of Cards

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!

First Impression: Well this was quite a tale here. I really enjoyed these characters and the way that you chose to bring us information about them. It was really well done and at the end Kat's fate truly hit me hard there. You really made us quite attached to her in what was a pretty short time.

Anyway let's get right to it,

Mould. A sickly greenish grey stretching out in elaborate branches, gripping hold of vulnerable material with an iron fist, and never letting go. Once breached the surface, its tunnels go on endlessly, evading all miserable attempts of removal by blade, disinfectant, or otherwise.

Cain didn’t care much for mould. Who did, really, except for obnoxious grown-ups who think eating a bacteria-filled piece of cheese made them seem richer to others? There’s probably some scientific reason with a lot of long words that explain why consumers don’t immediately seize up and die, but Cain didn’t much care for those things either. No, he preferred making up own explanations, like why an orphanage praised for its spotlessness and was cleaned twice a week, suddenly sprouted an unexplainable patch of repulsive, revolting, shockingly fuzzy mould.

Technically, the institution was called Box Elder’s Home for Children, with a large, engraved stone plate above the doorframe that read “Haimowitz”. Since the building shared an eponymous relationship with its founder, Tobias Haimowitz, that was the name that every local deemed easier, and maybe less shameful, to utter when referring to the Home.

The name “Haimowitz”, (or just “Haim’s” for the real insiders) became almost synonymous with the word orphanage. Though on paper, it’s listed just a “Home for Children”, it’s no secret who its occupants really are. You might as well slap “Unwanted” right there into the bricks. It would at least save the children the embarrassment during the yearly checkups from the authorities, as words like “parentless”, “abandoned”, or God forbid, “stray”, were used as legal descriptors.

Despite its plethora of windows (intact or otherwise), to its residents, Haimowitz never seemed to illuminate fully. Wherever you turned in whatever room you found yourself in, some section was left in the dark. Whether it be the dusty corner in the Big Kids’ room behind the bookcase where Mary hides her cigarettes, or beside the locked chest in the dining room where nobody ever wants to sit, this orphanage seemed to favour the absence of light rather than the opposite. Think of it as a moth to a flame, except the moth is bad karma and the flame is the burning pile of commonplace that is Cain’s and 39 others’ current residence.

Living at Haim’s was like living in a big game of Operation. The place was just as alive as any of its inhabitants, and arguably just as fragile. One wrong move and the buzzer sounds, effectively killing the patient and losing you the game.

Like the number of floors, there were three options for restrooms when the time calls: the third-floor bathroom (unspeakable), the first-floor bathroom (slightly less despicable), and the second-floor bathroom (could pass a health inspection on a good day). That means that any restroom visits necessary during the night on Cain’s storey left one vulnerable to making the fatal mistake of rousing one of the matrons and incurring her wrath.

Lying in bed staring up at the greying ceiling covered in paint droplets so eloquently nicknamed the “Popcorn Ceiling” by the little kids (the Big Kids were blessed with a not-less-grey concrete ceiling), Cain’s eyes wander to the large windowpane covered in droplets of rain.

There’s not much of a view, but then again, why would there be? Nobody in this town has enough compassion to reward the outliers of society to anything more than a brick wall and a lonely little pine tree. He remembers when the tree first started sprouting, waking up on a rainy day like this one to see a sapling reaching its thin branches between the uneven cobblestones behind Haimowitz. He recalls having a sort of connection to it, instinctively standing close and acting as a barrier between the helpless seedling and ruthless children eagerly waiting to rip out its roots and pluck its needles. The pine tree now stands tall and its wide foliage acts as its own shield, persevering through snow and heat, not to mention blade and fist. To most, this would be a sign of success: it had, through nurture, reached a level of confident independence that a creature needs to survive in the wild, despite its unfortunate birthplace. But to Cain, the sting of the plant no longer needing him morphed into resentment, and he often wound up hoping that Mrs. Freiman would get over her hatred of organized religion and decide the orphanage needed a Christmas tree.

His gaze shifted downwards to the rickety bed he was resting on. To Cain, the wire-framed piece of furniture resembled what would be assigned the soldiers in war with wounds too severe to waste resources on. A gratuitous gift to be rid of its owner in 24 hours and then gain a new one. It has likely, (who was he kidding?) definitely, gone through the hands of several generations of unwanted children. Haimowitz took pride in recycling and once one child got adopted or became of legal age, (it was usually the latter), another was ushered in after a quick wash of the paper-thin sheets and fit into place as if nothing had changed.

