Dangers in my Heart

Chapter 10

Lisa walked up to me, her smirk already in place. "You stalking me, Jennie Kim?" she teased, her tone light but carrying that ever-present hint of mischief.

My face warmed as I quickly stammered, "No... no..."

She chuckled, clearly amused by my flustered reaction. "You know," she said, her voice dropping to a softer tone, "you could've just said you wanted to come."

I straightened up, trying to regain my composure. "I was just checking up on you," I said, motioning to her side where her wound was still healing.

Lisa followed my gesture and grinned. "Yeah, it does still hurt. So... patch it up later?" she asked, her casual tone brushing off the discomfort. "I still got the kids to hang out with."

I shook my head, a little annoyed at her stubbornness. "Don't walk too much. Let's sit somewhere."

To my surprise, she nodded, and we walked together to a nearby bench. It had a perfect view of the children playing on the well-manicured lawn. Their laughter filled the air, occasionally interrupted by one or two of them running over to talk to us before darting back to their games.

Lisa leaned back on the bench, her eyes following the kids as they played. For a moment, she was quiet, and I thought she might just enjoy the moment without speaking. But then she said something that caught me off guard.

"This is a side I never want anyone to see," she said softly, almost as if she was talking to herself.

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as if debating whether to continue. Finally, she let out a deep sigh and turned her head to look at me. "Oh gosh," she muttered, shaking her head, "I'm about to tell you a side of me that I've kept hidden for a long time..."

Her words were heavy with something I couldn't quite place—regret, maybe, or vulnerability. I stayed silent, giving her the space to continue.

"This orphanage," she began, gesturing toward the building, "was where I came from. I didn't know who my parents were. All my life, this place was all I knew. The people, the walls, the yard—it was my entire world."

She paused, her eyes growing distant as though she was looking at a memory far away.

"But," she continued, her voice harder now, "given the person I am, of course, I was a rebel. I'd sneak out, steal food, money—whatever I could get my hands on. And every time I got caught by the police, Sister Abigail, the nun in charge here, would plead with the officers to let me stay. She'd beg them to let it go, and for some reason, they always listened."

A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "And what did I do? I'd just go out and do it all over again. Until one night, I decided I'd had enough. I wanted more. I wanted to make a name for myself."

Her voice softened, almost breaking. "I left a note for Sister Abigail that night. Told her I'd come back someday and help this orphanage. And then I left."

I could feel the weight of her words, the years of struggle hidden in her voice. She shook her head slightly as if to push away the emotions.

"It took years, Jennie," she said, her voice low but steady. "It wasn't easy. Not one damn bit."

She looked at the children then, her gaze tender but haunted. "But you know what, Jennie? Even when you're out there, looking for yourself or chasing whatever it is you want... you never forget where you came from. Never."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I watched as her features softened, her walls momentarily down. This wasn't the Lisa I thought I knew—the teasing, arrogant woman who always seemed to have a plan.

This was someone else entirely. Someone who had lived a life far more complicated than I could have imagined.

•••

Lisa turned her head to me, her expression softening as she spoke. "When I came back, the first thing I did was visit Sister Abigail," she began, her voice carrying an unusual vulnerability. "Of course, she was happy to see me, and I was happy too. I finally had the resources to help—to fix the food shortages, to pay for electricity, to give back what this place had given me."

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she continued, her voice taking on a more somber tone. "But the look on Sister Abigail's face wasn't what I expected. It wasn't happiness." Lisa's jaw tightened as if the memory still stung. "It was hurt. Pain. She even muttered something... said, 'If only you'd chosen a different path, if only you weren't...'"

She trailed off and took a deep breath. "Not a gang leader," she finished, the words weighed down with shame.

I watched her carefully, her gaze distant as if she were reliving that moment. She shook her head slightly and continued, "Over time, she accepted it. She always does. But the worry—it's still there, Jennie. It never goes away. Even now."

Lisa pressed her lips together, her hand absently running through her short hair. "She placed her hand over my heart," she said, her voice softer now, "and told me, 'This is your home. There is always good in you, Lisa.' Those words... they're the only thing that ever made me feel like I wasn't beyond saving."

She glanced at the children, her eyes tracing their laughter and joy. "Coming here," she said after a long pause, "makes me forget everything. That I've killed people, that I'm this... this monster. Here, I feel human, Jennie. Like a normal human being."

For a moment, her lips curled into a faint smile. "Well," she said, breaking the tension in her tone, "now you know everything."

Something inside me shifted. Her words, her honesty, her pain—it was all so raw, so unfiltered. Without thinking, my hand moved. It reached out, and my thumb gently grazed her cheek.

Her eyes widened at the contact, startled, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a side of Lisa she rarely, if ever, let anyone see. Vulnerable. Open.

She didn't move, just stared at me, as if searching for something in my gaze. The moment felt like an eternity—fragile and delicate, as if the smallest word could shatter it.

And then, as if the universe decided to remind us where we were, one of the kids broke through the moment. The little boy giggled as he hopped onto my lap, his tiny arms wrapping around my waist.

Lisa blinked, breaking our locked gaze. I let out a small laugh, my hand moving from her cheek to hold the boy steady. "Well, hello there," I said softly to the child, who grinned up at me.

We started talking—he told me his name, about his favorite game, and a story about the big tree in the yard. I listened intently, smiling at his animated expressions and the way he talked with his hands.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lisa watching us. She leaned back on the bench, her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. It wasn't the smirk she usually wore, the one filled with confidence and swagger. It was different—softer, more genuine.

And for the first time, I wondered what it would take for Lisa to feel like this more often. Human. Like a normal human being.