I wanted to do my own little adventure around the city today that didn't involve Michael or Lucy. I went to a place I used to visit many times when I was younger: the library. Ideally, the New York Public Library, which was the one I was going to today. I remember spending hours roaming around and looking at books, some I knew I couldn't even read. My parents never wondered or questioned where I was, in fact, I think they were just glad I was gone.

When I stepped into the giant library, it almost felt nostalgic. I felt like a child again; lost in the museum of books and stories that could allow me to escape from reality. It was the only place I could get away from the noise of the city or from my parents' constant fighting, and bury my nose in the pages. I wandered around, scanning different titles and authors while also admiring the grand building.  It was all so peaceful, no wonder I loved it here as a kid.

After only half an hour of wandering, I came across some newspapers. But, not all recent ones, some were from years ago. 1966, 1967, 1968.... 1969. It caught my attention, and as soon as I saw a stack from 1969, my mind raced to one thing. I dug through them, trying to find one specific article. And, well, it didn't take me long to find. At the time, no one had seen anything like it since some girl named Mary Bell a year prior. Everyone had a freak out that children were turning into monstrous killing machines, and we were entering some new era of rebellion. It was ridiculous, of course, but I can't blame them. My case was everywhere in the papers, the press ate it up. A child being accused of murdering her father was the type of story they were searching  for- their big money maker. My pathetic mugshot was on practically every pole and article you turned to at the time. It was humiliating, I guess that's one way to build a reputation.

Well, I wanted to find out more about who really killed my father anyways, and I guess this is a start. It just wasn't what I was exactly expecting to find first, I didn't even know they still had copies of this exact newspaper. I began to read the article, examining everything they wrote about me.

"A ten year old under the name of Cynthia Quinn has been accused of murdering her own father, David Quinn, around 15th street at approximately 22:00. Her mother, Michelle, frantically called 911 after witnessing her in the act. "I always knew she was a troubled young girl and never took a liking to her father," says Michelle, "but I never expected she would ever commit such a horrifying crime".
Her friends and family are all taken by surprise by this incident, grieving the loss of a beloved husband and father. She is expected to appear in court in the upcoming weeks.

More on this case will be posted as we receive more updates."

Blah blah blah, crime rates, blah blah blah, "evil lies in the most innocent forms". It was almost jarring to read something like this knowing how untrue it was. What the hell did she mean "troubled young girl"? I never did anything! I did mostly everything on my own, I hardly ever got into real trouble. The only "trouble" I got into was being yelled at by my mom or dad for stupid shit like not doing the dishes without being asked to. It baffles me how anyone with half a brain could sit there and truly believe that I was a murderer. I was ten years old, for Christ's sake. I was smart for my age, but not that smart. I hardly understood the concept of death, let alone murder.

Everything was so flawed, why did it have to be me? Now, someone out there is living their best life, knowing they took the life from someone else. And, they're free of charge, they'll never suffer the consequences of their actions. Just one of the many reasons why I'm determined to find out the real truth, even if it takes me years.

I don't know if I was technically allowed to have it, but I snuck the paper in my bag and made sure no one saw. It's not like they'd notice it was gone. While I was making my way out, I grabbed a couple of novels I saw: Of Mice and Men, Romeo & Juliet, and The Great Gatsby. I might as well develop some sort of hobby while piecing my life together.

↞↠ ↞↠

"And where were you off to?"

I hadn't even been home for five minutes before being confronted by my mom, standing in the kitchen by the door with her arms crossed. I sighed and reached for one of the books in my bag.

I waved it in front of her. "The library."

She grabbed the story from my hand and inspected it. "The Great Gatsby?"

I nodded. She yanked my bag from my shoulder and started rummaging through it, and pulled out the newspaper from the bottom. I forgot I even put that in there, if I'm being honest. She read it closely before peering back at me, pissed.

"Where did you get this?" She continued to read it, her grip tightening on the old paper.

I was confused as to why she seemed so upset. "The library... why?"

She stared at me with no response for a few seconds before tearing it up into pieces, crumbling it and tossing it into the garbage. "You're not allowed back at that library, understand?"

