Year: 1928
Cold. God, it was always cold. Her bare feet curled up under the ragged blanket as best they could, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them up to her chest. It was so. Cold. New York was the worst place to be in the winter. Sitting in a small hole in the wall of buildings, where the bricks came in, making a little rectangular hideaway, she tried her best to shield herself from the icy wind. What she would give for a warm bed, and a hot meal. Heck, she’d kill for a roof over her head. She hadn’t eaten in over a week. Getting shelter and food was harder now that she was older. She didn't have that small frame and sweet baby face anymore, so people weren't as sympathetic towards her anymore. This, she had learned the hard way.
She sensed another presence a few blocks down coming her way, and before long she could hear their footsteps crunching in the snow. They came up to where she was hiding, looking at her as if they had been looking everywhere for her. She could hear them mumble “So that’s where it’s coming from,” under their breath. Had they come looking for her? Were they a part of ‘that man’s’ following, coming to take her back? She glared up at the boy, a growl rumbling in her throat, like a feral dog warning a potential threat to stay back. The person didn't seem phased. Instead, they gave a small smile.
“Now it’s alright, ma’am. I aint gon’ hurtcha.”
Oh, she’d heard that one before. She wasn't buying it. She leaned further away, growling louder. The kid, looking no older than 17, squatted down, pulling out what looked like something wrapped up in brown paper from his pocket. He held it out to her, and spoke in a calm, quiet voice.
“I got half a sandwich left. You hungry, ain’cha? You can ‘ave it. Come on.”
She hesitated. She had been tricked before. Many times before. That voice came to her again, whispering kindly to her.
G̛͢͞ó̸ ̨̛on̢,͝ ̕A̴nà̸s̵t̶͢as̕i̵̵á͟͡.̢͞ ͏I̶̧̛ţ̵̛'͠͠s ̧̕s̨af̕͏e̷͝.̢
She still hesitated, but slowly got up, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her steps were small, cautious, and her eyes darted between the boy’s hand and his face, as her body was crouched in a fighting stance. Once she was about a foot or two in front of him, she slowly stuck a hand out, shaky, fingers turning dark, dead colors. After a still second, her hand shot out, snatching the food, and her body jumped back to return to a safe distance away from him. She squatted down, slowly opening the brown paper as if there were something that could jump out at her inside of it. She examined the half sandwich for just a second, before ravenously chowing down on it. She practically inhaled it. Meanwhile, the boy watched her with sad, sympathetic eyes.
“Goodness, ma’am. You been to th’devil an’ back, ain'cha? I can tell y’know. That you ain’ human?”
She immediately stopped, glaring over at him with fierce eyes and a loud growl. He put up his hands defensively.
“Whoa whoa whoa. I ain't gon’ hurt cha. I know some folks--A big group of ‘em, who’d gladly take ya in. They got lots’a connections all over, and i think they might know some otha’ folks who can ‘elp. I can take ya there, if ya want.”
No. She didn't want to. Any large group of people was bad. Bad men. Evil men. People who wanted to hurt her. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this boy. She didn’t want to meet anyone.
….But she was going to die if she didn’t get help soon. All three of them knew that. She didn’t want to go. But she had to.
She stood, ready to follow, but her legs quickly gave out and she collapsed into the snow. The boy rushed over kneeling beside her. Her legs were scratched and bruised beyond belief, her feet turning dark cold colors much like her fingers. “Lord...okay, imma' lift ya up an’ carry ya. Is that okay ma’am?”
She was too exhausted to reply or put up any real fight. Gently, he slipped his hands beneath her thin body, wrapping the blanket around her and picking her up in his arms. She was so light. Too light. She looked old as he did, but she was lighter than most of the kids back at camp. How long had she been alone? Who was she? Where was her family?
Hopefully, those questions would be answered back with the others. He held her fragile frame close to his body, rushing to get her out of this harsh weather and back to camp.
~AT CAMP~
“Where did you find her?”
“In the city. Just, huddled in the cold.”
“She looks bad Alistair.”
“Have Mary come in here. We’ll clean her up and get some proper clothes. It’s a good thing you found her, Jody.”
“Yea, ‘bout that. The only reason i found her is--”
“I know Jody, I can feel it too. But it doesn’t feel like most possessions. Call Father Brennan over to give her a look.”
“Yes sir!”
She was exhausted. Enveloped in darkness. No, her eyes were just closed. She couldn't open them. Was something holding them closed? They felt so heavy. Was something on her face? She heard voices, but saw no faces. Was she having another nightmare?
“You needed me Alistair?”
“Yes, can you see about getting this young lady cleaned up?”
“My god! What happened to her?”
“Jody found her in the city.”
“The poor babe. Yes, i’ll get right on it.”
