Mia's P.O.V

I feel a hand tug at my arm, but I can't look away.

"Let's go back now," Loré says just as Oswald catches me staring. His brow scrunches as if to put a name on my familiar face. He loosens his grip on his drink, and the shoulder blades of his mauve-stripped shirt gradually tense. His eyes dilate, flooding tides of humiliation through the wooden cage, shielding my perseverance. Suddenly, I feel exposed. It's not so much about the length of my clothing, but it is about the implications of him seeing me.

What will he do? What should I do? Am I going to get in trouble for letting him see me?

Even as Loré obliviously pulls me out of there, I can't help checking behind my shoulder if he's following me. Loré leaves me on a dark-lit mini-stage at the top of the steps with two punk guys. Wordless, one of the men nudges me back to Earth and gives me a guitar.

"Hey, chill," the other one with spiky hair and a face tattoo cheers, "just follow our lead, and you'll be good."

Twelve minutes later, the band starts playing. I miss some parts of the lyrics because they are going so fast. It's a rush of adrenaline pounding my head, feet, and everywhere. I relish finally managing to play in their rhythm. They are going too fast. The club starts shouting, hooting, jumping, and romping as if the music is not deafening.
My hands are mush by the last note. The crowd applauds. I collapse onto a couch, out of breath. I stay frozen as the band guys send someone to call Loré to come and get me home.

"You're alright?" The lanky, pimple-faced mixed guy sits opposite me. I consider the question momentarily, then nod, realising things turned out far better than I expected. I'm glad that I didn't have to perform for perverts or do anything detrimental. This gig is good. It's too good to be true, especially if I'm being paid a lot to just play for stoned and inebriated - otherwise ordinary - people.

"How old are you?" He asks.

"Fifteen," I reply and instantly regret it. I should have thought first. He turns to his buddy, who shakes his head as if to say, "Well, it is what it is."

"Well, urr," he tilts his head up, still grimacing," that should not be allowed, but I don't know. But in that case, you should be careful around here."

"Ya," tattoo face butts in. The two of them share a look again, and then the former resumes to say," So be careful, ya? Don't hang around strange people. Don't take drinks from -"

"-Dude, she's not nine," tattoo face tries to interrupt him, but he rolls his eyes," Shut up! I'm trying to prevent what happened the last time from happening again." Then his focus ricochets to me again. "Listen, there was this friend of ours. The last time we saw her, she was dancing like crazy with the crowd. The next minute, she was convulsing. Someone had to call 911, and it was all because some guy spiked her drink or something like that, right?" By now, his buddy is plopping down beside him with a water bottle in hand, nodding. "Yeah, it was this drug, some pink pill that could make people paralyse and shit."

My ears tingle at the words 'pink pills'. I scoot closer, neglecting all fears to implore, "What do they look like? The drugs?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. " I slump back to the couch, dissatisfied. If he notices my disappointment, he doesn't say anything about it, but a flicker of confusion flashes in his black eyes. He looks above my head, only for a hand to touch it. I flinch, scared that it's Oswald,

But then, Loré laughs, appearing from behind me. "Chill, kid. I'm just here to congratulate you. You did great."

*

She phones Andres before letting me have my stuff back in the dressing room.

"Listen, he's busy right now," she says while I change into my clothes. "So, you will have to get the bus home. There's a stop not too far from here. If you just follow the crowd, you'll see it. Urm, with the yellow booth or something. I don't know, but you've got to go immediately because, you know, it's getting late." Then she tossed me a polka dot purse before I can say Jack. "The money is in there, so urm, just go now. For your own safety, ya?"

I nod.

Peeking at the money inside, I make my way out. Night air bites my jeans. The shift from neon flashes to streetlights illuminates inebriated crowds. I have to trail behind them. Some drunk guys catch my wary glare, so I look away. I pass by a construction site, one familiar landmark.

"Good, Mia, you are taking the right route." I encourage myself. My thoughts travel to the pills the guys talked about and those in my room. I think I have to ask them what happened to their friend again. Maybe this is my first step to finding the truth about Dad. Maybe.

The only sound I acknowledge is the scrunching of my feet.

"Yoo, you over there!!" Someone hollers.

I spin fast, a jolt shocking my bones. Through dim lights, five pairs of male eyes instantly lock mine.

No one needs to tell me to flee.

"Hey!!" Footsteps trail behind me.

"HEY!" I run faster. My heart threatens to rip out of my chest, fear pushing adrenaline through all my joints. Now they're really chasing me. When I make the mistake of turning, I see one particular guy drawing closer, causing fear to grip me tighter.

"Stop RUNNING!!!"

I feel a sharp jerk at my bag. Before I can thrust my arm at his face, he reaches for it and pulls me into him, to my utmost horror.

"LET GO OF ME! -"

My elbow launches at his chest. He yelps. Taking it as an opportunity, I wriggle my hand free and almost dash off when arms wrap me from behind.

"Help! HEL- Mm-"

"-Calm the fuck down," their owner orders with his hand muffling my screeches. My limbs, however, continue thrusting frantically at him until I get a good look at his youthful face. He looks familiar, like someone I may have seen at school.

All the guys have masks on, including him, but his is so tattered that I can make out the paleness of his face which matches the hair strands peeking out.

Having caught up with us, another guy snatches my backpack and yanks it open next to me. If only the blond dude loosens his grip just a little for me to reach for my pocket knife in the side pocket.

Suddenly, a black Porsche revs in our direction. They don't waste a second in taking to their heels. Shielding my eyes from the headlights, I grab the stuff they neglected and run into the passenger seat.

