Continuation from Prologue: The Awakening
"No! Let me out!" I grunted as a loud bang rattles through the cemented walls of the room. Its resonating vibrations toppling down the artifacts of my dysfunctional youth and the distant dust wooden frames of the bed. The erratic and sharp sound of bundled-up chains follow suit tying-up the door— sealing me inside.
They're locking me in. No matter how much I plead, no matter what I do, all they care about is that I am silenced from voicing the truth— and knowing it. They will never let me know what happened to Jude. What happened to her? What happened to Ivy? What happened to my friends? Are they safe? Are they even alive?
After they received intel that I had fled to the hospital's parking lot, a cluster of goons forcibly locks me up into this hopeless and rustic space— a poor excuse for a room.
"Let me out!" I sniveled, my tears falling to the dry crust of wooden planks on the bedside table. I clamored repeatedly, no one to affirm my pleas. I try tackling the door, but its solid substance is just too stern for my frail arms.
A man, his voice stern, deep, and of dictatorial authority, grunts from the other side of the door. "No matter what you do, I'm not letting you out— not until you realize what you've done!" He remonstrated, his footsteps blast of disgruntled outbursts.
I shiver as my vision wobbles. I feel it again, the spinning sensation, the confusion, the panting—the anxiety attacks.
Start | Act Two: Her Alter Ego— The Adversary.
Aaron continues to fiddle his thumbs as the taxi speeds through the highway. He's confident that he has seen Mark before. He just can't point it out.
"Can we go faster, please?"
The taxi driver steps on the pedal, following Jude, Mark, and Ivy's tracks. Aaron clenches his fists as he tries to analyze the situation. He is determined to know who Mark is—how Jude is related to him somehow and his oh so, nostalgic demeanor.
"Mark— that guy. I've seen him before, but I don't know where."
The sound of the taxi's speeding engine ignites the anxiety Aaron feels under the tinge of the streetlight's sickly, canary glow of light on the speeding highway.
The motorbike slows down and eventually stops on a comfort room stall in the middle of nowhere, a deserted area full of ghost neighborhoods in the middle of Cape Azul. Ivy and Jude hop off the motorbike as Mark hands both of them paper bags full of ritzy, designers' clothes and heels, all retrofitted to showcase a modern-retroesque style of clothing. Both girls grabbed the paper bags and went to their own separate cubicles in the comfort room. Aaron orders the taxi driver to pull-over on the other side of the street discreetly, waiting for Jude and Ivy's further actions.
Aaron looks at Mark through the tinted windows of the taxi. He's eagerly waiting outside the cubicles, fiddling with a silver coin, flipping it repeatedly. At the same time, he leans on his motorbike, his leather jacket casting a dark shadow from the light of the streetlamp lighting the vicinity.
Aaron shifts his vision at the comfort room— a grungy, moss-filled hunk of cemented trash, poorly built and mismanaged. Its graffiti-filled walls far from comforting, its doors eerie, and its entirety— the physical delineation of a two-cubicle mysophobiac's nightmare. Puddles of water leak from its doors.
A door opens after a few minutes of silence. One of the girls exits the comfort room's cubicles. Ivy.
She approaches his brother Mark wearing a vintage t-shirt, tucked-in on her blue denim ripped jeans. She scoots Mark over as she tries to take a peek at the motorbike's side mirrors, puffing herself up with makeup using her handy brush.
Aaron's brows furrow as he leers at the siblings. Ivy, Jude's best friend and best partner is wearing liberal and revealing clothes, an appalling contrast to her timid and well-reserved personality.
Ivy's finger combs her sleek, shiny, and wavy brunette hair— an uncanny resemblance to his brother's. She poses, looking at her figure on the motorbike's side mirrors.
Another door opens, and Jude slips out of the bathroom cubicle. She's wearing short, faded ripped jeans, paired with a marked white t-shirt with its obnoxious red letters, reading "Sexy Lips" on the chest area. The t-shirt was tied in the middle of her stomach, showing off her flat abdomen.
Her footwear, six-inched heels, are glimmering in the same color as her shiny, moist, and plump lips— the classic crimson-red hue of Snow White's poison apples. Her face is puffed-up with light makeup, retaining her natural look, her eyes shielded with sassy black Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Aaron's two brows furrow as he stares at the stark metamorphosis Jude and Ivy are going through. Mark grins as he looks at Jude, eyeing her from head to toe, looking at her figure intently.
"You are one real hot lad, aren't you?"
"Shut your damn mouth Mark, I ain't falling for your petty tricks. I've seen you wear that smile with other girls and them naively falling for it. Let's just say I'm not as cheap as them. Whatever you're planning to do, just don't do it with me and we're good. Let's just get going, shall we?" Jude rants off, rolling her eyes.
"Chill, chill— we're leaving, I get it." Mark replies, his hands up in the air as if he's surrendering. Jude and Ivy hop onto the backside of his motorbike while he starts the engine. The motorbike growls, and they race of to the quiet highway afterward.