This was not just a baseless assumption: this could clearly be proven not just by being a witness to it, but also by the signatures on the beds themselves. Once, around the time he turned eleven, Cain and another boy his age snuck out at dinnertime and inspected each swaying bed in their room and, sure enough, every single one had some written indication that it had previously belonged to someone else. Faded dates in graphite, names in various colours of ink and several phrases, both rude and miserable, carved in with a blade. He suddenly felt guilty. This should make him feel connected to the past, to children who, like him, were doomed to a destitute life in a soulless home. But instead, it further contributed to his melancholy mood. Yet another reminder that he will never escape the cycle. He is the last, oldest cat at the shelter with a broken leg and a missing ear. Nobody will want him just as nobody wanted his predecessors.

There was something different about Cain. Not an exceptional mind, there was nothing particularly appealing about his appearance, he was not especially kind, nor brave or creative. He was born with an insatiable hunger – a hunger that could not be satiated no matter what he tried. It was not until his teeth broke flesh in his mouth that he realised the extent of what he had inside of him. Cain was born waiting; born waiting for that something to fill the empty space so desperate for attention. Tracing along the stitches drawn straight across his tongue so many years ago, not realising this was the start of many incidents involving his ability.

Railings had long been an impossibility, once tested at the age of 4 after learning about proper safety measures, resulting in punishment that involved a screwdriver, and confirmed at the age of 8, when tripping on one’s shoelaces led to a trip to the hospital and a hefty repair fee.

Any game involving a deck of cards proved futile, as dealing just resulted in him having to pick up cards from the gaps in the floorboards, and if a particular game happened to go too far, raised voices were not the only thing that the Haimowitz card players had to worry about.

Though it was much less frequent that Cain had to worry about the latter issue, as it was not often that he was invited to play any kind of game with any of the cliques that had formed over the years. Of course, children came and went, and occasionally one would take a liking to him, but as the time passed and no commitment was made to any attempt at familiarity from the other half of the party, they’d give up, leaving Cain to tend to his mind alone.

That was fine. Of course, it was. He didn’t care. They were all going to get out of there eventually. The time would pass whether he spent it with someone who enjoyed his company or didn’t. Cain just wished it would pass faster. Days bled into each other, and his routine seemed to grow more meaningless by the hour. He did fine in school. He always made his bed. He always faced down when speaking to someone more important than him and said “Yes, Ma’am,” even though he abhorred the notion that age automatically granted you the title of “more human than I”.

He couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to life. Of course, there was his – what should he call it? A need for a name never came up, as this was never a subject spoken about out loud to anyone but his reflection. But part of him, a small part that never showed itself in front of others, instead creeping up on him during the darkest hours of the night, acting as his twisted guardian angel ready to whisper into his ear: a part of him feels that he isn’t reaching his full potential. Why was he born like this, if not for some greater purpose? He’s not a fighter. Is this why he’s stuck here?

Two and a half miles away, grass seeds were sprouting atop the last home of the neighbourhood stray. Disfigured limbs and a mutilated face were not a problem, as nobody would ever see it again. This did not stop Cain lying awake during the night, reliving his naivety before he knew the extent of his abilities. But his guilt would not purify him.

There was always a spectacle made when a new orphan joined their miserable ranks. Some fabricated show of “appreciation”, mostly orchestrated to make headway with the local news.

Cain did not enjoy it, and certainly couldn’t care less if anyone else did. Sacrificing his valuable time for something that happens every other month did not get better the more you experience it.

The especially small ones never stayed for over six months, usually getting snatched away by some narrow-headed family in search of something to glue together their marriage.

Today, a such initiation took place, commencing with the infamous black car followed by a small figure ushered in by the staff. Today’s victim was standing in the entrance before the entirety of Haim’s residents, a considerable distance away from Mrs Freiman. The anxious whispers of the children were shushed, and the girl was given her introduction.

“This, everybody, is Katherine. She’s going to be joining us here at the Home, and I want her welcomed accordingly.”

She was small in stature but proportionate given her age. Long, warm ivory coloured hair woven into thin braids were tied up above her ears, giving the illusion that it was shorter: barely reaching over her shoulders when in reality it should end right by her heart. Her hands were positioned behind her back, but her posture was a far cry from one of respect – rather one of dejectedness, not uncommon given the circumstances of many’s arrival. Her eyes were large, but unfocused, the deep brown – almost black – of her irises getting lost in the glaring state of disorientation that she found herself in.

The silence following this introduction, however, was not as typical. 82 eyes were fixed on this girl, and she wasn’t saying a word. All those prior to her had at least uttered some opening remarks, and even those in the very depths of despair had coughed up some sorrowful version of “hello”. But this one didn’t. Around her neck hung a thick notebook, comparable to the width of the pillars holding up the roof behind her.

The awkwardness was palpable, and, thankfully, the matron noticed.

