《Love Lies Bleeding》


 i.

    The Alstro residence sits in solitude by the sea, overseer of all that the waves take and diminish. Swaying to and fro the shoreline, glistening by the glare of Florida¡¯s sun. A stale, salty scent comes to sting at your nose as a breeze passes on and through. The distant resonance of wavering waves floods the space of your ear, just as the sparkle of sea stuns your eyes.


    You can¡¯t bring yourself to tear away.


    Against the beautiful backdrop of the beach, the home itself isn¡¯t as astonishing except within its exaggerated size and ten too many windows to marvel at the outside. A simple modern home resting peacefully at the foot of a surface, as if it were in solace at the end of the earth. For something so striking yet peculiar and peaceful¡ªit seems impossible that it could exist.


    Your hand itches to undo the belt of your bag, to retrieve your camera and capture the momentous sight that lays bare before you. Temptation is terrible; you almost give in, too, and lose yourself in its wonder, but somehow find the will to tear away and start slowly towards the door. The hairs along your arms prick against the fabric of your shirt with each nearing step.


    Nervous, yes, and perhaps a bit scared too. You aren''t quite sure what to expect. The Alstros are, from what scarce information there is online, a formidable few¡ªa baseless assumption due to the obscurity of the family¡¯s proceedings. The head of the family, Larks Alstro, is said to be a reserved and imposing figure, who is quite accomplished with the generational success of the CroCus Shipping Co.


    There wasn¡¯t much else to look into besides that. The obscurity of the whole situation is unsettling, to say the least, but it can¡¯t be helped. It¡¯s the best opportunity there is for a stable paycheck, considering how light the labor is, so you try not to ponder and make haste of what little steps remain. Although, a ring to the bell doesn¡¯t do very much in scouring away anticipating assumptions.


    As you stand before the colossal door, your heart pounds in your ear with each suspected step taken towards it. The thumps through your chest nearly fall in sync with every passing second until the door is finally pulled open. The elegant frame of a woman steps from behind, her slender hands folding graciously at the waist as her head dips in a welcoming nod.


    ¡°Right on time. How punctual!¡±


    A chignon of blonde-white hair and a pair of sparkling green eyes greet you gleefully. Her countenance almost conceals the few wrinkles creasing her skin as if she were much younger. Ms. Ann Thurium took great amusement when giving you a guess at her age during your initial meeting. You hadn¡¯t suspected her to be anywhere over forty, and yet here she is, nearing the prime of senescence.


    She beckons you inside with the fluid motion of her hand. ¡°Oh, Lottie¡­ It¡¯s wonderful to see you again!¡±


    A faint flush sweeps across your cheeks, just as a small smile takes to your lips. ¡°I could say the same for you, Ms. Thurium. I hope you¡¯ve been well.¡±


    ¡°Please, drop the formalities. I told you, just ¡®Ann¡¯ is fine!¡±


    She nudges you playfully as you step inside, giggling as if she were a blooming maiden. Ms. Ann Thurium had proven herself to be quite the character. You met in a public library just last week; you had been scanning the shelves for a particular textbook and just when you had found it, her hand brushed up against yours.


    It would have been a cliche if she were much younger, where the possibility of romance wouldn¡¯t have fallen too far out the window (in complete disregard for her age, she had a peculiar beauty you could only attribute to nobility). She introduced herself as a former English professor who wanted to catch up on the current curriculum of World Literature.


    You apologized and left her and the book without much thought, but she was oddly persistent in pampering you with even more textbooks after catching sight of the half-written essay you returned to. She offered to look it over, and was taken aback by your fluid wording¡ªquite literally¡ªher dramatic gasps and praises nearly caused the two of you to be removed from the library.


    Over hushed whispers, Ms. Ann had rambled endlessly about her granddaughter, Daisy, who was in need of ¡®academic guidance¡¯. Not a moment later, she offered you work as a tutor, and with dubious hesitance, you accepted. It had been all too long since anyone gave you the light of day, much less with such intensity. You couldn¡¯t figure out why she had even bothered with your timidness, but perhaps your turn for attention had finally come.


    After looking into the family¡¯s background, it almost felt too good to be true. But you were drowning deeper in debt and there wasn¡¯t anyone to spare you the light of day, and still isn¡¯t, so you find yourself slipping off your shoes at the foot of the Alstro¡¯s marvelous home.


    Ms. Ann instantly notices the gesture and gasps, ¡°My, what a gentleman! I¡¯ve really hit the jackpot, haven¡¯t I? Please, make yourself at home! I¡¯ll let Larks know you¡¯re here.¡±


    You step in further as she wanders off someplace. You don''t take in the surroundings until you¡¯re a good few feet from the door. The interior is incredibly spacious; the amount of furniture and decor is kept to a minimalistic degree, but not to so little as to say that the space is barren. You¡¯re sure there''s more to see beyond the halls and upstairs, likely in matching modesty, but that¡¯s all that fits the frame for now.