"Why? I was just curious-"

I reached for the novels, which she was still carrying, but she stopped me and seized hold of my wrist. "Put the past behind you, Cynthia. It's not yours or anyone else's problem anymore, and you don't need to be bringing it back."

"But-"

"Cynthia," She bickered, "as long as you live under this roof, you are to never bring it up again. Got it?"

I sighed, and she let go of my wrist. I snatched the books from her grip and stuffed them back into my bag. "Fine."

I stomped over to Lucielle's room, hitting the ground audibly enough so Mom could hear, and knocked on her door. She opened it, Rosemary and some other woman were sitting on the bed. The woman seemed to be on a phone call, while Rosemary was giggling next to her.

"Whatcha need?"

"Can I ask you about something..." I asked, glancing over at the two, "...if it's not a bad time?"

She looked over her shoulder at them as well, then back at me. "Sure, we're just pulling some jokes on people."

She opened the door more for me to come inside, and the two women started bursting out into hysterical laughter as they hung up the phone. Lucielle joined them as I stood awkwardly, slightly forcing a laugh even though I had no clue what was funny.

"What did they say?" Lucy asked, trying to contain her laughter.

"His wife got all pissed off, you should've heard them arguing!" The woman answered, continuing to giggle at whatever was happening.

Lucy turned to me, catching on to my awkwardness. She sat down on the bed, and gestured for me to sit down with them. "Sorry, Cynthia, didn't mean to leave ya standing there. We were calling up some exes of ours, pulling their legs, all that good fun. That's Christina."

Christina smiled and gave a little wave at me. I've never seen her before, but I guess she lived here as well. It seems like a lot of people just seem to live here, for whatever reason. It makes me wonder who else resides here.

"So, what did you want to ask me about?" Christina and Rosemary both turned to me, seeming to also wonder what I had to say.

"I went to the public library today, and I found a newspaper article about me from 1969. My mom found it and got all pissed about me having it... I'm just confused. Doesn't she want me to try to find out who killed Dad?"

⧫ ⧫

Here we go. She's hardly a week or two back and she's already speculating shit. Thanks to Michelle, now I have to play along with this stupid little secret. I'm usually fine with lying, but not about stuff like this. But, Michelle would kill me if I ever told Cynthia, and I'm kind of enjoying the thought of living at the moment. So, I'm going to have to roll with it.

"She probably just doesn't want to be reminded of it. She's still grasping the fact she's a widow."

What bullshit.
Even Rosemary and Christina knew that was bullshit, they weren't saying a word. They just froze there in silence, avoiding eye contact. They would only occasionally look at each other when I said another lie.

"I would just try to avoid the topic around her. You know how she is."

Cynthia nodded. "Okay... I guess you're right. Thanks."

She stood up and made her way out to the door. She seemed disappointed, but it's not like there was much to say to make her feel any better. She shut the door behind her, and I immediately saw the two blonde bimbos gazing at me. The silence from the two was loud.

"Really?" Christina remarked, glancing back over at Rose.

"What else did you want me to say? "Yeah, it's because your mom killed your dad, how about that?" You can't come up with anything better."

Rosemary scoffed. "It'd be better than a lie."

I unintentionally rolled my eyes. "Don't you have another ex to call?"

⧫ ⧫

Just avoid the topic, she's still grasping this and that blah blah blah. It's been eight years, wouldn't she want to talk with me about it? Does she still believe I'm actually a murderer? I wouldn't think so, right? I mean, I know she has to have some common sense. If anything, now that I think about it, she should be the first person to want to find Dad's killer. If she's still grieving so much to this day, wouldn't it give her some clarity knowing the truth?

Maybe finding out the truth will be harder than I thought. With no support, I'm going to have to figure this out by myself. But, I won't let my parents down.

𝔸/ℕ:
(Mary Bell is a real person, for those who didn't know. She was convicted for murdering two pre school aged boys at only the age of 10 in 1968, and is one of the youngest people to be sent to juvenile for murder).
-There's some serious foreshadowing in this chapter... just saying 😉
Anyone have any predictions as to how this story might go? 👀 I'm curious to see peoples thoughts. If not, don't worry, I just wanted to see ;)