“Now, be extra kind to Katherine here,” Mrs. Freiman gestured to her, as if she wasn’t the only thing every person in the building was focused on, “as she is struggling with a certain, well…” she paused, searching for the right way to put adequate words that would explain the syndrome while not giving way to uninvited speculations, “…verbal difficulties,” she finally finished.

Breezing past this vague but undeniable clarification, the girl was inaugurated into their ranks with a swift “Run along now!” from one of the matrons.

Unphased by this strange description, Cain continued his day as normal. When he wanted to be alone, he retreated to the small library filled with literature that nobody but him was interested in. Though he could not play cards, he for some reason particularly enjoyed building houses of cards. There was something about the meticulous assembly that required such gentleness, such tender placement that finally resulted in a gorgeous display of queens and kings and jacks, all with their own responsibility.

There was no point in paying attention to the new arrival; she’d find her place.

Thump. A beat. Thump.

The first night, naturally, was atrocious. An unfamiliar environment surrounded by strange children whom you’d never met before in the absence of your parents. Kat swore on her notebook that she’d never forget that first night. Slipping in and out of consciousness as memories of her parents came to her in flashes, both good and bad. How was it that the former was culprit to cold sweats and hypnic jerks while the latter just tore at her heart even more severely than when she’d first received the phone call?

Thump. Louder this time.

The days passed in a blur. Names and instructions and reassurances went in one ear and then out of the other. Meals seemed to prove a surprising difficulty. But nothing compared to the nights. She’d be bed with the others and silently lie waiting for the chatter and the laughter to die down, each breath a reminder of the things she’d lost, the things she could be hearing right now from a different mouth. Nights were when everything slowed down. The very city seemed to stand still, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her terrifying, strangling, excruciating thoughts. Every torturous memory grabbing hold of the joyful ones; infecting them, consuming them.

This was night six. The closest she’d been to achieving a good night’s sleep since it happened.

Bang.

This time, she got out of bed to investigate what was keeping her awake other than her own mind for once. The clock read 03:13. Who else was awake at this hour? She suspected a drunk who’d wandered too far from the bar, but upon reaching the window and pulling back the curtains she discovered the source of the disturbance. It was the boy who she now realised owned the vacant bed two rows over from hers.

Over the days, she occasionally started looking up from her drawings more and more to inspect her new housemates. There was no point in remaining isolated when she realised this wasn’t just a bad dream. Gradually, tall, and stubby and freckly and weird became curious, or smart, or whiny, or, well, weird.

Carefully creeping down the stairs, through the dining hall and finally reaching the back door, she inspected closer what exactly he was doing. The window on the door was placed just high enough for Kat to be able to peer through and quickly duck down out of sight, if necessary.

Clang. The boy was throwing a fit of some kind, jumping up and down and kicking dirt and gravel into the air, raising clouds of dust all around him like a shield made of tiny particles of grey and brown. Occasionally, he swung his fists into the wall and onto something harder, outside of her field of vision, emanating muffled metallic sounds through the door that Kat was hiding behind.

She didn’t need to hear anything for the frustration practically radiating off the person she was observing to hit home. She had never spoken a word to him, yet the scene playing out in front of her seemed like an insight directly into her mind, as if someone had reached into her prefrontal cortex and projected her innermost thoughts onto a stranger; the thoughts she couldn’t bring herself to voice out loud with words, much less to the extent that he was taking it, even though he thought nobody was observing.

The boy didn’t look like he was stopping anytime soon. As the door unclicked from its lock, she creeped up soundlessly behind him, inspecting the damage inflicted on the side of the building.

Seemingly, the metallic sounds came from his fists colliding with a copper drainpipe, as large dents unveiled themselves to her as she rounded the corner. They looked like craters from meteorites rather than something inflicted by a 12-something boy, from the look of him.

“What are you doing here?”

Uh oh. She had forgotten herself. He was panting, hands stilled balled into trembling fists by his sides, bruised and scratched from the bricks on the sides of the building. A drop of blood escaped from one of the deeper gashes, staining the concrete beneath him like a pool of black ink. With one last look at the alarming scene before her, she retreated back inside, discovering that the boy was gone when she looked once more from the window.

The next morning, Cain expected to be left alone much like every other day. He woke up with the others, went downstairs, and sat down for another round of oatmeal for breakfast, because as soon as the temperatures go below 60 degrees, Haim’s decides that they’re going into hibernation and nothing of remote culinary worth is served until the last bud flowers in spring.

But looking up from the grey gelatinous mush that some people call food, he was met with a pair of eyes drilling into his from across the room. Even without the braids suspended above her ears, he would recognise that pair of dark, foggy eyes anywhere. Today, he learned to never forget them, as they – she – followed Cain around anywhere he went. Trailing behind, fully aware of the fact that he knew, as he at certain times shot her an irritated ‘what the hell are you doing?’ look, with seemingly no clear motive. She was like a small shadow; silent and observant and accompanying him with every step he took.