Suddenly, she felt hands on her skin. Her eyes shot open, and she swung at the being touching her with an animalistic cry. She could feel her nails just whiz by the woman’s face as she was pulled away by an older man. The woman cried out, a few people in the room with them jumping back.
She jumped to all fours, backing herself into a corner where the bed met the wall, eyes sharp and darting between all of them. Her senses were in overdrive, seeing four people in the room, and sensing others in the building as well. There were a lot of them. But she had faced worse odds.
The older man stepped forward, holding out a hand. He was tall, much taller than she was, and bulky. It was clear he had mass to him, but whether it was muscle or fat, she couldn't tell just yet through his thick suit jacket and pants. His hair was bright red, with a cleanly and meticulously styled beard that matched, and icy blue eyes. He was overwhelmingly Irish. The woman next to him was skinny and shapely, with her thick brown hair braided and wrapped into a bun on the side of her head. Her dark brown eyes darted between the man and the girl on the bed, frightened but composed. She knew how to handle fear under pressure.
“Be still. We aren’t here to hurt you. We’re here to help you.”
If that was true, then why had the woman grabbed her? Why had she placed her hands on her? Why were they all surrounding her? He was lying. They always lied. Always.
“I can assure you, i’m not lying little one. I speak only the truth.”
How--How had he done that? Could he hear--
“--Your thoughts? Yes. It’s a special trait in my family.”
No. Nonono, that couldn't be true. He couldn't do that.
“But I can.” He took another step forward, and she backed herself further into the wall, growling at him.
“You don't frighten me, little one. Because I know you’re scared.” He continued to approach her, hand extended, now turning over as if he were offering something to her.
“You’ve been mistreated. I don't know quite how, but it’s obvious in your eyes. You've been hurt by a lot of people. But we don't want to hurt you. We want to help you. Will you take my hand?”
She watched him carefully, eyes darting between him and the four other people in the room. What about them? Were they going to hurt her?
“Don’t worry. No one here wants to hurt you. I can promise you that.” He extended his hand further. “My name’s Alistair...can you tell me yours, little one?”
She tried listening for the voice, but she couldn't hear him. She called out, but there was no reply. Had...he gone? It was all up to her to trust these people?
Staring at his hand, she struggled against herself in an inner debate. To trust, or not to trust. Slowly, shakily, cautiously, her hand stretched out to meet his. Now within a shelter with walls and a roof, and fairly warm air, the color had returned to her digits. She finally got to point where her fingers had just barely touched his skin, but reflexively drew her arm away again. But he didn’t move. He made no move to curl his fingers around her hand, to grab her. He...seemed safe enough. So far. Again, her hand reached out for his, softly brushing against it.
“......Anastasia.”
--------------------
“Dear oh dear oh dear.” The woman Anastasia had come to know as Mary sighed, brush in hand, looking defeated at the mop that was her hair. Having no means of upkeep, it was matted, filthy, wild, infested with god only knew what. In short, it was a rat’s nest. And Mary had no clue what to do with it. She paced around the tub Anastasia was sitting in, looking for some means of taming this awful mess on the girl’s head.
“How on Earth am I to wash this if I can’t even run a comb through it?” She had become quite frustrated at this point. She was running out of ideas. “Heaven have mercy! I have no idea how on Earth i could save this.”
“....Cut.”
The woman almost seemed startled that Anastasia had opened her mouth. “...Cut it? Honey, are you sure?”
“......Da.”
An immigrant? Mary had no idea. The girl didn’t look like it. However, the more she spoke, the more evident her accent was. Thick, and heavy. “....’Da’....that’s Russian, isn't it?”
“....Si romani.”
“‘Romani’? You mean, Romania?”
“....Da.”
Mary let out a sigh in the shape of an ‘oo’. “Romania. Wow. Did you come with your parents?”
“....Nu.”
“No? then, how did you get here?”
Anastasia fell silent. Why?
“What’s the matter?”
“.....Nu.”
Mary got the message that time. “Don't wanna talk about it. Got it.” She sighed at the sight of her hair again. “...Now, you’re sure you’re okay if I cut it? I mean, honey, it’s….I'll be honest, it’s awful. You might have to look like a boy for a little while.”
“Da.”
Mary studied her face, which hadn’t looked up from the water she was sitting in. She showed no emotion. No indication of feeling or thought. Her eyes seemed to look dead. Had she not seen them glaring at her minutes ago, or saw the young lady walk with her down here, she would have thought the rest of her dead too, the way the poor thing looked. She was terribly malnourished, her skin just barely clinging to her bones, horrifically evident all over. Mary felt terrible for her. Only God knew what the poor thing had suffered.
She sighed, turning to the kit she had brought with her. “Well, alright honey. I’ll do what I can, okay?”
There was just a faint “Mmn.” from her, and Mary took out the scissors from her bag. Time to get started….