    Flat white walls, some portions engraved with gray stone while the rest are taken by windows. The ceiling lights are kept low, save for what shines past the panes to obscure other parts into shadows. You can see the glistening glimmer of the ocean from where you stand. Around ten meters beyond the entrance lies an enormous pane stretching up the stairs, pristine in its view of the outside.


    The home itself exudes an aura of elegance that you find yourself, once again, longing to capture it all with the curt click of a camera.


    There isn''t as much to marvel at when Ms. Ann comes back around to lead you further inside. The kitchen, dining, and living room are all typical in their simplicity and dull colors. Scattered bits of furniture lie here and there, littered across carob-stained vinyl. Nothing is exactly eye-catching, but there isn''t anything not to be amazed by either.


    It''s fascinating in the most senseless of ways.


    She soon stops at one of the few doors of the first floor, completely astray from the more communal areas of the home. Ms. Ann takes a curt moment to look you up and down, her eyes crease up slightly with an emotion you confuse for awe. Her graceful hands come to smooth back the cool brown locks of your hair before dropping down to the collar and the button beneath.


    ¡°Loosen up a little, Lottie. He¡¯ll only cut a finger if your shirt isn¡¯t buttoned up all the way,¡± she teases.


    You watch her hands carefully as they undo the top button, then fall to her side. Her unsettling words lay trapped in the narrowness of your throat, which you find all the more difficult to swallow down so suddenly. She seems to notice; you suppose so because of the way she rests your hand on your shoulder.


    She smiles gently, ¡°I¡¯m kidding! Larks may act tough, but he¡¯s really a mommy¡¯s boy. You¡¯ll do just fine, I know it!¡±


    Despite the nod you give to convey an understanding, a tremor takes over your hand when opening the door. One blind step inside is all it takes for Ms. Ann to suddenly disappear, nowhere to be seen among scant surroundings by the time the door closes shut.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Like the rest of the home, sunlight from the distant windows is what illuminates the room. It''s a simple study room, basic in its necessities albeit a bit more vibrant in color than what you have seen so far. There¡¯s a fish tank off to the center that displays hues of all forms with whatever sea creatures roaming within.


    You inch closer, drawn in fascination to the little fish. But a quick glance at the man sitting behind the desk, waiting expectantly, is what sends you past the tank. Larks gestures for you to take a seat with the flick of his hand, which oddly feels more demanding than any verbal request you have come to hear¡ªlike a lamb being led to slaughter.


    Larks is a well-built man, the shape of his muscles is prominent through the fabric of his clothing. His sharp eyes shine like emeralds as they narrow over the resume you had printed for Ms. Ann back at the library. You watch in tense silence. Larks¡¯ face remains expressionless as he skims through the resume. His eyebrows lay flat, unfurrowed, and dark like his hair. There isn''t a single hint of emotion on his face, yet you can''t help but feel intimidated.


    ¡°Lot Mone¡­ are you Irish?¡±


    You tilt your head, raising your brow as your lips part in confusion, but no words come out. You¡¯re taken aback by the tone of Larks¡¯ voice. It''s like the ocean; deep, dark, disquieting, yet oddly smooth and serene. It''s ironic in some way, you don''t know what. In any case, your name is at the top of the page. You question whether Larks was actually reading through or just trying to figure out your name¡¯s origins by himself.


    Larks keeps his gaze firm at the name, going on to ask, ¡°If not, then how is it pronounced? Mon¨¦, or M?ne? Perhaps M¨®ne, or is it Mon¨¨?¡±


    Each syllable rolls off his tongue evenly, sounding as if he were fluent in each language of origin pronounced. You catch yourself staring at the subtle bobs of his throat.


    ¡°It¡¯s a rather odd name, I know. But however you interpret it is fine. I¡¯ve heard just about everything at this point.¡± You find it in yourself to laugh nervously, simply because you aren¡¯t quite sure either.


    You have never met anyone to share your name with. It¡¯s always written down somewhere on something insignificant like a lunch box or some stray paper, hence it¡¯s treated as so.  Your mother never taught you any better; she was gone before you knew to converse with strangers. Mone is only a word now, left at the mercy of whoever pronounces it. Although, you can¡¯t say that you aren''t fond of the way Larks treats it. It almost makes you feel special.


    Larks sighs, ¡°You can¡¯t take the hint, can you?¡± His gaze shifts from the paper.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ I really don¡¯t understand.¡±


    You stare back with just as much uncertainty, perhaps even more as irritation pronounces itself upon the man¡¯s features. Your eyes follow the sheet as it¡¯s let loose, eventually settling on the desk like a feather.  Carefully, you watch as Larks leans forward, intertwining his fingers and stilling them on the slick surface before him.