Finally, while everybody else was spending time in the back yard, Cain purposefully climbed up the steps to the one room he knew was empty. Left of the stairs on the third floor, comfortably tucked away between the outer wall and the bathrooms, he lured his pursuer into the book-lined room.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The girl hiding behind the other side of the door slowly creeped forward, revealing herself not unlike she had the night before. No answer came from her lips.

“I’m serious,” Cain continued, crossing his arms across his narrow chest. “This is getting creepy. You can’t just follow me around without saying anything!”

Still, nothing. Her eyes were glued to the uneven floorboards, not moving an inch, but still showing no intention of offering an explanation.

“Whatever. Just knock it off.” He began walking towards the door where she was standing in, in an effort to leave and be done with her, but for the first time, she seemed to be able to show emotion. She extended her hand to his shoulder, indicating for him to stay. Cain paused. She then closed the door, and promptly sat herself down on the floor.

They were alone, apart of course from the collection of literature adorning the yellowish walls. Between shelves, one of the only paintings in Haim’s to Kat that was tolerable to look at: a girl with long brown hair laying in a river surrounded by trees. When she’d first arrived, the matron who she never bothered to learn the name of had shown her around all the rooms, and upon entering this one, mentioned how it had been painted by a famous artist based on an even more famous character from a play – written by an even more famous author. She didn’t particularly care about the specifics, but the actual piece of art was lovely to look at. Inspiration, even. ‘Ophelia.’

Seeing as he had nothing better to do, after a moment, Cain joined her on the ground.

“Katherine, right?” He asked, trying to make some sort of conversation, seeing as that wasn’t her strong suit. Immediately, he was met with frustration. She puffed up her chest, confidently pulling out a dark stick of some sort from her front pocket. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a thin stick of charcoal, black and dusty from being shaken around with what he can only assume were more of the same. His suspicions were confirmed when she began drawing with it on the notepad that she carried around her neck, staining her hands a greyish black while creating sketchy but experienced lines on the thick paper in front of her. Flipping it around, Cain was met with a hastily drawn animal with pointy ears and long whiskers.

“A cat?” He asked.

She shook her head, angrily pointing her finger up towards her face.

“Oh, Kat!” He proclaimed, seemingly more impressed with his connection skills than Kat was. She looked slightly more relaxed, her face now taking on an interrogatory look; ‘now you.’

“Oh. I’m Cain,” An awkward pause fell over them before he remembered how to “properly” introduce himself (according to the matrons), as he did not exactly have the experience compared to other children his age, “uh – nice to meet you.” He extended his hand in a suggestion of peace. Kat did not reach to meet it, instead putting her strip of charcoal back into its rightful position and hovering her hand above her leg in an unsure manner.

“Look, that thing last night –“ He paused again, searching for the right words; unsure how to explain the situation without sounding insane. “Look, sometimes I just get… I get angry.” This was not entirely false, and he did not know why he was suddenly feeling guilty about lying.

Kat’s face gave away none of her thoughts, remaining stonelike in complexion while taking in his words. She nodded slowly, but her eyes had a laser-like focus. She could not exactly relate to his specific tendencies, but she did recognise the yearning, demanding behaviour she witnessed the night before. Something so powerful that words could not adequately express their weight. She recognised it all too well.

She picked up her charcoal once again, sketching up a slightly more articulated sketch this time. She showed to Cain a brutal scene, with a boy and a girl at its centre. Surrounding them were vicious lions with manes like fire, advancing on their prey carrying dismembered limbs in their sharp teeth dripping with blood.

That day, the two oddest children in the Home formed an alliance. A strange one, but comfortable, with mutual understanding evolving over time to acquaintanceship, to companionship, to a friendship filled with solidarity and harmony.

“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking,” Cain broke the comfortable silence between them, glancing up from the page he had been reading and rereading, too occupied in his thoughts to take in any information. After a moment, he continued, “What were your parents like?”

Kat froze. This was not a question she was expecting so soon. Additionally, she was now realising, one she had not properly prepared for, and this made her brain near short-circuit. A war broke out in her mind, the rational side of her questioning whether it was worth revealing this part of her and her heart

At long last, she caved. Picking up her sketchbook once so packed full of memories, she flipped to the very back. All of the pages following the one she was looking at were ripped out, now lying balled up in a trash bag miles away, all the pages up until the ones she’d used since arriving at Haim’s. The last delicate page procured so many years ago, once a symbol of contentment, now too painful to look at. Three stick figures lined up, the shortest in the middle clutching the hands of the two surrounding her, like mighty shields.