"Are you ok? Did they hurt you?!" Oswald's attention is more on me than the road. My head shakes, unaware of which question it is supposed to answer. I check my backpack, only to realise they took the polka dot purse. How did I not see that?

"I'm so stupid."

"No, you are not," Oswald gives me yet another this is none of your fault look.
"Are you fine?"

I nod, but my head is whirling through too many emotions to register the question. I can still feel myself pressed into that guy, and I'm in even deeper waters now that the money is gone.

Aunt Lisa is going to kill me!

"Don't take me home."

"What?" He slows down.

"Please. Don't take me home." I reiterate, quivering. "My little Cas is home, so I can't take you with me," he replies in guilt, " are you hurt?"

"No." But I will be if you take me home.

I take in deep breaths, close my eyes, and bite my tongue. I want it to bleed so that it grabs all my attention. So that I won't think about anything else. So that I don't break in front of this stranger. If he takes me home, I may have to cut it entirely. Maybe that will earn me a little of Aunt Lisa's sympathy.

When my eyelids flare up, we're at the house. I stagger safely behind Oswald as the mid-thirties-looking short man knocks. Aunt Lisa opens the door instantly as if she has been waiting for someone. That someone is definitely not him; it's evident from the discombobulated look she gives him.

"Why did I see her in a nightclub?" He hits the nail on its head, drawing her gaze to my morose facial expression.

He snaps her focus back. "Do you know what happened to her?! She was attacked and robbed, and she should not have been there in the first place -"

"-She's not a baby," Lisa snaps. " Mia, get the fuck inside."

This is how I know there is no sympathy for me: when she gives me an accusatory poignant glower as if it's all my fault. She doesn't even know that the money is missing yet. What will be her reaction then?

I scurry inside. Oswald does not stop me. Running to my room, I lock the door behind me. I take out the revolver and sit upright on my bed.

My tongue finally bleeds. A gentle knock ripples through the door.

Another knock.

My grip on the revolver tightens.

A third knock.

A violent shiver runs up my spine.

Silence.

I wait with bated breath. There's still no sound.

Slowly, I inch off my bed, nearing the door. I peer through the keyhole. A light green wall stares back. No Aunt Lisa is in sight.

I can breathe now.

Evening air intakes, I bend over the gap between the wardrobe and a messy, dull light blue coating - how I painted it was uneven compared to the rest of the wall. Removing the plank expertly, I yank out the suitcase.

I find a small container used to house antibiotic tablets and scoop as many pills as possible to fit in it.

Tomorrow, I'll fix everything. I'll go back and find the guys who stole the money, whatever it takes. I'll go back and show the pills to the band guys. Maybe they can help me know more about them and eventually learn the truth about Dad.

"But do you really want to know?" A small voice in my head rings.

I shrug.

I have been averting thoughts about the suitcase for quite a while now, not just because of the events of this past week but also because I do not know what I really want. On the one hand, realising that Dad could have led a different life outside my knowledge of him scares me, and on the other hand, I feel that I can't let go of a man I might know nothing about. Why does his death shatter my heart? Because he's my dad? But that's not all he was. He was a lot of things, maybe terrible things too. He was more.

More of what is the question.

I can't convince myself that he's genuinely gone when I can't grieve him, and I can't mourn him if I don't know him. So, as long as I keep going without knowing, he will still be in the back of my mind, popping in and out like the men Aunt Lisa invites home.

Or maybe not. Maybe the more I learned about him, the more he lives in my head. I don't know. It's all confusing. Anyway, I haven't been able to catch a break since, so I am cutting myself some slack. I'll take my time.

Like Dad always said: " No need to run for eggs. You might miss them being crushed under your feet."

I also have to focus on my studies, avoid crazy girlfriends, not smoke weed again, find a way to repay the money I lost, learn some defence skills to prevent another mugging, and basically ... survive. I have to endure like Dad would've expected.

The following day, Aunt Lisa is waiting for me downstairs. She sits at my usual post behind the kitchen counter, a cigar in hand. She leans back as I gulp and hassle down the stairs. I grab an apple from the fridge.

"Sorry, I lost the money," I utter as vehemently as possible on a school day when I haven't had enough rest the previous night.

She nods, indifferent.

I am surprised. "I'll try to get the money back."

"Ok."

"Ok," I utter, wondering why she's yet to yell at me.

Silence ensues.

She exhibits a vapid beam. "Aren't you gonna ask how I got rid of Oswald?"

"How?" The feigned curiosity in my tone is a token of gratitude for her 'mercy'. If she knows this, her smirk doesn't give her away.

"I had to remind him that he's not a nice guy saving a poor helpless victim," she snorts," he's a monster who cheats on his wife and thinks that because we're fucking, he has the right to meddle in my business. "

"Oh."

"Then I told him to go back to Mrs Beveltwood before I tell her about our affair. Sent him, bawling his eyes out. "

"Oh," I mutter again unconsciously. She takes a drag and exhales in triumph as I imagine the whole situation unfolding on our porch. The neighbours must have had a field day witnessing a soap opera dramatised from their windows. Oswald must have walked away with his head down. I don't condone his cheating, but he did save me. If he's a monster for that, what do you call the woman who led him and many other men on?

I am now starting to wonder if she also felt guilt - which can be why she is unfazed about the money - when suddenly it dawns on me.

"His wife is Mrs Beveltwood?"

"Ya, why?"

"It's just -" I say, processing, " is..is his daughter called Casey? As in Casey Beveltwood?"

"Ya, why?" she iterates, still perplexed. I facepalm.

"Shit."

*