    The emerald of his eye studies every bit of subconscious reaction, settling sternly, ¡°You don¡¯t have much of a work history. At this point, I would shred the resume and ask never to see you again.¡±


    The weight of his words rests wearily upon your shoulders. You feel your face flush red, a mix of embarrassment and humiliation. Your limbs feel light as they unfold for you to stand.  A tenuous twitch takes your knees when turning towards the door.


    ¡°Sit down.¡±


    The severe sternness of Larks¡¯ voice drops you right back down onto the chair. You feel your stomach start to churn as the air holds still at your head. It really was too good to be true. The urge to drop down convulsing, crying, choking all at once disperses at the sound of Larks¡¯ sly tone.


    ¡°I want to hear your worth,¡± he rejoins. ¡°Tell me why I should bother. You need the money, don¡¯t you?¡±


    You look off to the side, eyes scrambling to find something else to focus on besides the prominent presence projecting before you. You search inwardly for words¡ªgenuine ones about yourself, and your accomplishments. You¡¯re sure that you have something, but it seems all too difficult to remember in the heat of the moment.


    There had never been anyone present to celebrate and remind you of such things with celebrations, so those memories had scattered off to some secret place; where all insignificant things go to rest until they rot. But then you think back to the library, the book, and recollect reluctantly:


    ¡°¡­ To be honest, your mother¡ªMs. Ann, she offered me to come by after reading an essay I was working on at the time. It¡¯s not that I¡¯m intelligent at all, I just¡ª¡±


    ¡°The self-degrading type, huh? That¡¯s just wonderful.¡±


    ¡°Not like that!¡± Your interjection is dismissed by the mild disinterest Larks wears on his face.


    You try once more, urging, ¡°I just can¡¯t promise more than what I¡¯m capable of. I¡¯m sure you understand¡ªhow many people have you come to hire on the basis of skill and they turned out to be everything but?¡±


    ¡°None. My perception of people is rather thorough.¡± Larks notes.


    You open your mouth to speak, but all sense of reasoning has run off somewhere. In essence, things haven¡¯t gone as promised. It¡¯s not as if you were all that much promising, anyway. Desperation forced you into an unfathomable situation with the only people who have ever bothered to speak to you willingly.


    And you¡¯ve ruined it simply by being incompetent.


    ¡°I admire your honesty, I¡¯ll give you that, and your efforts aren¡¯t to be overlooked either. However, you¡¯re either clumsy or foolish for leaving that button undone.¡± Larks stares in scorn.


    You look down at your collar in panic. Your fingers scramble to fix the button in place as you rush, ¡°Ah! That was Ms. Ann, you see, she¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know. I just wanted to see your reaction.¡±


    The impulse to correct your appearance diffuses; you watch your hands as they slowly fall back into your lap. You don''t dare to look up at Larks'' perceived smugness. You feel helpless.


    He muses, ¡°You really are all that she claimed you to be.¡±


    You find yourself wondering what that was exactly. You don''t recall showing any weakness, you were just acting yourself, although you only knew very little of who that is. You can¡¯t help but feel as if the two were in on some sick joke, mocking your helplessness under the false pretense of hope.


    You hear a sigh from the man before you, something you fear foreshadows your defeat until Larks¡¯ voice floods the space like a sea.


    ¡°Starting Monday to Friday, you¡¯ll be here from nine till noon. Accommodate any classes or plans you¡¯d have around that schedule. My chauffeur will take you to and fro every day; from here to your home. Taxis are annoying.¡±


    Your head jolts up, weightless. For a lingering moment, you stare at him in pure disbelief, questioning the faultiness of your ears, or if the joke wasn¡¯t quite over yet. You had virtually been signed off without the slightest hint of potential, nor a discussion of terms.


    ¡°But, I¡ª¡±


    Larks counters, curt. ¡°I trust that I don¡¯t need to reassure any of those baseless doubts. You should know that your efforts will be rewarded appropriately. Don¡¯t play a fool for me, Lot.¡±


    He must have assumed you already looked into their background, so you shouldn¡¯t worry about a fair paycheck. It had to be decent, or even better¡ªenough to keep you afloat. Perhaps Larks knew of your situation, too. You wonder once more, rather than a joke, if this was some kind of act for charity.


    It isn¡¯t as if you had much of a choice in the matter. You don''t have anyone else to rely on besides yourself, and you can only bear to be turned down by so many.


    Despite everything, you feel as if you are about to cry. Your eyes sting, and you¡¯re almost certain that your nose is burning red, too. The whole situation is just so ridiculous that you could bawl your eyes out right there and then; in front of a man who would most definitely care less because he could never understand.


    ¡° ¡­ Thank you,¡± you manage instead.


