I turned the music up as I became engrossed in cleaning my room. It's funny how sometimes I crave the chaos of scattered clothes and books, while other times I yearn for everything to be neatly organized.
Today was one of those days where cleanliness seemed appealing, all because I couldn't find the jersey Kaius gave me after his last match.
Amidst the cleaning frenzy, I stumbled upon my lost charger, a white tee I thought I'd thrown away, and a few claw clips.
Glancing into the mirror, I assessed my appearance: a disheveled girl clad in a red and black checked shirt and trousers, with sweat and dust smudging her face and long hair cascading down her waist.
I sighed, realizing a shower with copious amounts of conditioner was definitely in order.
After giving my newly cleaned room one last glance, I decided to rustle up something to eat. With the television droning in the background, I lazily turned on a random news channel while making my way to the kitchen.
However, my sudden bout of laziness prompted me to forgo cooking and simply grab a pack of chips, plopping down on the couch to half-heartedly listen to the news.
That's when a picture of a little girl being rescued by a group of police officers flashed across the screen, immediately capturing my full attention.
As the news report unfolded, detailing the rescue of Mia, an eleven-year-old girl who had been kidnapped three days prior, my heart sank.
She had been found near the shop "Watches of Switzerland," covered in black garbage bags. The eerie familiarity of the situation sent shivers down my spine.
The news anchor continued, recounting the chilling similarities between Mia's abduction and the infamous crimes committed by Mr. Cruel in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As the image of a man wearing a mask flashed on the screen, captioned "Mr. Cruel is back," a wave of recognition washed over me.
I felt a sudden urgency to confirm my suspicions.
Racing to my mother's old bedroom, I retrieved a large suitcase from the closet and began rummaging through its contents. Finally, buried beneath layers of forgotten memories, I found what I was searching for: my old scrapbook.
Frantically flipping through the pages, I came across a drawing that sent chills down my spine.
It depicted a man dressed in grey casuals, his face obscured by a mask that barely revealed his eyes. In one hand, he held a gun, and in the other, a knife.
It was the same figure I had seen in my nightmares, the same figure I now recognized as Mr. Cruel.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Mr. Cruel was back, and Mia's kidnapping was just the beginning.
back then
"Mom, how long is this going to take?" I peered over the counter, drawn by the tantalizing aroma swirling through the kitchen.
"I'm afraid it might take a bit of time, darling. We don't make stew every day, so I want this to be cooked perfectly. Why don't you go watch the spy show?" My mom's voice carried the warmth of her smile, undeterred by the bustling activity in the kitchen.
"But there's still time! I'm going to play outside. Bye, Mom!" I exclaimed excitedly, already bolting towards the door with my ball in hand.
"No, darling, you're not allowed out. You heard the news, right? There are bad guys out there," my mom called after me, her voice tinged with concern as she hurriedly followed.
Her words caught me mid-stride, but before I could protest, my dad appeared, his presence a reassuring presence. "Don't worry, I'll be with her," he assured my mom with a tired smile, effortlessly taking the ball from my grasp.
In the tranquility of that evening, my youthful exuberance knew no bounds as I leaped to catch the ball, only to see it sail tantalizingly beyond my reach.
"I'll go get it!" I declared, darting after the ball. But as I retrieved it, my eyes caught sight of a white van parked near a nearby tree.
Instinctively, I sought refuge behind a garden fence, watching intently as a figure emerged from the van, shrouded in dark clothing.
My mind raced with questions—was this some bizarre fashion statement, or something far more sinister? My heart pounded as I noticed the glint of a knife and gun in the stranger's hands.
"Dad, Dad, Dad!" I called, urgency tainting my voice as I tugged at my father's sleeve, his reassuring presence anchoring me in my fear. "I saw him! I found him! He's there, the girl is there!"
Confusion etched my father's face as he gently inquired, "Who, sweetie? Who did you see?"
"That guy, Dad, the one who kidnaps little kids!" I exclaimed, my words tumbling out in a rush as I attempted to convey the gravity of the situation.
With a swift motion, my father lifted me in his arms, swiftly leading us back home.
He urged me to keep silent until after dinner, his protective instincts guiding his every action.
Later that evening, I meticulously sketched the figure I had seen, recounting the events to my mother in hushed tones.
Handing her the portrait, I revealed the chilling encounter, hoping she could make sense of the turmoil brewing within me.
Now, in the present moment, a solitary tear slipped down my cheek, its presence a poignant reminder of the innocence lost and the harrowing reality that lingered just beyond our doorstep.
With a determined swipe, I brushed away the tear, steeling myself against the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to engulf me.