Kiri Lee The Cure

…Sola lifted her head when she heard a rustling sound in the distance. Instinctively, she froze, still clutching the object she had found between her fingers. She decided that the sound she had heard was caused either by a gust of wind or a fallen branch. But that assumption immediately vanished as soon as a muffled whisper began to come from the northern side of the forest. At once, what was happening began to seem more like reality rather than the play of an agitated imagination, stirred by the recent attack.

“He…” — a comprehensible sound was heard among the unclear murmuring and humming, which sounded very much like a human voice.

Sola looked toward the place where the source of the faint voice could potentially be. To her, it seemed as though someone was trying to call out for rescue. It seemed that someone, like her, had wandered in there and found something that was the reason this place had been closed off.

And the girl… ran in the opposite direction.

“Screw that!”

Cursing under her breath and jumping over obstacles in her path, Sola instantly went around the fence and now ran toward the road visible in the distance.

"Lord, bless this food. Amen.”

Gabriella Santana pressed her palms together, bringing them against her sweaty forehead. As the owner of this house, the elderly woman sat in the middle of the dining table, which was so long it occupied almost the entire room. Sola sat at the side, in the last chair closest to the door. Today, for the first time in many years, she took part in a prayer before a meal. Awkwardly copying her grandmother’s movements, she hoped she would survive the morning feast.

The table was set decently — different sauces were served with the fresh pancakes and burnt toast. The recently laid tablecloth was covered in stains, and the plates placed on it were streaked with dirty marks. For herself, the old woman had prepared instant porridge, throwing pieces of butter into it. Sola did not share the woman’s appetite as she chewed through her breakfast. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and lowered her gaze.

"Sweetpie, is something wrong?”

Gabriella stopped eating, watching the other person’s empty plate with a stern, almost supervisory gaze. Sola tried to explain herself using the first thing that came to mind:

“I ate food on the way here.”

She was saved from any further questions by her sibling entering the dining room. Arameo crossed the room with a lazy stride, looking at the food on the table as if it were scraps from a trash bin. Snorting, he glanced at the old woman with a smug expression.

“I found a couple of dead rats in the attic. I’m not going to sleep in this pigsty. I’m leaving tomorrow.” — And casually throwing in one more remark, he added: “And I won’t touch this food. Even if you turn out to be a maniac and force me to.”

With his chin raised, he turned around to leave the room. After thinking for a moment, Sola followed her brother’s example and also said what was on her head:

“By the way, whose limbs are lying in the kitchen cabinet?”

Arameo stopped without reaching the end of the room. Turning toward his sister first, he realized that she was serious. The two of them watched Grandma’s reaction, but not a single muscle on her face moved. However, something had changed — not in her, but rather in the atmosphere. The shadow that briefly fell across her wrinkled face made it look harsher than before. In one hand, she gripped a fork, while in the other, a knife trembled, its blade flashing in the direction of the four curious eyes.

“So, what was it you said last?” – Sola was teasing.

Arameo silently dropped into the place assigned to him, shoving his former arrogance deeper down his throat. His sister remained silent as well.

It was unclear whether it was the unknown that frightened them, or the same knife with which the old woman was now spreading tomato paste across the soft inside of the bread.

“Rodrigo, boy, you didn’t wash your hands.” — she said with her mouth full.

Shooting a sharp glance from beneath his scattered locks, Arameo slipped out of the kitchen in an one moment. After looking over the offered food for the second time, Sola decided that it would be better to die here from an upset stomach than from the rabies passed on to her by the stray dog. And dipping one of the toasts into the sweet sauce, she caught herself thinking that it was actually edible after all.

Seeing that her efforts had finally been touched, Gabriella melted into a kind smile.

“Eat, sweetheart”

When she spoke with her granddaughter, the tension in her voice that had slipped into the conversation with Arameo disappeared.

“Abuela, are there rats in my room? I’ll put them in our little princess’ room at night.”

Mrs. Santana waved her hand.

“I’ll turn him into a man myself this year. He’ll learn how to be rude to such a sweet girl like me.” — Gabriella winked, having lost the harshness that had belonged to her just a few seconds earlier. The changes in this woman moved as quickly as the winds on the cliffs.

Sola decided to keep silent about the dog’s attack so as not to worry her grandmother. Besides, Sola was used to keeping such situations to herself.

“Oh, right.” A strange smirk flashed across the woman’s face as she leaned closer.

“Abu made taxidermy pieces to order. They’re in the closet, his unfinished work.”

Now the secret had been revealed. That didn’t make her like this place—or this house—any more than before. And although Sola still had a mountain of questions, she decided to stay on this topic.

“Why don’t you throw them away?”

“That old bastard… may he rest in peace… was quite the cheapskate. I know how much money he made from those taxidermy pieces, but he never gave me a single penny. I keep thinking, they’ll come in handy someday. A woman has to live off something, after all.”

Sola remembered little about her grandparents’ relationship.

“He didn’t leave me a single dime even after his death. And died in the stupidest way. Got drunk and choked on a chicken bone.”

“But I thought he died of a heart attack?”

The woman smiled sadly.

“That’s the version for our relatives and neighbors. No one took your grandfather seriously anyway, and if they found out he died while trying to shove a huge bone into himself on a dare, they would have laughed at him. Around here, everyone knows everything. Everyone is always talking about everyone else.”

“And how do you make a living?”

Gabriella Santana didn’t have time to answer — a terrifying scream coming from the hallway.