"Can you follow them?" Aaron orders as he slouches over the taxi's hard textile seats. The driver nods his head and starts the engine again, pursuing the black motorbike.
Aaron clicks his thumbs as he falls deep into his train of thought.
"Mark," he whispers as he stares blankly in the backseat of the car. "Why do I feel like I have met you before?"
***
"Can you pull over?" Aaron tells the driver, seeing the black motorbike stop. The driver pulls up as Aaron grabs his schoolbag from the textile seats on his left hand while his right-hand scrambles for his wallet on his pockets.
"How much is it?"
"A thousand."
Aaron hands the bill over to the taxi driver. The taxi driver accepts the bill, putting it with the other bills stacked on the taxi's dashboard. Aaron briskly opens the car door. What greets him is a lively, pompous, and blindingly scintillating street, people chatting and walking through and through. The area is noisy, with various stalls, establishments and cliques.
The street is crowded with people wearing their party clothes.
Obnoxious? Yes.
Odd? No.
Chaotic? Absolutely.
Aaron abruptly shifts his vision, panning his head from side to side. After a quick tormenting moment of anxiety, he spots the three of them enter the hottest bar in town— Bar Fantasia.
The vibrant glimmer of the neon light signages shines through the long, two-way street along with the plethora of establishments, each having their own signature sound and theme. Some are satirically blue, some are noisy, and others are quiet. Aaron expects nothing more from a street so notorious— STREET 88. The city's predominant red light district.
Aaron knows he shouldn't be here. He's well aware of that. The more significant question isn't about him, It's about Jude and Ivy. As minors, what the hell are they doing on Street 88?
Aaron scratches his head as he runs over his thoughts. He knows this street's reputation and knows some of its dirt. He just couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Jude and Ivy would come to such a place.
Instead of rushing over to follow Jude and Ivy over to the bar like a madman, he remains calm and breathes in slowly. He knows that he needs to prepare a plan— quick. He takes a deep breath and stares blankly at Bar Fantasia's main entrance.
Aaron acknowledges the fact that to formulate a plan, he needs to know some context. He observes his surroundings, hoping that someone somewhere will help him enter the damn bar. He clenches his hands.
He starts by looking at the street itself— littered with spa houses, coffee shops, hotels, and dominantly— bars. He knows what most of these establishments offer. Sex. Prostitution. Any form of sexual relief.
One would ask how these things go unscathed by the police. As for Aaron? He doesn't know either.
As Aaron continues to stare at the plethora of establishments, his phone suddenly chimes. He picks it up. It's a message from his mom.
Son, where are you? It's late. - MOM
I'm having a sleepover at Baron's, mom. - AARON
Tell me in advance next time, okay? - MOM
Yes, mom. - AARON
I'll let you be now. Love you - MOM
I love you too, mom. - AARON
Aaron closes his messages app, opens his contacts list, and starts scrolling. Baron's number appears. He clicks on the call button, and the phone rings for a few rounds; eventually, Baron picks up.
"Yo, what's up?" Baron answers, his voice muffled with his mouth full of "Pasadena Chips" (A corn chip brand name). Antonio Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" swings in the background.
"What's up— and what's with your voice? What the hell are you doing? What's with classical music?"
"Yo, slow down, man, chill out! I was gulping down chips and— by the way, you've got to eat these chips, man, they're godly! These crispy crusts are— well, back to the topic. I'm having my typical midnight study sessions snack."
Baron takes another bite of his chips with his mouth full. "By the way— where the fuck are you? Why is it so noisy in the background?"
"I'm here at Street 88. Damn man, this street always gets so lively during the night and—"
"What? I can't hear you!"
"I'M AT STREET 88!" Aaron shouts at the phone's microphone.
"Street 88? You mean that street 88?" Baron asks with a tone of suspicion.
"Yes, that street 88," Aaron answers, rolling his eyes.
"Oi," he laughs teasingly. "You called me just to flex that you're getting some jammies tonight?"
"Jammies? What— no!" Aaron flaps out at the thought. "I'm here for some important business, okay?"
"Sure, sure. Important business. Got it." Baron cackles, nodding over the line.
"Stop laughing, I'm serious!"
"I know!" Baron replies as he continues to laugh in the background.
"Well, listen carefully. My mom will check on me later tonight, and I'm sure she'll call you. I told her that I'm sleeping over at your place tonight. Just tell her that I'm sound asleep already, okay?"
"Okay, but that depends—"
"Depends on what?"
"That depends if you'll take me out for nǎichá tomorrow."
"You really are a cheapskate, aren't you?"
"I know," Baron answers proudly.
"If it's just nǎichá, then fine," Aaron seethes, snorting.
"Oh, and add some Vietnamese pho, okay?"
"Fine, nǎichá and Vietnamese pho. Just do what I told you do, okay?"
"You've got my word on that, bro." Baron pauses as he looks at his watch. "I gotta go, bro, I need to study."
"Sure, bro, study well. Peace!"
Aaron ends the call. He puts his phone back to his pocket, sitting down on one of those erratic contemporary city benches, uneased and uncomfortable.