Ayana is 6 years old.
Early one morning, 1 week after Ayana's first meeting with Tate, the young brunette is crouched in the grass of her backyard. In on hand she tenderly prods at her swelling cheek bone, the other hand clutches a large rock, wth which any wandering ants met a sudden swift end.
Unbeknownst to the girl, an 11 year old Michael Langdon approaches from behind. His hungry eyes cold and calculating.
Constance Langdon watches on from her kitchen window, overlooking the conjoined yards. A hopeful smile dares to to pull at her ruby red lips. However, any hopes of friendship she had for her grandson are dashed, when the golden sunlight that bathes her lawn glitters wickedly off the blade, clutched behind Michael's back.
For a second Constance feels inclined to stop the boy, but the thought is fleeting. Shrugging, Constance turns away from the pair, and in swiping up a golden compact, inspects her admittedly aging sculpted features.
"Y'know, you shouldn't leave your back so open. 'Makes you easy prey."
Michael smirked, his perfectly curved blonde locks falling over his eyes. Slowly, Michael draws the long blade from behind his back, waiting in anticipation for the girl to turn.
However, instead of turning in shock, with the delicious with the delicious face of fear young Michael craves, Ayana merely sighs, her chestnut curls slipping off her thin shoulders.
"I wouldn't mind. When I'm dead, 'he' won't find me ever when I hide.."
Michael's sickening grin dropped, his hungry gaze fading into... Amusement. The adolescent chuckled.
"Stand up."
Slowly, wincing in pain, Ayana stands. Michael's perfectly shaped eyebrows raise at the girl's submission, her back still left vulnerable and facing towards his blade.
"Turn to face me."
Silently, the eleven year old starred down at the young child's swollen features; Michael's smug smile falls to a hard line.
There is no sport in hunting already lame game.
In one flick, Michael flips the knife in his hand, the handle now facing towards Ayana's beaten body. In a small voice, she whispers,
"But I'm not mad at you."
Michael smiles, his deep saphire eyes meeting Ayana's steely blues.
"Pretend."
Quicker than a blink, Ayana's small chubby hands swipe up the knife, a grunt of effort escapes her cracked lips. With all her strength, Ayana lunges forward, her entire weight behind the stab aimed at Michael's abdomen.
Michael sidesteps the lunge, grabs hold of her thin wrists and twists, disarming her and sending the knife clattering to the ground.
The screen door slams open on the Langdon residence, announcing Constance's frantic steps onto her back porch. Her eyes wide with fear for her grandson's life.
She suddenly stops in her tracks, Michael's gaze now barring into her own. Slowly with hesitation, Mrs Langdon retreats into her home.
Ayana pants, her eyes still locked on the strangely familiar boy who now holds her close, yet she feels no comfort. Smiling, Michael released her from his grip, scoops up the blade and presses the handle back into her hands.
"You're fast, that's good. Instead of trying to use your brute strength, rely on your speed. And don't aim for the fatality blow straight away, play with your prey first... Try again."
And so the odd pattern continued. Ayana would stab with near misses, Michael would disarm and critique her. Until finally, Michael grunted in pain.
"Hng... Good job. You're fast like a bird, and a quick learner... I like that."
The pale boy inspected the small cut in his forearm, a thick bead of crimson blood staining his sleeve.
Ayana, as though finally waking from a dream-like state, covered her face with her palms, one still clutching the blade, and began to softly cry.
The 11 year old sighed, rolling his cat-like eyes at the girl's blubbering. Carefully, the boy removed the weapon from her weak grasp, and with much effort, pantomimed affection for the child. Wrapping his arms stiffly around her small stature, he sighed, disappointed.
"Never cry in front of your enemy, it shows them weakness. They'll use that against you."
Without warning, Michael gathered up Ayana's long curls in his left hand, and in one cut sliced them off. The remaining waves fell to frame the 6 year old's shocked features.
"You should keep you hair short too, there's less for 'him' to grab hold of."
As silently as he had appeared, the boy released the girl and vanished back into the Langdon residence, her curls still clutched in his palm. Once inside, he inhaled deeply against the locks, the stench of fear still tainting them. He smiled.
Fiercely rubbing her shiny eyes, Ayana too slowly retreated back into her new home.
YOU ARE READING
Silver Linings
Fiksi PenggemarAyana was only 6 years old when her abusive parents moved her into the famous Los Angeles Murder House, and you know what they say about negligent parents: Where affection is absent, evil resides...