She carefully loosened her grip on the page, moving her gaze onto Cain. A beat. Her smoky eyes widen, and she points her finger at him in an accusatory – no – inquisitive manner, with a slight tilt of her head.

His first reaction to her half-question was not that of an answer, but instead an observation. Her nails were painted. That’s right, he’d missed it when she’d arrived. Her small nailbeds were coated in a loud shade of purple, with hints of glitter when pointed at the light. And this was undoubtedly not the work of an amateur: the coating was even and shiny, with no spillage over her fingers nor any cuticles grown astray.

Cain’s face contorted. Wrinkles not yet pronounced with age distorted his image: his complexion, to Katherine, reminiscent of the ferocious dragons guarding cursed princesses in her many storybooks. No fearless knights sprang to her rescue at the sight of the now-standing boy leering over her – but that was probably for the best, she’d never been the biggest fan of them anyway. However, what escaped from his mouth was not skin-scorching fire or blood-bringing claws, but something far more terrifying to this particular girl: words. And not only words – words coated with anger.

“None of your business.” Cain seethed, pushing her manicured hand away and storming towards the creaky door. Slamming it brought down a cloud of dust from above, stirred on by the aged nature of the building causing the walls to quake as if the impact was brought on by the earth itself.

It would have been one thing if her nails were hideous. If she’d snuck into her mother’s makeup drawer in the bathroom and carelessly thrown the polish onto her nails, spilling it onto their perfect tiled floor and walking into Haim’s looking naïve and stupid. But her nails weren’t hideous. They were lovely and delicate and carefully crafted by a loving hand not looking to take anything. It was an apparent selfless act, and sitting on his bed dating back to the eighties with seven different names carved into the bottom, Cain could imagine that little girl looking up at a mother telling her “Don’t move your hands, or you’ll spoil the polish,” and Katherine responding with –

‘Did she talk to her parents?’ He thought, pulled from one speculation, and immediately thrown into a separate one. She must have, he thought, or was this communicative incapacitation a mental one instead of a grief-stricken one, as he had presumed? He made a note to ask her the next time they spoke – or rather, he spoke, and she portrayed – that is, if she still wanted anything to do with him.

He thought back to the books gathering dust on Mrs. Freiman’s bookshelf in her office. Various versions, thick and thin, of adoption and family and heritage made to excite and rouse thoughts in the children of the orphanage. But for Cain they serve as a mockery – ridiculing him, constantly stirring the fire in his heart so undernourished with love, it may as well be a rabbit in the weeks post-Easter. ‘Here is what you could have had; something you will never have. How does it feel?’

He imagined staring into a mirror and recognising the features of one’s predecessors. Having your mother or father or grandmother looking back at you, each of them a component in your complexion and being fully aware of that fact. Being able to retreat to the kitchen and sit with the people having played such an integral role in your existence and thanking them for it with the simple act of thriving in the life they’ve given you. Family is love. But how do you love something that to you, has always been dead?

Before Haimowitz there had been the boys’ home, and before that, Louisiana, and the long, slow trip across the country, and before that there was the motel rooms, and the long, lonely fields of soybeans and hours spent in cold, soulless state lodging. And before that? A father and a mother, presumably. Or, more rationally, a man and a woman. A man and a woman who couldn’t bear the consequences of their misjudgement.

Most of his former life (‘“life” – that’s a laugh. Can something you don’t have any memory of even constitute as a life?’) had only been recounted to him through names signed on documents hidden away, only meant for the eyes of Haim’s staff. When he finally mustered up the courage to oppose the only authority in his life, he’d gone in guarded, prepared to face his past and whatever emotional burdens it may bring with it; prepared to be furious, to finally have an idea of where his anger and, more importantly, his problems could be traced back to. But what he found was not an answer – in fact, not even close.

Five words, one line. Mother: preferred to remain anonymous.

This meant that not only had his family willingly given him up, but they made the conscious decision to leave him with absolutely nothing regarding his past, his history, his birthday. That was a year ago now.

Eventually, Kat questioned what happened the night that the two first met. Weeks spent in the library, conversing and enjoying each other’s company, gave her the confidence to finally question the scene that so frequently popped up in her mind.

“I can make mistakes. Big ones. It’s like this – evil that comes to me in waves. I look in the mirror and I don’t recognise myself.” He admitted, fruitlessly fidgeting with his bitten-down nails.

“This body’s not for me. I want to be fragile; I want to be soft, but I just… can’t. Anytime I feel something, there’s this anger bubbling up inside of me like lava. And I can’t keep myself from exploding.” She had never seen anyone look so dejected, so fed up with life than when Cain uttered these hopeless words. Not since she’d last looked at herself in the mirror.

