Another miserable day passed as I watched the sunset on the horizon. The illustrious rays of the sun paled as the sea swallowed the star whole. Birds flying in the distance appeared as blotched black dots. The whole atmosphere had an orange tint to it.

Sometimes, it felt like I was the one consumed by the sea– Drowning, my terrified screams engulfed by the relentless waters. I splashed and thrashed and almost made it ashore, but the currents were more powerful. They dragged me deeper and deeper until no matter how hard I struggled, my efforts went in vain. Nobody paid me any attention. Nobody cared for me. I might have spotted blurry outlines at the shore and even called out, but they only cared about their own problems. Why bother yourself with an illiterate orphan? Probably just another one of those frauds, just too lazy to earn, the tourists would say. Good for nothing, can't even read! They'd exclaim.

But the townsfolk knew better. Those guys knew that I wasn't any orphan– Daughter of Samirah, for devil's sake! The Samirah– The most celebrated figure in the field of dark arts. Rumour has it that she could string a casual conversation with the dead. She could call onto sprits whenever necessary– sprits who would do her bidding. With one right mantra, she could flood the whole town in the middle of the sweltering summer months.

Yet they kept their distance from me– A sort of payback for being unable to read. Without the ability to write and deliver hymns, I was another burden for the town. They may have their excuses– "Oh, the position's already full!" "Sorry, I don't have my house keys, or else I would have gotten it." and all sorts of rubbish, but why would they treat me like that? Criticized as a disgrace, yet occasionally providing me a false string of hope, that maybe, just maybe, not everyone hated me.

I groaned– Enough about the past. I curled up into a human ball and snuggled into a mottled blanket brutally clawed and teethed, but it was mine from the compassion of the spirits, and I wasn't going to reject a handy gift. But I wondered if the previous owner had the habit of nestling with a pack of wolves or overly caffeinated poodles.

The overcast sky showed the signs of a heavy downpour, though with me huddled in the Loner, I wouldn't mind some exhilarating change in weather and invigorating chilly winds as long as I was with my blanket and Messiah.

"Who's a good doggy? Who's a good doggy?" I said, my tone thick with slavering. The guard dog wagged its tail enthusiastically. "Well, you aren't." Messiah's face fell.

"You're my best friend." I completed my sentence and stroked the area behind Messiah's ears. He seemed to love that, and it was a better scratching spot than his dorsal, so it was a win-win situation.

Messiah, a pet? Please, pets aren't your only connection with the other world– To think of him as an animal was like imagining an Orangutan as a sea mammal. This guard dog had shown me empathy where the rest of the world had failed, and after years of his sage companionship, he was more like my only family.

As I watched, rain-splattered down onto the pavement, its incessant pitter-platter the closest association I've had to a lullaby sung to me. Not long after, the water fell from the sky with unrelenting force, accompanied by white flashes of lightning and booming thunder.

Despite everything that'd happened to me, I felt grateful. There were beggars in a worse condition out there cowering in the rain with no company, while I was snug with the best person in the world. And I was in the Loner, a haven I'd created for myself when I'd realized that no prince charming was going to rescue me. Damsel in distress? I was a warrior who'd survived the harsh reality and so intended to continue.

Messiah's breathing had stilled, and he was snoring in my arms. I smiled inwardly– This dog would never cease to charm me– and felt the strings of exhaust drag my eyelids lower and lower till they were so heavy that the next thing I remembered was waking up in the morn.

=∆=∆=∆=

I moaned. Waking up was the most strenuous part of the day– no matter how many times you did this, you never got used to it. I wriggled a bit, trying to haul myself up, but the blanket seemed to have a magnetic aura drawing my body to it.

The rain had stopped, but the remnants of the shower had not disappeared yet. The air still had a cloudy feel, and the vague signs of standing water could be seen from the Loner. Messiah was also whining pompously in his vivid fantasies. Gee, wonder what he saw?

Absently stroking his back, I hefted myself, parting from my dearest blanket. I was surprised to find the Loner in one piece– The storm had been quite severe, but this was my haven, and I'd built it. One mighty storm couldn't bring it down.

The Loner was a cozy place, if not sumptuous– Small, compatible, and just what a typical cast-out needed. It wasn't a room, really, just an assembled monument made from broken branches and a spice of creativity. It'd been transformed from a useless, abandoned dead end to a homely place equipped to aid two, inclusive of a scruffy Canidae. Three sides of surrounding masses of bricks and the ceiling made from inclined tiles of diverse materials– metal, wood, a deserted suitcase, the arms of a former barbie, you name it– all held up by multiple shafts of branches I'd collected from the local park. It sufficed in the summer, but in the cold months, I had to add a sheet of one of those large plastic liners over the makeshift ceiling to prevent water from leaking within.

