Chapter 36: Crawling Arms
1111 Words
Carlissa Fauxier went outside of her house.
As soon as she stepped out of her newly-made varnished door, she stretched her body. She was wearing her newly brought bath robe—gold in color—which she had wore after taking her indulging bath.
Three days had passed.
There was a catastrophic change of lifestyle for Carlissa. The mud and soil lifestyle she was suffering from, were immediately erased in trace in just a spur and snap of day. Her neighbors noticed the sudden change in her: she was not the poor Carlissa that they knew anymore.
The people in the slum neighborhood knew Carlissa very much. She was known for her uncountable debts. This woman, as known to have been borrowing money to everyone she knew in their place, has been hiding to them. Some people says that she had no plans to pay the debts and loans she borrowed, because how would she pay if she has no source of income to get from? All she did was to borrow money, spend it to her alcohols and cigarettes, then run away from them when she was being asked to pay.
She was known to be a scam. A woman who always pretentiously promise paying her borrowed money, but would just hide when the time comes the people would ask to return for their money.
But the breeze of the wind has changed.
Carlissa wasn’t hiding to the people she had borrowed money from, anymore. In fact, she seem to flaunt herself; her new bearings, bags, clothes, and even accessories. She tried walking on the road with full makeup and luxurious wardrobes. The best thing, she paid all the list of her debts, and even added interests to them, which made their debtors happy.
Just yesterday, she was called with an alias: the Seniorita of the city slum.
She was like an instant millionaire. An instant rich woman. But no one among the people in the slums could tell where was she getting her money. What source, who, or how—the residences of their neighborhood had different versions of conspiracies.
It was around nine of the evening when she decided to stroll out of her under-repair house, stretching her fresh-from-the-bath body, and wearing a golden bathrobe. On her left hand, there she was holding a champagne-filled glass. She was moving it, and motioning the liquor inside to spin. On her right hand is her phone. On it, she was reading the statement of her online bank account. Specifically, she was staring at the big sizes of numbers written at the upper section of screen: Seven hundred fifteen thousand dollars.
She sighed. Then, she muttered; “bullshit, how am I going spend all this money?”
She stared above the sky, and then sighed again. The pollution from the smokes of vehicles in the city had gravely covered the supposed to be twinkling stars. Realizing that she was suffering from a problem of spending her abundant source of money, she laughed.
“Damn it. Thinking where to spend my money is a much more headache than thinking where to get money.” Her realization is quite amusing.
Three days had passed, and the total money she received in her bank account reached nine hundred thousand dollars already. She hadn’t even spent half of the money she received.
“And tomorrow, I’ll be receiving another three hundred thousand dollars. Bullshit.” She shook her head with an evil grin. Then she sipped through her champagne glass.
“Ah, my son Tristan. I wonder how you’re doing inside Josen High. I bet you’re the best player among the outstanding students.”
Yes, it was all thanks to Tristan—her son—on why was she enjoying the privilege of abundant money in her bank accounts. She had ruthlessly sent her own son, her own blood, inside a dangerous school filled with death-glorified and unreasonable secret killings.
She doesn’t care.
She doesn’t doubt, nor regret—instead, she was ecstatic that her problems in money was finally resolved because of Tristan.
To be honest, she found herself genius because she was able to think of place where she could finally make use of her son. She once had this gut that she would be able to use her son in some sort of manner where she could be advantageous of. And finally, she found it. She found the secret organization of Josen Highschool and their incognito recruitment.
“The night’s kind’a freaky. Guess I’ll go back inside.” With one final sip in her champagne glass, she started to walk back on her house.
But she stopped when she heard something.
“Help.”
With a wide eyes, she glanced towards the cluster of pots and plants she had placed earlier this morning.
“Help.” The voice was weak, rasped, and low.
“Who’s there?” Carlissa asked. Yet, despite a minute passed, no one answered. “Hey, is anyone there?”
Receiving no reply, she sighed. She glowered through the direction of her plants, and said; “whoever you are trying to play with me, go home. Your play was not funny.”
“No… help,” the voice behind the pots and plants erupted again.
Carlissa cluck her tongue. Irritated, she decided to walk towards the group of plants when an arm appeared from the last part of the pots. Because of shock, she jumped and scream. Loud. Terrified. Panicked.
She fell unbalanced. She stumbled and sat through the ground. Looking at the arm, she saw it moving as if it was trying to creep. Move.
Her breathing became hard. Frantic. Cold sweat came off of her forehead and neck. Driven with fear, she scurried away from the moving arm. Until she saw another arm; the pair of the arm she first saw.
When she saw the face of the owner of the hand, the panic inside her chest were flushed down. Despite the fact that the face of the owner of the hand were filled with dirt, Carlissa could easily notice the handsome features it possess.
She slowly stood up, still looking at the man that was lying on the dirty ground.
“E—excuse me, are you alright?” Carlissa asked.
“Hello?” Slowly, she neared towards the man. It doesn’t take someone to be intelligent to know that he was unconscious—and that he needs help.
As she observe his physical features, his well-toned body, his handsome face, she almost want to hit and slap her cheeks. Because this kind of handsome will never be a ghost. ‘No, never, impossible,’ she thought.
- Writer