There was no need to ask what had happened, because it was immediately followed by:

“Holy shit! Is this some kind of rat graveyard?!”

When twilight had already begun to thicken across the sky, Sola settled into her new room. Her only entertainment became unpacking her travel bag while listening to music of different genres. Every evening was brightened by a player turned on with songs of different moods, which she chose solely by how they sounded. The main part of her luggage consisted of a couple of sets of clothes packed carelessly. Most of the girl’s wardrobe consisted of basketball shirts with numbers on them and loose jeans, with the only difference being the color palette. She dressed in the same kind of clothes, so she did not spend much time putting her things away on the shelves.

She had ruined her only crop top long ago when she climbed over a fence while running away from the street thugs, as they called, Turro. That day, she had been playing ball with the neighborhood boys — they came from poor districts. Kids like them had surrounded her throughout her entire life. To the little girls, Sola seemed like a local idol, while with the boys she ran with them around the yard on weekends.

Those who got lost and accidentally wandered into their neighborhood saw these children as dangerous ones who would attack innocent people. To Sola, however, these curly-haired little kids, with brains the size of an apple, were just ordinary children. Although some of them really had been forced to steal at a young age.

A couple of years ago, a few of them followed a girl, who was walking around selling oranges in the afternoon. She was doing it without a municipal permit and far away from her home, so she did not want any unnecessary company. However, the boldest ones still followed her despite all the warnings, and later ran into obvious trouble.

One of the little boys tried to snatch a protruding bill from the pocket of a bystander. After that, all of them got dragged into it: Sola had to run through several alleyways because she was being chased by an entire group of men. While running away, she regretted not the fate of her little minions, but the abandoned oranges.

But the most embarrassing part for her was receiving a scolding from her mother, who had bought that top for her daughter with her last money.

Throwing all of her unpacked luggage onto the dresser, Sola lay down on the bed. Her legs were still hurts from the recent run, reminding her of the situation that had happened many years ago. But at the same time, the difference was still great.

Here, in America, everything was unfamiliar and new to her. Starting from sensations and ending with her surroundings. Usually, in the mornings, she was greeted by the scorching sun and children’s laughter coming from the yard. But never by thick clouds hanging over gloomy townspeople all day long; or the smell of pine needles unpleasantly striking her nose. The unbearable humidity here dominated at night, but, as if on purpose, there was not a single fan to be found in the house. Sinking into the bed, Sola boredly ran her fingers through her wired earphones.

And the sudden spark of inspiration in the form of a spontaneous idea managed to stir her. Moving her bag aside and feeling a leather spine inside the inner compartment, she pulled out an empty notebook from it. Placing it on her knees, Sola picked up a pen as well.

To keep herself from completely losing her mind, she decided she would at least make easy daily notes, though she refused to consider it keeping a diary. Her fingers tightened around the pen, guiding it across the soft surface of the page and leaving behind the first strokes of ink…

“August fifteenth. 2010.”

Here, she hesitated, wondering whether it had been right to begin with today’s date.

“I arrived in Boundville.

It sucks.”

Stopping, she realized that she had no idea what to write about. In Sola’s opinion, it was either because of her limited vocabulary or the remarkable lack of events worth writing down. But obviously, Mrs. Sanchez’s suggestion is ridiculous – Sola could never find the right words.

Throwing all the supplies aside, she returned to her previous position, only to remember something else. Digging through the pocket of her sweater, she placed her two newfound treasures onto the mattress: the camera and the claw. The first object became the center of her attention, since it surely belonged to someone. But in the best-case scenario, Sola could sell her find for a good price. In that, she and her grandmother turned out to be kindred spirits

– in their search for financial gain.

“How am I supposed to fix you…”

She muttered under her breath, turning the brand-new model over in her hands. And she knew nothing about such things, and there was no one she could ask to help her turn the camera on.

For now, however, all she wanted was to get rid of the headache that had started after a sleepless night on the road, accompanied by her brother’s mockery. Whenever the young girl realized that she had to live through all of this until next summer, she felt even worse. And on top of that, an entire year was supposed to pass without any incidents. Easy enough in a place like this.

She was not even going to try to adapt, since she was only here for a limited time.

Sola was not worried about a lack of company—she was a stranger to attachments. And tomorrow, her first day at her new school, would finally determine her place here.

With a sigh, the girl got up to turn off the light before returning to the inviting pillow. She first walked over to the mirror to tuck away the unruly strands of her hair. Naturally curly, she persistently straightened it because straight hair required less care. Her olive skin had never been touched by makeup, only by a pair of tweezers that had shaped her thick eyebrows. Looking more closely into the mirror, Sola noticed the bags beneath her eyes, formed by prolonged lack of sleep. The eyes her mother had always called “expressive” looked dull and exhausted.

Stepping away from the mirror, the girl headed toward the light switch, noting that it would not hurt to open the window for some fresh air. A plaid curtain tightly covered the bedroom’s only window, which was also shut with shutters. Pulling them aside, Sola cracked the window open, finally letting more air inside. She was just about to return to bed when she froze in place.

The view from her room overlooked the forest, which grew denser at night beneath the dark haze. There was something mesmerizing about it, something that intoxicated the gaze. But the chill that ran down her spine was not caused by the astonishing beauty of the flora and fauna. It was caused by the figure hiding among the shadows of the trees. A pair of dots, resembling eyeballs, fixed themselves on the girl before disappearing into the darkness.

The mirror she had just been looking into suddenly fell to the floor, shattering into countless small pieces.