“I lied,” Cain whispered, studying the grains of black dirt wedged between the cracked and frayed floorboards, “the problem is that I do recognise myself.”

Kat eventually grew tired of trying to get him to look at her, so she resorted to the method that works best. Combined strokes of charcoal eventually came together, cultivating in what appeared to be an animal of some sort. The animal that she intended to draw was proud – virtuous, even – but the desired effect did not accurately translate through mediums.

A dog was what she had showed him, friendly and cheerfully frolicking in her fabricated void. But what Cain saw was much less forgiving. He instead interpreted it as their ancestor, falling into silence upon seeing what he thought was going to become of him.

Cain would never realise the way that Kat suffered, the way her feelings have hands and nails and scratch open her throat as if it’s the coffin they are being buried in. They were born of the same design, carved from the same sharp, unforgiving knife.

“One day, I’m going to grow wings.”

Kat looked up from her most recent conquest of literature, most likely swiped from the office when nobody was looking, seeing as the book was thicker than her head. Confusion fell over her face, but with furrowed eyebrows quickly morphed into scepticism. Undeterred, Cain continued.

“I’m serious. One day, I’m going to grow wings and get out of this place.” His genuine tone threw her off, not having a chance to shine through very often.

“Everybody here is just – just sitting on the sidewalk, wasting away!” He stood up, pacing in fast steps and throwing up his hands as he talked, gesturing to nothing and everything at the same time.

“I want to do something. Something with – with this.” What felt like an eternity was spent looking at his own hands, scabs now faded into purplish-red patches on his knuckles.

“I’m getting out of here. Start from the top.” Cain looked up, a million thoughts racing through his head, almost flashing before the eyes that Kat was studying.

“A re-do.” This was not going to end well. But there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Another minute was spent in gut-wrenching silence, with Kat praying that he would not say the words that she knew were resting right on his tongue, waiting to spring free with the force of a bullet.

“Will you come with me?” There it was. Those five words that she was dreading, and even worse, did not know what to do with. Would this be her ticket out of here, away from the memories that rested in the back of her mind, grabbing hold of her every moment they could?

“Into the lion’s den, right?” He bent down and reached over for her hand, taking it in his and squeezing reassuringly.

She wanted to say something. So, so desperately. But instead, she swallowed her words, dooming them to forever lay dormant in her mouth. And there they would remain, gathering dust, rotting. She nodded, giving him an empty smile.

The night was thicker than a smoky fume, the silence creeping into the lungs of the city and slowly polluting it, brachia by brachia. The two silhouettes climbing out of the second storey window, supplied with bags of enough food to last them three months, had picked the perfect night to make their escape. The usual chill that October brings was very much present, dropping degrees by the second as the last rays of sunlight folded themselves over the rooftops and made way for the soft glow of the early moon.

The tranquillity of the children walking side by side gained layers of tension as the canopy of the impending forest brought with it the odour of moss and its blanket of limitless, inescapable darkness. Crude city planning made the border between woodland and urbanity a nearly seamless edge, like an overgrown fairy ring. Without uttering a word, Cain looked over in Kat’s direction, taking one last glance at the short skyline contrasting with the light of the moon, and took the first step into his new life. And then another. And then another. He only heard Kat following him after a quarter minute of indecisiveness; he couldn’t bring himself to look back to confirm.

They continued deeper and deeper into the forest, until the notion of “going back” was interchangeable with pressing on, as the distance being left behind grew larger with every damp step they took. The tall grass reaching up to right below their knees was foreign, a stark contrast to the buzzed blades found behind Haim’s. As the night pressed on, Kat would sometimes forget they were outside, mistaking the darkness around her for the calmness of sleep, and be jolted awake by the idea that the grass brushing against her legs were furious snakes, coming to punish her for leaving behind her new , (old?) life.

Finally, they both decided to retire for the night, Cain constituting that they would not have enough energy to continue in the morning, and Kat sleepily agreeing. They piled on clothing to convince their bodies that the chill spreading from the tips of their fingers was being kept at bay and huddled up close to one another at the edge of a particularly large tree.

The children did not rise until the sun was resting a comfortable distance above the highest tree. Breakfast consisted of stale oats and a glass of water, with a healthy dose of silence. This was not unusual for half of the party, but Cain did not feel that carrying on a conversation was of utmost priority.

Kat had finished her portion long ago and had been engaged for the last fifteen minutes in a particularly detailed drawing. Then again, knowing Kat, it could just be the subject of an engrossing thought, trying to pry itself from her psyche onto a legible image that could be interpreted and understood. After a slightly anxious pause between the abrupt stop of the scratching on paper and Kat inspecting her diligent work, she finally flipped around her canvas.

