The bird is flippant, and if gripped too tightly or too loosely, it will fly away.
Grabbing Lesly's wrist, I pulled her back and told her I would go with her to buy whatever she needed. After seeing the driver only starting the car when he was assured that she wouldn't run again, I could imagine how it had happened the last time, and had to suppress a laugh.
Arriving at the shopping center, we bought the charger for her overly old phone, only to be stopped by a girl, good assets, light brown dyed hair, decent and clean-looking—the perfect hook-up target.
Again, my agitation turned worse, my stepmother had already been presented with a false picture of me, and I wasn't eager to see another look of disgust on her face, especially when directed at me.
After the guy who I had hit today had commented on me making or not making 'a move' on Lesly, here was the next one trying to drag my reputation down even further.
My eyes wandered to the little crow, who seemed uncomfortable with her promiscuous stepson yet again, so I made my 'No' hard and clear when speaking it out.
No, I won't go for casual flings anymore.
No, I won't take out my lighter, although her hair would give the perfect breeding ground for a fire.
No, I won't show you a scene like the one from our first meeting ever again.
No, I won't make any trouble, our promise stands.
After the girl left, we continued on our way, and I saw the little crow eager to escape. When I looked back, I found the girl had gone back to her friends, and they laughed and giggled while looking at us.
The hand in my pocket opened the lid of my lighter as I walked behind my stepmother to shield her from the curious gazes of these little bitches.
Lesly wasn't that tall, but she wasn't really short either, reaching to my chest. Still, she had looked good in that old jogging suit, and she looks even better in the dresses my father bought her, though it is painful to admit that he was actually doing something right.
Here in the shopping center, there were not only a few men who mustered her like I would when I was in the midst of deciding if to sleep with a woman.
I am positive that the boys in my class weren't the only ones talking obscenely about her, she was sure to stir every adolescent's heart, especially during puberty.
Had she ever slept with a student? I really want to know, but that wasn't a question you could ask, especially within the boundaries of stepson and stepmother.
And who was the person she had called? If she hadn't thought of charging her phone, he shouldn't be that important. However, now even the math teacher had her number. I remember the girls in my class talking about how handsome he was. Is he more handsome than my father? I can't say.
Inside the car, Lesly spoke to me first on her own initiative, which was already something to celebrate, but it was a woman's name that came out of her mouth. Between asking myself if that was the girl just now and if Lesly knew her from her old job, having her in one of her classes or whatever, and being confused why I would want to hear her name, she dropped the unexpected bomb.
Liliana Humphrey. I wondered if I had ever heard that name from either of my parents, but the answer is no. Never in my life have I heard that name.
I had to see the original right this instant, and not having changed out of my clothes because I was busy with talking Lesly into not running away, was the suitable excuse to get us back to school.
What exactly was the appearance of the woman, which my father was unable to ever forget? Would she really look like Lesly if even she herself said so? I can't imagine that even relatives would look that similar. Curious, so curious.
The moment I stood in the library with my hands in my pockets, with Lesly before me holding a yearbook in her hands while turning the pages, I was convinced that this Liliana Humphrey would never be able to look better or the same as the little crow. When she was concentrating on a task, the same as when she was stealing, she emitted an irresistible charm, inviting one to come and watch, to capture and savor the view.
And I should have been proven right. When I saw the monochrome photograph, I had to look at Lesly in an attempt to find any kind of similarity. Her hair seemed light, as did her eyes, although there were no colors in that picture, and maybe for that reason I got the impression, but they looked nothing alike beside these characteristics.
The expression on Liliana's face seemed plastic, and it was the same in every one of the pictures, showing how people imagined a perfect high school life.
Laughable, that these two women would be thrown in the same pot.
And if they had to be compared, then Lesly should be the original, while this girl was no more than a horribly bad copy.
It was so far off from the goddess I thought the woman who destroyed my childhood was supposed to look, that I was doubting on her being the right person. Perhaps the principal who guided my stepmother to this lead, and Lesly herself, were just blind.
However. That changed when I saw that the fire from the campus legend had happened during the time an as-similar-looking to Lesly perceived person had studied here.
"It has to be her." I said, peeved, when Lesly again asked if I thought so because they looked the same.
No, that was not the case. When I was small, my mother, who was still not pushed into meekness, but instead going crazy sporadically, had started a fire. My father had to this day not even laid a hand on me, only on her and only if she went too far, attacking him first.
However, everything changed that day. My father, seeing the flames, went crazy as well, not even caring if the fire spread, he grabbed my mother by the hair and threw her on the floor. Then he attacked her violently.
I first wanted to interfere, when this had happened before my eyes back then, I could still muster up the feelings of a son, but I couldn't come near them, the fire separating us.
I think it was then that my fascination started. I wasn't scared; the fire seperated me from these two insane people. It was warm, hot, but somehow assuring, and it was so enchantingly beautiful.
That moment, I wished for the first time that it would burn down the house, and us with it.
When my father had calmed himself soon after my mother had lost consciousness, he looked at me through the flames, and I think he saw my wishes written on my face because he went yet into another frenzy.
He bellowed for the staff that didn't dare to interfere with neither the fire nor the beating. Then I was dragged into his office, where he whipped me endlessly, repeating with an eerie calmness,
"Don't become a monster."
"Fire is nothing to admire."
"Don't go down the same path."
And now, seeing this picture—at that time, I bet he had talked about himself.
He was scared that I would become like him.