    Larks¡¯ nod is taken as a dismissal. The chair jars against the vinyl as you struggle to stand. You dip your head in a slight bow out of habit; a gesture for when you can¡¯t find any other words to express yourself, or simply when you haven''t much energy for interaction. You make sure to tuck the chair back in before starting off towards the door.


    When you walk, it¡¯s as if your feet scarcely sweep across the floor. You feel light, both tremendously relieved and elated. The pallid flesh on your fingers latch onto the door handle but before you can pull it, Larks calls out once more.


    ¡°Is there anyone else? If something were to happen to you, I¡¯d need to know who to contact.¡±


    You turn to look back at him. Even from the distance at the door, the glow of that glistening green is still vibrant. Only now, something in them perverts and you feel your heart twist along with it. Although it could just be from how far off he seems, you aren''t sure.


    ¡°It¡¯s just me.¡±


    The features of his face mellow down into a frown. ¡°I see.¡±


    Not a moment later, the door pulls open. You take a step outside and don''t dare look back as it clicks shut behind you. You¡¯re greeted once again by Ms. Ann¡¯s cheeriness. She beckons you closer and eases any stray tension with a rub of your shoulder.


    She smiles teasingly. ¡°See? That wasn¡¯t so bad now, was it? I have a feeling, Lottie! You¡¯re just going to love it here¡­¡±

 ii.

    ¡°What kind of music do you like?¡±


    You pull your head away from the window and shift to sit up properly. You blink once, twice, but the daze of drowsiness only droops your eyelids further. You hadn¡¯t slept all that well last night; too far gone in the anticipation of the day ahead, which had already commenced astray from what was imagined.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    You try to act discreetly when rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes, yet the grogginess of your voice gives away your exhaustion. Dozing off in the man¡¯s car¡ªyou hadn¡¯t meant it purposefully with any disrespect. Larks¡¯ chauffeur had been trying to strike small talk all throughout the ride but it was more or less one-sided; you had only been partially immersed in the conversation.


    A set of pale blue eyes stalk you through the rear mirror, ¡°You look just about ready for bed, and this talk show isn¡¯t doing any good in distracting either of us.¡±


    You feel a twinge of embarrassment at the man¡¯s remark. The exhaustion from the night prior had been all that was able to disturb ample thoughts away from the unpredictable possibilities the day holds for you.


    ¡°Anything is fine. I don¡¯t have a specific taste,¡± you rejoin.


    ¡°Are you serious?¡±


    He stares in disbelief, eyes wide like the sea against the swept sand of his hair. You nod your head without much regard and keep to yourself as he browses through each station at a louder-than-necessary volume. The radio eventually settles on the soft strokes of a guitar solo; a simple sound to scour away stray silence.


    A moment later, the volume is pitched down as the chauffeur¡¯s animated voice fills the small space between you. He starts reassuringly:


    ¡°Daisy¡¯s a sweetheart.  You don¡¯t need to worry about her. She¡¯s small and cute, a bit quiet sometimes but she isn¡¯t the spoiled kind at all. Larks raised her right.¡±


    Your doubts aren¡¯t exactly reassured just yet. There is still so much to be said and known about the girl, given how unpredictable kids could be. But you think for now at least, ¡°She sounds lovely.¡±


    The man nods, eyes now firm on the road ahead. ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell who she takes after the most, though. Larks is a great guy and all, just not the kind to rub off too nicely on the kids. It¡¯s different with Daisy¡ªyou know, they share something else besides blood. We all do.¡±


    The phrasing is off; something about the way he talks so intimately about the Alstro¡¯s doesn¡¯t sit right with you. In the wake of the moment, a feeling of unease churns in your gut. You are virtually on edge, although it couldn¡¯t all be blamed on the poor man.


    ¡°I wonder what that¡¯s like,¡± you muse, tiredly.


    A smile stretches across the mirror with the promise: ¡°You¡¯ll find out soon enough.¡±


    The car rolls to a stop moments later. You tear away from the patterns on your palms and find that he had already settled onto the driveway of their grand home. Hastily, you unbuckle the beat and seize your satchel from the side most seat. It takes great effort to stray away a tremor from your hand when reaching for the handle.


    The chauffeur offers a graceful sendoff: ¡°Till then, take it easy. Six-year-olds aren¡¯t as scary as you¡¯d think.¡±


    The subtle twitch of a wink from his sly eye sends your mind scrambling. You try and fail horribly in laughing it off. A wavering smile is all you can manage when pushing out the door, practically pulling yourself along with it. As it clicks shut, the driver¡¯s window rolls down for an arm to rest on, and the chiseled shape of a chin.


    He watches you with a peculiar fondness that tips at his lips.