The scene unfolded on the page, scratched with shades of ink black, grey and everything in between. In the centre was something he’d never seen her draw before. Or, rather, two people. She had sketched the two of them walking through a gorgeous forest, bushy, and flowering – a great difference to the bitter effects of autumn they’d traversed during the day. But they themselves were not normal either – they were unusually large, towering above the treetops on the page, almost being able to touch the birds flying beside their heads. Great footsteps had been left in their midst, and even greater smiles adorned their faces, an imaginary laugh suspended in the air. Kat placed the illustration on the ground, putting on a slightly less wide smile while looking up at her companion.

“You’re right.” Cain admitted. “We can do this.”

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of be-e-e-er!” Kat jolted, turning her head to find the origin of the singing before realising there was only one logical answer. Beside her was Cain, head thrown up in uncaring confidence trying to reach higher notes but falling flat. He did not seem to mind, extending his steps further in a zig-zag pattern to the rhythm of his high but wavering lyrics.

“Take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall. “

Carrying on with the next verse, he took her hand, pulling her into his dance between stubs and boulders, and for a moment, they were a king and a queen dancing a waltz between statues and fountains.

Their days were spent wandering, loosely following the map swiped from the office, but mostly following their intuition. Days were marked by the smell of thick smoke from fires, latching on to their clothes and creeping into the crevices of their faces. The forest was never quiet, constantly chirping with life and swaying with the force of the wind. Even when the dark engulfed them from head to toe, there was a whispering cacophony of tiny footsteps, rustling leaves, creaking branches.

Sometimes, Kat would wake up from dreams full of screeching tires and fires. But every time tears would escape her eyes, convulsing with terror and panic, he would be there to embrace her, whispering comforting words. Words that would almost make her forget those mornings where she would find broken branches, ripped clothes, rodents lying lifeless in a pool of scarlet ink. Almost.

It was a dull domestication, free from pressure to pursue. Making it up as they go along. Walking under swallows in the windless glades, their purgatory transformed into paradise. Floating atop the clouds, dancing side by side.

One day, as they were passing a small lake, Kat pulled her companion from his dead-set trail to inspect it closer.

Shedding her jacket, gloves, and shoes, she motioned at him to do the same.

The ink-like water consumed them like sugar cubes in a coffee cup. Beneath the surface, they were suspended in space, astronauts in search of a new land, the sun mimicking itself in rays illuminating their naked faces. The frigidness of the water scrubbed their skin raw, but they couldn’t care less.

“We’re so tiny. In the grand scheme of things, I mean.” They had eventually been forced by their humanity to crawl back onto land. Cain looked down and pulled out the roots of a late orchid, “I mean, we might as well be birds or worms or rocks. It doesn’t really matter, right?”

Kat pulled out her notepad, swiftly dragging strokes of dark charcoal into various swooping motions and showing off her work with a shy smile. It was an image of two lumpy rocks, both endowed with wide smiles and small eyes.

“It’s you and me!” Cain exclaimed, showering the sparse grass on the ground around them with droplets of water as he jolted with laughter. Kat could not help but join, careful to shield her page from the onslaught of shiny beads falling from their soaking hair and clothes as they collapsed onto the hard ground, giggling until their sides were aching.

The night before they arrived, two days after crossing the Nevada border, Cain whispered to Kat when they were trying to fall asleep. This had been one of the most challenging days, with Cain forcing her to press on despite the onslaught of fatigue spreading from her head to her feet, resulting in bloodied heels and tingling soles.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Long after his breaths had slowed into a steady rhythm, Kat remained awake. She listened to the sound of him blinking, the sound of his heart beating, desperately trying to cling onto the bliss of the last sixteen days.

The next morning, for once, Cain had risen before her. He had already arranged a fire (albeit a crude one) of thin twigs and very little moss, though this was not entirely his fault; the last of the dried leaves were quickly being picked clean by the wildlife in preparation for a hard winter. Kat sat up, grateful that she had fallen asleep facing away from her companion, making it easier for her to cover up the droplets of stained cloth near the head of her thin sleeping bag.

Cain beamed at the sight of her awake, obviously having waited for a long while by the look of his tense muscles and contracted arms to his sides.

“Hey!” Obviously anxious for an excuse to get up, he approached her, raving about his excitement for the upcoming day under the disguise of inquiries. ‘Are you excited?’, ‘Are you ready to start our new life?’, ‘Are you ready to go?’

In Kat’s ears, it was all radio static. She took a breath, anxiously gasping at the crisp air entering her lungs like razor-sharp blades. Slowly, she shook her head.

“What?”

She repeated this action, chewing at her cheeks until her mouth was filled with the tangy taste of iron.

