It was a day like any other, my life up until then lacked surprises or stimulating events; like a poor child from the suburbs in a society marked by social inequality, there wasn't much to point out about my existence. Like any other twelve-year-old child, I was attending the 7th grade at Marcelino Champagnat Public School, and on this particular day, I had been beaten by the infamous Paul Lemer, whom I affectionately call Mr. Lame (in reference to his shameful bully nature) — along with his henchmen Lou and Tom.
An only child of a single mother, and knowing my mother's extremely kind and fragile nature, I decided to come home later… You know how it is, no mother would want to see the pale complexion of her only child smashed to the point of being unrecognizable, with a "lovely" appearance of a freshly harvested sweet potato (purple and swollen skin). My decision was further reinforced by the fact that my poor mother is an incessant worker — I mean, she works nights without breaks and long days of work. Our family history didn't afford us greater fortune in life, considering I don't know my father or any other relatives.
Mom says my grandparents died young, my grandmother while my mother was still a child, leaving the already suffering widower with the fate of a single father. My grandfather, apparently, was a watchmaker by the name of Jhon (by the way, if I haven't introduced myself, my name is Isaak Crimson), a humble man but much loved by those around him. However, fate, which had never been particularly kind to my family, dealt another cruel hand, and my grandfather's fragile and meager life ended at 40, leaving the fragile and lovely Lizzie (my mother's nickname) behind at only 16 years old.
Elizabeth Crimson is her name, my angel, my light, my inspiration, and my greatest source of anguish. My mother never told me much about herself, but being quite perceptive and aware of everything, I overheard some whispers here and there… I didn't pay much attention, to be honest. I mean, my mother was perfect! Beautiful, like a painting of a Renaissance goddess, with her long golden blonde hair and her sky-blue eyes so beautiful that they looked like jewels.
However, our neighborhood was never very friendly. We may have been in the wonderful modern era, where yes, women can work, manage businesses, and even refuse to marry, but in terms of "moral principles," patriarchy still has its roots as firmly as ever. So, my mother, for having had a "bastard child" from some stranger, was nothing but a "prostitute" to anyone who cared to look.
So yes, I did everything in my power to not worry her. I may have been a child, but I wasn't foolish. My mother is my only family, and I couldn't afford to add more weight to her already burdened shoulders, especially because of some idiot like Mr. Lame. Used to arriving and not even catching a glimpse of her long golden hair at home, I expected it would be just another day when I would get home around 7 PM and find the house empty, with a plate of whatever I could have for dinner.
But no, fate, again so unkind to me and my kin, had to shuffle the cards once more. Yes, our life wasn't luxurious, yes, we lived in a rented apartment, a small place for one person with just one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kind of living room/kitchen. The entire house was no more than 30m², which might seem like a lot, but by residential standards, it was far from desirable. Yes, we were poor and had no family to support us, but my mother was an honest worker, and I was just a child, unable to understand what could have caused all this… why did the deity of fate hate us so much?
It was around 7 PM when I got tired of sitting, beaten up in a dirty alley, taking rain. Mr. Lame and his henchmen, after having their say and exchanging some unnecessary words, left me, like any stray dog left to die. I got up, tried to straighten myself as best as I could, and headed home. Despite the fine, cold, and continuous rain, it was the early hours of the evening when I saw a huge flash in the sky, two blocks from home, and an agitation that didn't match the peaceful nature of our village, which was quiet, almost funeral, to be honest.
The closer I got to our little home, I overheard whispers: "My goodness, isn't that Miss Elizabeth's house? The flames are so high, the fire must've started this afternoon, but now it's night. Hopefully, she's not at home, right?" and "By the gods! She works so hard to lose everything like this! And the boy? Where is he?" By then, I could hear nothing more. My vision blurred, my mind scrambled, and my ears were buzzing, my furious thoughts crossing each other: "It's my house, isn't it?", "My mother! Where is she? Is she okay?", "What do you mean it started this afternoon?"
My breathing was increasingly uncertain, my chest aching. I started running, ran, ran, ran, until I couldn't feel my legs anymore, until I stopped, stunned, pale, shocked, my house burning in flames, intense flames, the excruciating sounds of wood cracking and snapping, thick black smoke hanging like a veil over the whole street, and fire, so much fire, blazing flames dancing in the wind. At that moment, for a millisecond, my world stopped. (PLOFT! The sound of my knees hitting the ground) I could no longer feel the floor.
