The Lucky One

Chapter One: Twilight by the Riverbank

 I pray you, though you mock me, gentleman

Let her not hurt me: I was never crust

I have no gift at all in shrewishness;

I am a right maid for my cowardice:

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,

Because she is something lower than myself,

That I can match her.

          ~ Shakespeare, A Midsummer-Night's Dream

Chapter One:

Twilight by the Riverbank

The television was left open overnight, and now that the weather forecaster was unforgivably late on delivering his useless typhoon precaution, the thunder rumbled across the little cobbled town. It was four in the morning. Harsh wind and rain scrambled through the deserted streets and courtyards, threatening people of an unforeseen danger as they cuddled in the warmth of each of their own homes.

The downpour of the rain punctuated by startling thunder strokes had contested the churning of the open television in the darkness of an apartment on the seventh floor of a building at East Drive. Although noisy of the typhoon that was causing blatant groaning over the town, the apartment was silent. Nothing distracting was heard apart from the babbling weather forecaster.

After ten months of dealing with school matters, Cormark Lafertroy was snoring faintly on his single bed pushed on the corner, reducing all those sleepless nights into what he had planned as a sound sleep. Now it seems as though things were headed into different path. He rubbed his eyes as he sat on his bed, his feet stretched in front of him. Something was beeping under his pillow.

He reached for it and activated his phone; the brightness of the screen resolution was nearly blinding his newly-waken eyes. Regardless of how hard his eyes resisted, the blinking dialog box was not endeared because it continued flashing the text message from his father. He rubbed his eyes once more and stared at the message that read:

Hey, sorry, OK? I got an urgent summon from the firm. Food’s on fridge. Allowance under your pillow. Won’t be home for 3 days. Dad.

His father’s name was Flynt Lafertroy and he worked at a law firm called Fling & Floo with a close friend named Adrianne Balescore. Flynt’s wife, Lady Lara, works abroad as a doctor at a government hospital in Sydney and so Mark had not seen her since he was seven. He grew accustomed to it anyway. Their apartment was mostly deserted and it was only Mark who looked as if he was living with a ghost.

It took his eyes moments to adjust before realizing what the text message said, then he slipped his phone back under his pillow and walked towards the door. For a few seconds, he groped for the switch. Lights flickered momentarily before stabilizing its beams around the room. The weather forecaster was not yet finished, though he had obviously been repeating the same lines for nearly an hour now.

Mark shut the television quiet and dashed to the curtained window. He made a chink there and looked through the wet glass panes. It was still dark outside and the typhoon had not yet ceased. According to the forecaster, the typhoon will be leaving by five in the morning. And at how it appeared, it seemed impossible.

There was a teensy squawking from the upper landing like a pig was frightened to slaughter, followed by a mirthful shriek and wail from Mrs. Baltimore the landlady.

“Is it Boo I’ve heard?” she shouted rather happily and excitedly. “Is it my dog? Poor bark that one – at least the pitch got a little bit lower.”