Our Darkest Knights

Chapter Two

A bunny holding a lightsaber.

Each morning, I stare up at my ceiling and find new shapes to make out of the mold growing above my bed, I find comfort in their peculiar shapes. Each day the mold unveils a new image of the strange little world on my ceiling. Yesterday it was a little girl with pigtails strangling a snake. I started playing this game to delay the inevitable: facing the day. Mornings are not my thing and I linger in this moldy mural until my stomach growls, reminding me that school is the only place I eat.

My morning routine is brief, given my limited wardrobe and financial constraints—falling two months behind on rent leaves no room for luxuries like new clothes. With no electricity or running water, even simple tasks like showering and using the bathroom become challenging. I've come to depend on the school showers, and I do my business at the Gas-mart across the street. Waking up to pee at 3 am is a real bitch. The bush outside my front steps has certainly witnessed its fair share of adventures.

Don't mistake this for a complaint session. I was homeless before. Finding shelter wherever I could to escape the cold night air—often it meant curling up inside the swirly slides at the park or seeking refuge behind dumpsters. My current apartment, more like a glorified closet, is empty, other than the treasures I salvaged from the garbage or the side of the road, like my bed I got from outside my apartment building on trash day, discarded by one of my neighbors. When you've spent nights in filth with rats the size of chihuahuas, you get less picky with things. Fortunately, the bed didn't come with any bed bugs or too many questionable stains. But let's be real, even if it did, I'd probably still have taken it.

I live alone in my tiny shoe box. My only companions nowadays are the ghosts of my deceased parents, who departed this world when I was just twelve years old. At the same time, I was losing my childhood innocence. I was also losing my parents. I upgraded into a teenager and an orphan the same year. My father was the first to go. His death was a tragic accident. I didn't mean to kill him.

I spent 6 years in the juvenile confines of Darmanes local jail, which wasn't as bad as the prison I transitioned to at the tender age of sixteen, an unwelcome upgrade that defined my existence until I became a legal adult. Eloise, the Caspien of our city, wanted nothing more than to see me wither away behind cold prison bars for the rest of my young days. I disgraced her name and this town, and she hated me for it. I was originally given ten years but only had to serve six due to overcrowded cells. The crime rate in our city is very high. How could it not be? A mere glance at the wrong individual could land you in the slammer. So, it isn't unusual for cells to be bursting at the seams. A random selection process takes place, if selected, you are released early, no matter what crime you are in for. I was surprised that my name was drawn, before, I would have bet money those things were rigged.

Eloise was seething about my premature release, and I know she is watching me closely, eagerly anticipating any slip-ups. If I so much as jaywalk, she will toss me back in and throw the key into the abyss.

I got the news of my mother's passing a few months after I was charged. Her suicide note read:

"Katie, I'm so sorry that I have broken my promise to you, especially now. I'm just not strong enough on my own.

We will meet again someday, somewhere where the trees never cease to sway,"

That letter obliterated any flicker of light that was left in me. Days passed without eating or bathing, a numbed stretch that felt like weeks. When I finally stepped into a shower, I huddled into a tight ball on the floor, letting the drain swallow up my sorrows. I cried so much I thought my body would shrivel up like a raisin and slip down into the pipes, where I could lay and rot with all the rust and mold, destined to decay forever in the darkness below.

The gut-wrenching truth hit hard – being utterly alone, with no family and no friends, just your own thoughts and no one to share them with.

Hearing about my mother's death didn't come as a total shock though, she had clinical depression and bipolar disorder. She often had manic episodes that have driven her to a couple of suicide attempts before. The one prior she had cut her wrists open and nearly bled to death on our bathroom floor. Discovering her in a pool of blood when I returned home from school is permanently etched into my memory. After she recovered, she promised me she would never do it again. It wasn't the first time she had lied to me, but it marked her final betrayal.