But the panic and adrenaline didn't betray my instincts. As desolate as I felt, I had to find her! I had to make sure she was okay, that she would be okay! In an instant, I got up and began running toward what was left of our house, the facade and eaves that supported the roof had already given way, powerless against the fury of the flames. However, there was enough space for a small person to pass, so I went, ignoring the shouts of everyone begging me to stop, I ran. And as soon as I crawled inside, scraping my already injured knees, I saw her.
She was lying on the ground, unconscious, injured, with skin so red that her burns had likely gone past second-degree. She was lying on her back, limbs sprawled out as if she had fallen violently and lost consciousness on the spot. She was wearing a beautiful light blue dress with white floral details and some kind of cashmere draped over her shoulders. It was the outfit she was going to wear to work that night. In her left fist, so tightly clenched, was a golden chain, suggesting she had been holding a pendant or something like it before she fell… I went up to her, started shaking her, calling her name over and over, begging with my hoarse voice and my eyes filled with tears for her to wake up, to get up and come with me, to lean on me, begging, shouting, without stopping, and still… nothing, no movement, not even the smallest twitch… She wasn't breathing anymore.
The moment I realized I had lost her, I screamed with all the resolution I had left, screamed so loud that my voice was gone, a piercing, painful, unforgettable scream. And then I thought, "Don't leave me, mother, if you go, take me with you." My tears, so heavy they felt like they weighed a ton each, slid down my already unrecognizable face, and in a trance-like moment, I lay next to her, holding her close, like a newborn baby snuggling in its mother's arms to receive nourishment, holding her clenched fist with as much strength as she had put in that grip.
And in those last seconds, I thought I'd have in life, I thought, "If only I could go back in time, if only I could see what happened, I... I wish I could save her." It was then that I had a sort of hallucination. Well, I was in the middle of a shack in a raging fire, inhaling more smoke than a smoker would in a year, my consciousness fighting to stay active, and it wouldn't surprise me if something wasn't quite right. And in this vision, my mother was holding the pocket watch she kept so dearly on her bedside table, a watch that was the only inheritance from old Jhon, my grandfather. She used to kiss the item and ask for protection every day before leaving. And just as she was about to put the watch back in the decorated chest where it belonged — BLAM!
A big, burly man with a face similar to those alley thugs who harass women broke into the house, smashing the door. My mother was startled and rushed to the living room, bumping into the man's stature, who looked like a descendant of Nordic people, with messy red hair, unshaven beard, wearing a dirty white tank top made of fabric similar to potato sacks, and dark blue shorts with several black stains scattered across. His brown eyes showed fierce flames, dangerous, full of impure thoughts.
My mother, as shocked as she was, was a very wise woman—perceptive, even. She tried her hardest not to show any loss of control. She was already used to dealing with rude men and drunk passersby in many of her jobs. She thought that if she stayed calm and simply asked who the man was and what he was doing there, she might find a way out of that situation unharmed. So she asked, "Hello, how can I help you?"
- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Isn't it true! She's so professional she offers her "services" to anyone who breaks into her house! - HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
That was when my mother realized she was not safe and would likely not get out of this situation easily. She faltered for a moment but quickly began stepping backward, thinking she could reach the bedroom, lock herself inside, and find some way to call for help or escape. But the man was faster—she hadn't taken two steps when—Ugh!!—he grabbed her violently by the forearm, squeezing so hard she let out a reflexive grunt of pain.
Then, instantly, he began insulting her:
- You whore!!! HAHA! Today's my lucky day! Who would've thought that the fancy guy would get me such good company for the night! You must have some pretty bitter clients despite that pretty face, huh?!
He said this while grabbing her cheeks with his other hand, forcing her lips into a distorted pout through brute force. My mother, unable to speak or run, found herself terrified. Yes, she had been in similar situations before, but always in open places or, if closed, with other people around. She valued her safety profoundly, always thinking she was all her son had and couldn't risk herself more than she already did. This situation, however, was entirely new to her. She thought,"If I'm already doomed, then I'll at least let him do what he wants… better a dishonored mother than a dead one. My dear Isaak, poor sweet Isaak, I'm sorry you have the mother you have… forgive me, my son."
But before the man could put his vile intentions into practice, a sound came from the doorway—"Ahem!"