    ¡°Thank you, uh¡­¡±


    ¡°Ladio.¡±


    You nod, courteous. ¡°Thank you, Ladio.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no problem at all. I¡¯ll be out here around noon.¡±


    You thank Ladio once more before turning on your heel and starting towards the entrance. The stunning view of the home is just as captivating as when you first saw it only a few days ago. You find it hard to believe that you¡¯ll ever get used to seeing such a grand, beautiful thing. As you stare on with awe, you wonder how it must have felt to wake up to such a sight every morning.


    The weight slung across your shoulder wails. You wonder, once more, if you would find the opportunity to snap at the sight with the beloved third eye that sits alone in your bag, neglected. As the fresh scent of sea floods your senses, it becomes all too tempting to preserve the beautiful home with your camera.


    The setting is extraordinary¡ªnothing like the small room you¡¯ve called ¡®home¡¯ for the past three years that reeks of old things and all kinds of people with their peculiar odors. The recollection leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You swallow it down before knocking at the door.


    It takes a moment longer than last time for it to be pulled open. There¡¯s a pale, slender hand that lays connected to the handle. A young woman greets you; like the charcoal of her uniform, her dark eyes seem to droop down in dreariness.


    She nods solemnly, ¡°Welcome. You must be Mr. Mone. Please, come inside.¡±


    Her touch disconnects as she takes a step or two back to make way for you to push through. You proceed with much hesitance like before. There¡¯s a considerate compulsion that lurks at the tip of your tongue, perhaps a compliment or to return her weary welcome. But she leaves no room for words, nor any space to move.


    A shadow lays long-stretched across the leeway. The sparsely furnished space had welcomed another ornament and left it hanging helplessly from the charming chandelier. Sunlight from the further expanse of the windowpanes shines through, obscuring past the desolated stretch and to the faceless figure.


    As if suspended in still air, the silhouette of her slender stature greets you with the soft sway of lifeless limbs. Surroundings swing to and fro along the demented dance; a see-saw creaks off to the corner frame of your eyes, taunting.


    ¡°Please¡­¡±


    But the noose had too firm of a hold around the soft skin at her neck. The threads of flesh now rest red, worn, and torn by the ruthless restraint that binds them together. At the point where the head and neck untie, you remember the nuzzle of a nose in the crook. She had always faired a floral fragrance, something peculiar between sultry and sweet.


    Her lips detach, head dips with a civilized nod as she rejoins, ¡°Please, take off your shoes. Ms. Thurium should be¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, no dear¡­ Let¡¯s put on a smile!¡±


    As if on cue, Ms. Ann steps into frame. She takes the younger woman¡¯s hands in her own, counseling considerately, ¡°We have to make our guests feel welcome! That little scowl of yours isn¡¯t doing anyone any good¡ªnot even yourself!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± she nods once more as if routine.


    Ms. Ann slides her hands away as she turns toward you, smoothing her way up to the woman¡¯s back. ¡°Lottie, this is Miss Denia. If you need anything at all, just ask her. She¡¯s a doll.¡±


    You muster a smile and bow your head politely, ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you.¡±


    Denia isn¡¯t given the chance to respond. Something tells you that even if there was space, she would have neglected it and let a sea of silence spread between you. Ms. Ann turns her head, directing all attention to her when she speaks once more.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you make Lottie here a cup of coffee? And bring something nice for Daisy, too. They¡¯ll be in the study upstairs.¡±


    She nods again. Not a second later and she has already scrambled off out of sight. Ms. Ann laughs lightly as if it was a harmless joke. Your brow raises as if to question¡ªa look that Ms. Ann is quick to counter.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind her, she¡¯s new.¡±


    And her lips settle into a smile, as if sincere. With a gentle hand on your back, she prompts your steps forward with her elegance taking the lead. Ms. Ann continues casually, ¡°I¡¯m so glad Larks let you by! He doesn¡¯t do that very often, you see. He told me¡ªhe really likes you. I hope you¡¯ll come to like it here as well.¡±


    The credibility of her words escapes you, but you force on another smile and rejoin, "With all the wonderful things here, I don¡¯t doubt that at all."


    She leads you through the open space of the living room and up the stairs that rest conveniently at the corner. You take great care in ensuring your firmness on each step of the spiral case. It would be embarrassing to fall; the way Ms. Ann stalks so closely at your side almost threatens a misstep.


    You try not to pay it any mind by setting sights through the elongated pane that stretches along with your steps. It¡¯s a narrower view of what¡¯s on display downstairs, but there is plenty more to see with its height. What had just appeared to be a flat bed of water and rocks is now expanded onto the shoreline and little lighthouses that hold still against the waves crashing further out in the distance.


    Captivated by its beauty, you nearly trip when floor becomes ground once more. Ms. Ann had kept a steady hand on your back, though, so it was only short of a stumble. You feel that if you had fell, the embarrassment colored onto the flesh of your cheeks would have at least been a bit more subtle.