My belongings? Apart from the baggy trousers and choking T-shirt I was wearing, my attire consisted of a beanie, a worn jacket with a ripped zipper, some more shirts of funny sizes, underwear, a couple of exotic leggings, and more suspicious bottom wear. I owned a half dozen second-handed textbooks, but they were only open for times when I wanted a headache. Other than that, I didn't have much– a lonely football, yesterday's leftovers, scraps of paper with doodles on them, a pair of broken sunglasses, some water bottles, and a used teabag. Oh, and my mother's trunk and a bicycle I'd constructed on my own.

Just thinking about her trunk made me sick– for some reason, I could never dare to dunk that and its contents in the sea not so far away, nor did I have the guts to cosset it, considering it was the only thing with which my past life had any remote connection.

I groaned and rubbed my eye vigorously, trying to shake off some of the wooziness. After stretching a bit, I got up surreptitiously without awakening Messiah, grabbed the first clean outfit I spotted in the laid-out on in the rumped heap of clothes, and went out.

I had to say the rain had done the neighborhood some good. The pavement, which dirt and grime had gilded it, shone beautifully like the early morning sunshine. It smelt like moisture and not the olfactory one of vested urine, squelch and muck. I did not stop to enjoy the pleasant change in weather– Versley Shade does not waste any time.

Aim– Leave constructive feedback on the quality of the showers of the bar behind the Loner. Within minutes, I had suitably decked in a round-neck T-shirt reading MOMS ON THE RUN! and one of my delicacies, the black tights. To null the embarrassment, I zipped up my grey-with-a-pink-stripe jacket and forged ahead.

About the showers? Unsatisfactory. The hot water was more like a boiling bath of blood, and the cold portion of the shower stall didn't work at all. The other stalls better not be in the same misbegotten condition.

I hoped the manager didn't take the note posted on the bar's door too personally and worked towards the prosperity of his future clients.

The next step was to drag Messiah to the local dump yard (Not to leave him there or anything). Since being a cast-out obliterated any chances of earning a decent income, it was time to let the creative juices overflow. I did absurd chores to fill my stomach every day, and I honestly tried to give reading a chance or two, but sometimes, giving your best isn't enough.

"Messiah, " I shoved my hands in jacket's pockets and skipped to the Loner. "Mama's coming!" I felt unusually cheery today, as if some part of me had foretold the day's happenings and found them mildly pleasing. But something told me that the fluttery giddiness wouldn't last long– nothing ever does.

I peeped inside the Loner. "Messiah?" To my bafflement, the Loner was still as the swimming pools are during the snowing Winter. It lacked its irate barking and whooping, chewing on my stuff, and basically drooling all over the floor. Like the Loner's heart was ripped out.

"Messiah? You there?" I don't give up, even though deep down, I know he's in trouble. Messiah knows the routine– wake up and stay here. I have a hunch he's still here; there's his scent still blazing through the mini home.

A muffle sounded from beneath the lump of clothes stacked in the corner, and a wave of unavoidable relief washes over me. Perhaps I was hyperventilating for no apparent reason.

"Oh, you stupid dog, you almost worried me to death." I frowned, shaking my head as I approached the lump. "And get the heck out of my clothes– Haven't you ever heard of privacy? Personal hygiene?" The clothing growled in response. I had never known Messiah to snarl at me, and that was certainly out of the ordinary. Plus, Messiah's howl sounded more like a choked weasel, and no matter from which angle I looked at this, this one still was far away from measly.

I froze mid-way my shake. A levitating figure at the adjacent corner was much too compelling than the shuffling clothing. A shining black guard dog hovered a couple feet in the air, the jaw unhinged like it did just before he attacked. His claws had elongated to their actual size, and there was a mixed composition of fear and loyalty displayed in his expression. The most disturbing was the cloudy mist swirling in his otherwise determined eyes. How had I not noticed him before?

Involuntarily taking a step back, I clambered into the Loner's only table. As much as I hate to admit this, it took me some time before I regained my eloquent, complacent self. "Freaking fuc-" I slowly put a leg down, intending to rush over to Messiah's side.

The table lifted, though it wouldn't go crashing into the so-called ceiling. It floated in the air because it was totally normal for wooden chattels to start having hot-air balloon like dreams. Blood was pounding in my ears, but I still registered how uncomfortable it was to stand-squat-sit with one leg rocking aimlessly beside the table.

The mug, with my last teabag reeling on the other end of the wood, exploded in a terrifying blast, scattering spindles of ceramic on my face. It was hard not to lose my balance and fall nose-first on the ground with the dust from the explosion wafting through my nostrils. Heck, if I sneezed wrong, I might die from a disproportionate nosebleed.

The situation felt so wrong... but so anticipated, if not rational. After facing the worst, I supposed, what else was left? After being scarred by stabs in the back, what different was one from an unholy thing? Mom dealt in such stuff, so I had foreseen such an encounter at some stage of my life. I expected myself to start panicking any moment, finally grasping the reality of the scene. Instead, the only thing I wanted to do most at the moment was the get my Messiah back. I felt a sudden searing rage shoot through my body, flaying my cells alive. One thing was to mess with me; another was with Messiah. Supernatural or not, this thing would pay.