Chapter Seventeen: The Gift of a Chelsea Bun

One minute I'm soaking wet from falling from a cliff and down a waterfall,  the next I'm in a murky street. Go figure.

Snow is covering my worn leather boots. I'm wearing that old second-hand coat that's several sizes too big for me, but was always the most comfortable item of clothing I owned. My hair is frizzing, running down over my front, and my breath comes out before me in sizable wisps of white air. All of this I take in within those first few seconds, thinking, 'What happened before I was here?'

My nose is bright red. I can tell as I screw up my face, pondering what I was doing in this side of town. Whichever side this is, of course. The dull grey flats are no indicator; I could be anywhere in the poor backstreets of Minoa. A crackling lamp flickers on, blurry in the snowfall, signalling night's approach.

I feel the need to hurry, so I start to move, snow crunching underfoot. The grey street doesn't seem to end, with each building having the same boarded-up entrance and empty look in the windows. There's only a light in the distance, the alley carries on for so long.

I keep walking towards it. The cold of the snowflakes on my cheeks is sharp, like a kiss, and I speed up, hoping to warm up.

I nearly stumble over a figure in the road.

Blinking, it's not hard to see why I missed that there's a person by my feet. They're huddled in grey blankets that camouflage against the grey stone slabs of the buildings, and blend nicely with the sleet along the grey stone floor. Only the tiny stream of smoke exhaling from their mouths signals that there's a real, live person here, and not a boulder. A city boulder, that is.

That probably doesn't exist, a logical voice in my head says.

Damn that voice.

The rags move, and a pair of eyes stare out at me, large and brown. 'Will y' share y' food with me, miss?' the voice behind the rags mumbles.

My automatic response is to say that I don't have any, when I notice that the pockets of my coat are full.

I frown; when did this coat have pockets? Sliding my hand into the left one, it's filled with soft, sticky--

Bread! I yelp inwardly, my fingers pulling out a perfectly currant filled bun.

Just the one.

I'm not hungry, but aren't Chelsea buns my favourite?

They're delicious. That sleek brown top, seductive icing...my fingers ache to bring it to my mouth. Twitching, I feel them pulling the bun upwards, until I can smell that freshly baked bread smell.

But you're not hungry, logic tells me. Why are you eating?

Particularly when this person has no food.

Scowling, I pull the Chelsea bun away before I can change my mind and toss it to the homeless person. 'Here, have this. They're my favourite. Eat it before I do.'

The rags scoop up the offering gratefully, and I sigh at my conscience. Seeing the Chelsea bun disappear beneath the folds of the person's hood makes me feel better about my choice, although I can almost taste that lovely sweet pang of the bun.

Turning, I notice that instead of endless houses, the road end greets me in front.

Great, I think, Time to find some civilization--

Ahead I find my school, and I scream inwardly. That's not what I meant by civilization.

With nowhere else to go but forwards, I walk with a heavy step up towards my school. Old school, I remind myself.

The building is ancient, made of a mix of stone and wood to keep the costs low, and sits in a single square block with the Minoan flag upon it, as if to show some willing patriotism. It just makes it look sad, as if there wasn't any other decor the architect could think of. The single wooden door reveals only one classroom, a jumble of an education system. Inside, rows of broken stools and slabs of wood for desks are the only indication that this is a place of learning. That and the two dozen kids crammed into the room, all of different ages.

These children of poverty are of many colours and families, but they have one thing in common: none can afford the better schools' education, further up town. In fact, these kids are lucky; they've not been taken out of education yet in order to work a meager wage to support their parents.

One lone teacher fights to maintain the children's attention-- Miss Jenna, and she's failing. Hearing my footsteps, she turns eagerly at approaching help, but her face falls when she sees me.

'Nerissa,' she says, 'I'm sorry, but you're already here.'

The woman points to the back of the classroom, where a girl sits with a worn notepad, a book in one hand and playing hangman on the other with the boy next to her.

My mouth drops open. Not only is the girl my double-- brown hair, brown eyes, and irritated resting facial expression-- but the boy next to her is my twin, Nate, grown up.

Something bursts in my chest.

Nate's sitting there, laughing with me, as if this is the most normal day in the world. When he grins at a joke I whisper, dimples appear on his cheeks. I notice several of the other students giving him admiring glances, and he runs a hand through the brown curls on his head.

I want that, I realise. I want to be normal and grow up with my twin, finish my schooling, have a life. Why don't I have that?

The ache in my heart reminds me that it could never be, and an odd bitterness wells in my stomach.

Why do I not have my sibling?

The groups of children are in pairs, I notice, and they whisper together, heads close. Yet another flurry of jealousy enters my gut-- I had nobody. Not one single, living person.

I turn away, unable to bear the sight any longer, when I run into a familiar looking woman.

That dirty blonde bob, that face with the worry lines; this woman is my mother.

I stand taller than her, and I look down upon her literally and figuratively.

Mother opens her mouth in surprise, but seeing me leaving, says, 'You shouldn't skip school Nerissa.'

I glare. 'And what would you care about my education?'

Mother's face crumples. 'I still care about you, Ness.'

Her words make me flinch away, batting the hand away that stretched towards my arm. 'Don't you dare call me that!'

I can't look at her in the eye; her bottom lip quivers and she tucks her hands into her chest, as if afraid. I've never seen my mother look so weak before, but I don't believe her. I'm fed up of believing in her.

'I'm trying to reconnect with you,' Mother murmurs, pulling at strands of her greying her in distraction. 'Don't you want that, to be mother and daughter again?'

She takes a step closer, trying to catch my eye. Trying to plead.

Like I pleaded that day she left.

I step around her, casting her off, and shutting out any forgiveness I might have had. In an instant, I feel nothing but fury at this woman and her so-called love, and I shake my head at it.

I walk away, but it's really not my day today. The path curves, and I'm by my house, although there's someone outside.

The ginger from the ball the other night. Not only that, but she's wearing the most lavish outfit considering she's in the poor district of Minoa, away from anybody that would sell half decent fashion and certainly a world away from anyone who cared.

Well, isn't that great.

When she turns and sees me, she grins in a devilish manner. Perhaps she is the devil-- she's certainly red enough. Her outfit isn't quite right, though-- a peacock blue cocktail dress and dainty white heels-- and neither does she have horns or a tail.

'Do you live here?' she asks.

'Why?'

'It's a hovel, isn't it.'

Her words hit me like a knife to the chest. Yes, it is a hovel, but only I can say that. To hear it from someone else's mouth...

'I can give you riches, though,' Ginger says, showing me the glittering bracelets on her arms. Each jewel could probably buy my house several times over. She then points toward her breast, where a pendant of shimmering green glistens in contrast to the run-down hut behind. 'You deserve better than this. The King can give you anything you want-- books, clothing, fine jewels, a new pair of shoes every day so that you can walk a new path with each sunrise.'

It's not appealing in the slightest, and I stare at her in puzzlement. 'Books I can understand, but why do I need fine jewels? My clothing is adequate, although...'

I remember the disgustingly frilly clothes in a wardrobe, somewhere. Where?

'In fact, my clothes could be even simpler than they are now...'

Less frills. More weapon.

Could I ask for weapons? That would be something I wanted. But by the time I'd looked up, Ginger had already gone.

That's odd.

---

EIGHTEEN TO COME SOON. IT'S WRITTEN, I JUST DECIDED TO SPLIT IT UP.

Cos I'm nice.

Plus didn't want to bombard you with a 3000 word chapter.

What do you think is going on? How is Nerissa doing?

Larissa

xxx