At the entrance, with the already broken, splintered doorframe behind him, stood a man. Tall, slim, but with enough muscle to show he was no ordinary person. He wore a fine linen suit, deep oxford blue with dark gray pinstripes, cufflinks adorned with gems—blue sapphires in each wrist—paired with a black tie with diagonal gray stripes and a white shirt beneath. He was unmistakably a man of high class.
The moment my mother's eyes met his, she trembled. Her lips, still pressed by the thug's grip, grew pale, her eyes flickered, and her palms grew cold and sweaty. My mother knew that man.
The man, eager to be done with the situation, spoke to the thug:
"Let's go, Jack. I don't want to spend another minute in this dump. I paid you to clean the mess, not to make me dirtier."
Tsk!You stuck-up bastard… You're lucky I really need the money, or else you'd see what I'm capable of!
SLAP!!That was the sound of my mother being slapped across the face by the thug, who was already in a foul mood. The blow was so hard she fell sitting onto the floor. Lizzie still couldn't process what was happening, nor understand how quickly things had escalated. Her mind went completely blank the moment her eyes met the man at the door—she knew him, and she knew him well. His hair was black as ebony, straight and silky, his eyes a deep dark blue, as dark as a starlit night sky or the depths of the ocean. His expression was cold, frigid, his almond-shaped eyes resembling those of Asian descendants. Yes… she knew him.
"Hurry, Jack. The longer you take, the bigger the cut in your payment, you useless wretch."said the man, growing even more impatient and casting a look of pure disdain at the disoriented woman on the floor."So beautiful and so pathetic…"His arrogance was obvious, and her pitiful situation clearly disgusted him.
Jack, the grumpy thug, clicked his tongue again in irritation, then snapped his fingers—and from his calloused hands, flames began to sprout. His hands were practically flamethrowers. And at that moment, it dawned on my mother… she was going to be murdered.
"William, please, no!!! William, Will!!!! No, I'll never bother you again, I swear!!!! I never bothered you, did I??? I never asked you for anything!!!! I know you never loved me!!! I let you go, didn't I???? No one knows you!!! I promise!!! No one knows us!!!!"
Unaffected by my mother's desperate pleas, the man remained there, frigid, wearing an expression colder and darker than Siberia itself. In an instant, the house was engulfed in flames. My mother was still on the floor, now sobbing uncontrollably, hiccuping through her panic. Jack laughed like a madman, spreading fire like water from a sprinkler throughout the home, pacing back and forth.
The man nodded as if their business was concluded and turned to leave, walking out as if nothing had happened.
Terrified at seeing him leave, my mother tried to stand and reach him, only to be struck from behind by Jack—THUD—who said, "Not today, tramp. This filthy shack will be your grave hehe."She collapsed, already unconscious from the blow, gripping her father's watch with all the strength she had left. And in an almost poetic moment, like the sigh of her soul escaping, she murmured:
"Poor Isaak… my dear… my treasure… it would've been better if he had no parents…"
CRACK!The sound of wood splitting—blinkI blinked, as if waking from a dream, and I wondered:
"What was that?????"
My mother was still there, inert on the floor, her body distorted by the heat of the flames, pieces of wood and tiles crashing around us…"What was that I just saw???????"
Disbelief, confusion, thoughts racing—and before I could make sense of anything—
"HAHIAHIEHIAHEIAHAEIHEAUHAUHEIHAIHE!!!"
I heard a laugh. Strange, mechanical, childlike—something otherworldly. It sounded like anything except a human being.
And when I looked toward the source of that sinister laughter…
Floating in the air like some kind of ethereal being, there he was.
A translucent figure, with long red hair, yellow cat-like eyes with slit pupils, a sinister grin stretching from ear to ear, sharp triangular teeth like those of a shark. He wore a blood-red tailcoat like a pianist's, plaid shorts with suspenders, a white shirt with fine vertical stripes, and a bow reminiscent of female school uniforms. On his hands, velvety white gloves; on his feet, shiny black Victorian-style heels and long white socks up to the knee. On his head, a bright-red top hat, and where the decorative band should be, chains were wrapped like a serpent, secured by a large silver lock. Around his neck, a pendant resembling a compass rose, marking every direction, and in his right hand, a staff topped with the head of a demon.
The creature looked at me and said:
"Finally I am free! hiehaihuehaieha! FREE!!!! Thank you for releasing me, mortal hiheuehieuhauihuiheuia"
"…Huh????"
"The name is Laplace, little water flea. Laplace! The Incomparable!!!"