    The furnished extent of a loft stands before you. Its wide windows capture the opposite view of seaside, the extent of their driveway and all nature¡¯s vigor that surrounds it. Ms. Ann presses against your back with just enough pressure to prompt your path down the hall.


    She picks up from no place in particular,


    ¡°Now, Daisy¡¯s a good girl. She might be a bit quiet but that¡¯s only because you¡¯re new. You see, Larks isn¡¯t very fond of the schooling system so I often teach her myself. It¡¯s been on and off with the tutors¡ªnot that she scares them away! Daisy doesn¡¯t work well with people she can¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ I don¡¯t mean to sound rude, but I think that¡¯s a bit too isolating for a child of her age.¡± You glance at her questionably.


    ¡°Not at all! I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll come to understand. It¡¯s a dangerous world out there; all kinds of people with very different minds. Just the thought of letting her loose for others to corrupt makes my eyes water¡­¡± She sighs, ¡°Larks and I just want to keep her safe.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°And her mother¡ªdoes she mind it at all?¡±


    Ms. Ann stays silent for a moment. The pace of her steps significantly slows down as the gentle touch of her hand slides free from your back. A feeling of dread drowns your tongue. You¡¯ve spoken too much, particularly in places that shouldn¡¯t concern you.


    ¡°Quill isn¡¯t home as often. She¡¯s quite busy with work, although they do have a mutual adoration for each other.¡±


    You nod in understanding.  She seems to sense your troubled heart once more, all doubt is soothed away with a tender rub to your shoulder. You don¡¯t mean to flinch at the contact.


    ¡°Lot, dear, don¡¯t you worry. With you here, everything will be just fine, I promise.¡±


    Ms. Ann holds firm. You aren¡¯t all that sure anymore, and question whether you were in the first place. Outside of your experience as one, you know nothing of children nor of their wellbeings and whereabouts to even argue about what¡¯s right for Daisy.


    There was something about the way she seemed to justify that girl''s isolation. It reminds you of yourself, aside from her family¡¯s prominence and wealth, you were nearly the same. Although, it isn¡¯t exactly the ideal revelation to speculate of.


    In spite of your bitterness, you guarantee, ¡°Then I promise, too. I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t expect anything less,¡± she smiles.


    Your steps come to an abrupt end at the foot of a door. With the effort of a tug, Ms. Ann pushes the door open with an invitation to enter. You accept it carefully and find that the relative size and structure of the room are nearly identical to the study downstairs; Larks¡¯ office. The minimalist theme thrown about the house isn¡¯t an exception here either.


    Boundless bookshelves take the walls, only bare before a vast window panel that stretches across the side most portion of the room. Sofas sit idle off to the corners as a table and a few chairs lay in the center. The choice of lighting seems to be favorable of two industrial lamps that take the floor, neglected.


    You think for a moment, envisioning how nice it would be to laze around till sunset where the warmth of lamps and remnants of sunlight would be all that¡¯s left to illuminate the words of each book. You wonder if they¡¯ll ever grant you the pleasure of a picture when the time comes. The dream doesn¡¯t go far as you¡¯d like; Ms. Ann¡¯s sweet voice tears you away.


    ¡°Daisy, darling, come here,¡± she calls.


    The tiniest form of a girl crawls off the sofa and proceeds hesitantly toward you.


    ¡°This is the wonderful boy I told you about, Mr. Mone. Now, you play nicely with him, you hear? He¡¯s quite sensitive.¡±


    She looks away, mumbling, ¡°Ok¡­¡±


    True to Ladio¡¯s words, Daisy demonstrates the definition of cuteness. Although her frame is awfully petite, her face is made full by the chubbiness of her rosy cheeks. She shares the same dark hair as her father with short bangs that sweep just above her eyes, the rest falling at her shoulder. Her eyes; big, blue, and beaming are most likely from her mother.


    Ms. Ann turns to you, her hand now smoothing the thick locks on Daisy¡¯s head. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll leave you to it! You¡¯ll find today¡¯s worksheets just by those books over there. Daisy knows what to do for the most part, you should only tend to her comprehension.¡±


    You nod, almost dutiful.


    ¡°Denia should be up any moment now. Please, let her know if you¡¯d like anything else. I only wish you the utmost comfort in working here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve already done so much for me. I promise to not be much of a bother. Thank you, though,¡± you reassure.


    She nods in place of words, her eyes shining with something you could never recognize before; fondness.  As you settle down at the table, Ms. Ann dismisses herself, the door clicks shut behind her. You aren¡¯t sure what to expect of Daisy. Part of you cautions to keep quiet and prepare for when she decides to lash out, but the girl acts in no such way. She takes the seat right before you at the table and watches silently, awaiting instruction.


    Like a dog.