Eventually, unwilling hesitation turned to understanding, and then morphed into anger. An unforgiving, unobstructed anger.

He was no dragon, but she feared his fire. Each step toward Kat grew with animosity, threatening to unleash what she’d pretended not to witness. It was as if the eggshells she had been walking on had transformed before her into burning coals, searing her feet and, by extension, her heart.

“We’re just going to call it off? After– after everything?” A sudden anguish crept into his words, growing in intensity and volume. Cain’s eyes were fixed on Kat’s, glazed and wide and begging.

“I can’t do this alone.” Now standing still, looking small next to the mighty forest surrounding the two children. He’s placing his cards all faced up on the table. And Kat is saying nothing. A moment of silence followed, before not uncommon, but now immensely uneasy. The minute was like a rubber band, stretched extraordinarily beyond what it was meant to, now in the precarious state of limbo right before it snaps.

He was a tornado, pulling her into his destruction. He took a brick from the freezing ground. It cracked in half under his grip, sprinkling the forest floor with copper crumbs. Not long after, those same pieces would get several shades darker, flowing like sailboats into a fresh, thick lake.

She tried to reason. But the truth is that the wind who seeks to blow out a fire may also cause it to spread.

Still as a stone, her body lay protected by the mountainous boulders that witnessed the crime never spoken aloud. She laid still, forever protected by the same material that once protected her words.

As the crackling leaves grew from lime-colored watercolor stains atop a brick-dented trunk to a thin patchwork carpet along the trees' roots, ribbons grew from chartreuse to gray to brown.

Whistling winds mocked the figure kneeling by her head, a long-forgotten face flinching at whispered words seemingly escaping from a forever closed mouth. The footprints leading up to the faux-buried shape belonged to a pair of sole-less boots swiped from a camping ground's scarlet-stained bag, along with a measle portion of canned figs and gloves knitted in a now empty home.

The preteen eagerly entering the woods seemed light-years away from the one digging away at rodents' innards for nourishment, desperately carving wood with more wood for a chance at a flicker for warmth.

The only remnant was the sketchbook, at first untouched in fear of cosmic retribution, but later relentlessly studied, scrutinized in a way that would leave the best researchers in shock.

The agreement made under moldy roofs remained kept, eternally unspoken by one half, though forever living on through the other.

Haimowitz was forced into closing following the scandal surrounding Katherine Damaris’ disappearance. ‘What kind of careless orphanage loses a child taken in just two months prior?’

The corpse was never discovered in the 26 years the mysterious case remained open, but then again, no public was aware of the third party responsible for not only the pigtailed statue located in Box Elder's town square, but also a puzzling (and extensive) unsolved list of disappearances in the east Washington area.

Time for a Black Cat Review!!

MEOW! Hello, friend! My name is Ellie and today I will be reviewing using my very own Black Cat Review Method! It is very similar to the incredible YWS S'more Method but I have Halloween-ified it and made it spooky! My little black cat friend, Vladimir, wants to offer his opinion on your amazing literary piece:

Mystical Witch Hat - What I See, Observe, and Interpret

suddenly sprouted an unexplainable patch of repulsive, revolting, shockingly fuzzy mould.

Thump. A beat. Thump.

“What the hell are you doing?”

No, he preferred making up own explanations, like why an orphanage praised for its spotlessness and was cleaned twice a week,

e name “Haimowitz”, (or just “Haim’s” for the real insiders) became almost synonymous with the word orphanage. Though on paper, it’s listed just a “Home for Children”, it’s no secret who its occupants really are. You might as well slap “Unwanted” right there into the bricks. It would at least save the children the embarrassment during the yearly checkups from the authorities, as words like “parentless”, “abandoned”, or God forbid, “stray”, were used as legal descriptors.

CodeSelect all

[i]put text here[/i]

Whether it be the dusty corner in the Big Kids’ room behind the bookcase where Mary hides her cigarettes, or beside the locked chest in the dining room where nobody ever wants to sit, this orphanage seemed to favour the absence of light rather than the opposite.

She didn’t particularly care about the specifics, but the actual piece of art was lovely to look at. Inspiration, even. ‘Ophelia.’

There was something different about Cain. Not an exceptional mind, there was nothing particularly appealing about his appearance, he was not especially kind, nor brave or creative. He was born with an insatiable hunger – a hunger that could not be satiated no matter what he tried. It was not until his teeth broke flesh in his mouth that he realised the extent of what he had inside of him. Cain was born waiting; born waiting for that something to fill the empty space so desperate for attention.

I hope you have a spook-tastical day, filled with black cat mischief!

disclaimer i know a bunch of these r song lyrics im unoriginal so dont judge me mwah