Rise of Red

Chapter 1: It All Starts Here

For anyone who was born on Friday the 13th, you know how much of a burden it is to live. Perhaps you weren't born on that forsaken day, but still know the feeling of wallowing depression, dragging you down and ensnaring you in its chains.

For me, life sucks.

Maybe it's because of my stupid birth date, perhaps not; all I know is that the world can shatter around you at a moment's notice, sending you falling into a void of icy, burning blackness, like a fire of ice consuming your very being.

I didn't come from a family of means, not the slightest. My father was an addict, and my mother was working hard to support our family while expecting nonetheless, and I was left to take care of my younger brother.

We lived in the South End, where poor families with little to no financial support were crammed into crumbling apartment buildings to keep folks off the streets. Can't say it worked very well, though.

The apartments were the government's one-stop-and-done solution to the poverty crisis that struck the city ten years ago, but they weren't enough to support us, no matter what the government claimed. There was no electricity, tiny rooms, water at an occasional trickle, and dry rot everywhere, skating across the walls like white and gold clouds before a storm.

I once knew a girl about my age, with ginger curls, splashes of freckles across her rosy cheeks, and bright, evergreen eyes. Her name was Matilda, and her apartment was right down the hall and up the stairs. We became close friends, imagining adventures beyond the crumbling walls of mold and whitewashed walls.

But then, Matilda's father lost his job, and they couldn't even afford the pitiful cost of living in the beaten down apartments, like many others before them. There was no food, no way to make money, and no way to accommodate living out on the streets, and her father died of leukemia only months after.

Matilda became a regular in our own apartment and Jermy, my younger brother, and I would always be thrilled to see her. At one point, we even asked our father and mother if she could stay with us. My father frowned, his brows furrowing, the silence punctuated only by his wheezing, hacking cough. My mother, with her messy brown hair and round figure taking almost a quarter of the tiny room. She shepherded my father upstairs, and then gave the three of us a smile, her tired hazel eyes filled with sadness.

"No, darlin's, I'm sorry. But it just won't work," She said, a slight twang in her hoarse voice, shadowing her county background. "An' your father, well," she continued, eyeing Matilda, as if expecting some reaction to the word that would remind the girl of what she had lost. "He just ain't fit to have another young 'un 'round." She finally finished. She wished it was different, we could all see it in those sad eyes.

We trudged outside, sadness wallowing in each of our hearts, a sinking, inky depression dragging each of us down. Matilda finally broke the awkward silence. "Well, thanks for trying, I guess," She gave us a forced half smile that didn't quite reach her emerald eyes, which reflected only sadness back upon us. She then turned and walked down the hall, rotten wood creaking under her feet.

That was the last time we ever saw her.

She disappeared shortly after, and we could only assume that she had died somewhere, cold and sad and alone, likely in some grimy alley in artic cold, watching her foggy white breaths puff in front of her, forming clouds, slower and slower, as the world grew fuzzy, gray, and soon a shade of sleeping black, a peaceful calm in the shade of ebony, an ink-colored numbness that would last her forever.

Sometimes, when I walk down that hallway, I still see her. My memory of her is faded and the image of the bulky coat is blurred around the edges, but she's there. Perhaps not in body, maybe not even in spirit, but still thrives in memory.

From then on, my life didn't get much better.

With the knowledge that we'd never see Matilda again, the world had ended for my brother and I.

A resounding bang! brings us back down to Earth. This meant that our father had rolled out of his bed... again. He always flipped and flopped about like a fish out of water when he didn't want to rest, in a way of silent protest against my poor mother, who held the family together while she cooked, cleaned, and managed my fathers horrific habits.

The coming weeks held no joy nor sleep for my brother and I, as we lay awake in the inky darkness, the wind screaming outside, rushing in like flecks of ice on us. Sometimes things happen in the world and whether they just happen too fast or you knew you couldn't do anything, and even if you knew that you were in no position of power to change the course of events, you still end up blaming yourself for it.

That's what was happening to me.

I couldn't magic up more room in our tiny apartment. I couldn't fix my dad's landslide of bad habits and terrible decisions. I couldn't stop Matilda's father from losing his job, from them losing their apartment, from their deaths. I couldn't even fix my own family's financial— wait.

I carefully shifted out of my bed, trying not to disturb my brother, who was snoring peacefully across the room. Thievery isn't right, I know it isn't, and I knew then, too. But desperate times call for desperate measures. The ancient wood creaks under me, sending my head whipping round to see if my mother would come at the sound of the noise. If she did, I would have to run like a rabbit from a hawk to my bed.

Still, no one came. Everyone was still caught in their own doubts, thoughts, and dreams.