    You make it a priority to act gently with her. From previous tutors, she might not have had the best of experiences. You can¡¯t guarantee anything just yet, but you do feel determined, for once. She shouldn¡¯t grow up with such an obscure state of mind¡ªnot like you.


    The homework Ms. Ann had prepared for the day appears to be typical for a child in second grade. You aren¡¯t exactly sure if it¡¯s at all appropriate for Daisy, but suppose that part of your job is to find out anyway. It¡¯s an English worksheet that prompts for the identification of nouns and adjectives in sentences. Simple enough, you think.


    Daisy begins by writing her name at the top of the sheet. You take a moment to remark,


    ¡°Your handwriting is very neat.¡±


    In all honesty, the letters she draws are mediocre. You remind yourself that she¡¯s only a child and force your expectations lower.


    Daisy says nothing. She keeps her eyes on the paper and continues her work without acknowledging you in the slightest. Ms. Ann¡¯s earlier comments had warned you about her silence, so you aren¡¯t exactly put off just yet.


    She keeps to herself for the most part. When she reads aloud the words per directions, she speaks in soft, hushed tones. It feels unnatural for a girl her age, with eyes as big and awe-struck as her own, to be so discreet. There isn¡¯t any space for intervention unless she asks for help, which she hasn¡¯t done once since starting.


    You continue to watch her silently, observing every little mark made on the paper; the way she chews at her lips to keep herself from talking; the twist and turns of her features when she¡¯s unsure but unwilling to ask for help. She lands a good few minutes on a particular word. She¡¯s circled it, already in comprehension of its nature, just undecided on something.


    ¡°¡­I don¡¯t know this one.¡± Daisy suddenly says. She keeps her face firm on the paper, a finger pointing directly at the point of struggle.


    You feel accomplished in some way, although you don¡¯t know what.¡°That word is ¡®attention¡¯. Do you know¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what it means,¡± she interjects.


    ¡°Then could you tell me? I¡¯d like to know too.¡±


    You need to be sure of her comprehension, per Ms. Ann¡¯s request. Daisy stares at the word for another few seconds, her soft brows furrowing with each ounce of energy spared in concentration.


    It takes a moment for her to try, ¡°It¡¯s like to¡­ to take care of something?¡±


    She isn¡¯t exactly wrong. The idea is there, just not put into formal terms. Once more, you remind yourself that she¡¯s only six years old; anything she says shouldn¡¯t be arraigned for accuracy.


    ¡°You¡¯re almost there. More or less, it means to take care of something, as in to give it all our focus. We care so much about that something to know what it is and how it works, so that we can understand it better.¡±


    ¡°Like us?¡± she asks. ¡°You¡¯re giving me attention because dad¡¯s paying you.¡±


    You aren¡¯t sure how to react. She isn¡¯t wrong, but your reasons are beyond that. It just isn¡¯t something you can put into terms simple enough for her to understand without taking offense or mocking your efforts, much like her father.


    But that isn¡¯t a way for a child with such little social interaction to think, so you offer, ¡°I¡¯d like to understand you better, Daisy.¡±


    She gives you a funny look with a brow raised as her eyes appear to grow. She scans the features of your face as if searching for even the smallest bit of deceit. It takes a moment too long. And just when you think she¡¯s about to retort in some way, Daisy pushes aside the papers and stands, excusing herself to use the restroom.


    You stare in disbelief. With a subtle nod of your head, she turns on her heel to leave. The moment she passes through the doorway, Denia takes her place in the room. The absent steam from a cup trails across the space as she proceeds to the center table. She sets down the tray, where a cold coffee and short glass of orange juice stand still.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± she demands, dull.


    You watch with wide eyes, partially disturbed by the curt intrusion of her presence and words. You aren¡¯t quite sure what to say.


    ¡°I¡¯m only trying to help Daisy¡­ ¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem to be capable of helping anyone, not even yourself.¡±


    There isn¡¯t anything in her eyes when she speaks. Like a bottomless pit of nothing, two orbs that stare on only because they must, not that they want to. Something shifts in your chest; a cramp clutches the careful cadence of your heart. Denia carries on without much regard to her words, placing both cups in their proper places off the tray.


    ¡°You¡¯re only looking at the surface. The pay may be good, but it won¡¯t last once they see you lacking. I¡¯d start looking for another job if I were you,¡± she continues.


    You feel that you should say something, but the words weigh heavy on your tongue. You set your hands down on your knees and stare at them, no longer finding the will to watch her routine commence any further.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I didn¡¯t leave the brightest first impression, but Ms. Ann thinks that I¨C¡±


    ¡°She thought that I was, too. You¡¯re not the first.¡±


    The leverage of those letters that she spits so slovenly¡ªyou don¡¯t understand. She had welcomed you inside only moments ago. Why is she trying to push you away so disruptively? Before you¡¯re left to ponder any further, the door swings back open and draws your attention.


    Daisy steps inside reluctantly as if the tense atmosphere tempted uncertainty. She looks over to Denia, eyes practically sparkling at the sight of such a dreary figure. With a curt glance, you find that Denia¡¯s lips host the ghost of a smile.


    ¡°I brought you some orange juice, Daisy. Is that alright?¡±


    She nods and returns to her seat, voicing a respective ¡°thank you¡± in return.


    Denia runs a hand through the girl¡¯s dark hair, giving it a gentle ruffle before picking up the tray and heading off toward the door. Her eyes, all the while, remain entranced in dreary. The door clicks shut behind her, and Daisy¡¯s studies continue as if she were never there.


    You often catch yourself glancing at the cold coffee. It looks as if it has been sitting out for some time, forgotten perhaps. Daisy takes turns sipping her juice and circling words, now in complete disregard for the mellowed mood. You try not to ponder on Denia¡¯s words and shift all focus to the little hand that writes carelessly.


    Her handwriting only partially improves when jotting down numbers, although her math skills aren¡¯t as sufficient. She at least is a bit more pliable in asking for help when needed, so you don¡¯t let yourself bother with criticism. It¡¯s only after completing a page does she stop and stare.


    You catch the reflection of her gaze through the glass cup, watching how the liquid holds still all together. Her brows furrow with a subtle squint at those gleaming eyes; the quiver at her lips suggests speech, and yet they hold together silent. She looks unsure, doubting. You clear your throat to make way for words, but she beats you to it.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you have any friends?¡±


    She stares at you with prying eyes. The air turns stale, offset by the curtness of her question. Your tongue weighs heavy, blood runs cold; you hadn¡¯t noticed the consistent clicks of the clock until it felt in sync with your racing heart. How did she know?


    You can¡¯t seem to find it, wherever that tiresome ticking lies. It feels as if you¡¯ve searched everywhere¡ªgrazed every last inch of each surface until you could practically feel its textures¡ªbut you hadn¡¯t left the reflection of her eyes for even a single moment.


    Surroundings seem to scatter off someplace, distant. The waves recede as something stirs in the sea of her eyes, suggesting that she knows. Everything. There¡¯s a familiar click that draws off from a corner and tacked taps that teeter towards the table that falls just out of frame. Seconds slip away; you can¡¯t see the clock but know that it¡¯s just about noon.


    She announces it, so fondly.


    ¡°Will you be joining us for lunch?¡±


    Ms. Ann watches eagerly, her hand buried deep within the dark locks at Daisy¡¯s head. You blink once, twice, your gaze shifting from the sea, the table, the clock, then onto the glistening green now presenting past you.


    ¡°M-Maybe another time¡­ I¡¯ve got to head off to class soon.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s just unfortunate.¡± Ms. Ann¡¯s lips instantly flip into a soft frown.


    ¡°Oh! Before you go, this is from Larks. He wasn¡¯t quite sure if he¡¯d miss you or not, so he asked me just in case,¡± she suddenly recollects.


    Ms. Ann pulls something out from the pocket of her apron and offers it to you. It¡¯s a plain envelope; the thick paper weighs wearily in your hand when you accept it. You stare down at it for a moment, wondering what it could be, but don¡¯t let the possibilities run far.


    You look back up at her, nodding with an awkward smile. ¡°Ah, thank you¡­ but will I be seeing Daisy again tomorrow? We hardly spoke; I¡¯m not sure if she likes me.¡±


    ¡°If she didn¡¯t like you, you wouldn¡¯t have lasted till noon,¡± Ms. Ann teases. ¡°Ladio should be just outside. You take care now, ok, Lottie?¡±


    You would laugh off the whole ordeal if you could. You nod once more and gather your things. Another expression of gratitude escapes your lips, followed by a careful ¡®goodbye¡¯ to Daisy. You find the chauffeur right outside, as promised.


    Ladio drums his fingers along the wheel in a comfortable rhythm with whatever sound took the radio. The smile he lends feels more like a smirk in the way it mocks your initial anticipation.


    ¡°See? Easy money, right?¡± He jokes.


    You shut the door in response. With a quick click of your belt and the gentle toss of your satchel to the seat beside you, the car pulls out of the driveway. You can¡¯t keep your eyes astray from the envelope. Something had sparked along Ladio¡¯s words that had given you the faintest idea of what might be inside, but you don¡¯t want to seem rude opening it the moment you left.


    It takes a good ten minutes for Ladio to fully immerse himself into the radio, and it¡¯s only then you have the chance to open it without the other man¡¯s prying eyes stalking your every move. You gently tear off the side and slide out the contents¡ªa clean check, dedicated to your odd name, signed off by Lark¡¯s wonderfully fluid signature, for five hundred dollars.


    You can''t help but laugh.