Affect

June 21, 1938

Tuesday

The green locket swayed smoothly in front of my hands, and I desperately reached for it but could not grasp the chain or the large emerald stone. "My boy. My Tom Marvolo!" A woman's warm voice sounded in the distance, echoing through the half-empty room.

Realizing that it was just a dream that was rapidly melting away in the prevailing consciousness, I reluctantly opened my eyes. The room was bright. I turned on the other side and glanced out the window, where the dull brick wall was staring back at me with the same crushing, eleven-year-old greeting. At least one ray of sunshine in all that time... But the rain beat merrily and cheerfully on the eaves year after year, reminding me that it can be even more hopeless and sad than just a gray wall on a sunny day. If only I had a book! I'd start reading right away. Breakfast isn't until eight-thirty... It was now six o'clock, which meant a whole two prison hours ahead without books, games, or her.

I sat quietly on the edge of the bed with my feet down, barely touching the tiled surface with my tiptoes, when I felt the coolness of the floor. I got used to the unpleasant sensation, and in a few moments, I was out of bed and strode to the door to look out into the hallway. I rubbed my eyes, yawned sleepily, and tried to look at the numbers on the old clock. It was ten to six. A disappointed sigh. Maybe I could sleep for at least another hour.

After an irritated hour and a half, I finally heard Martha walking in the corridor and waking the boys up. I have never been so happy about this moment before that I even got dressed and cleaned myself up, having completed all the morning routine, the very first of all the guys.

In the boys' bathroom, I met Chris and his buddies, who were annoying as usual with their wheezing laughter and stupid jokes that could be heard even in the hallway. And those idiots had just woken up... Where did they get all that energy? I preferred to pretend that Chris didn't exist; otherwise, I would have grabbed his chubby face and skinned him with my bare hands to beat the crap out of him.

The line in front of the little sink, where I had to wash my hands before breakfast, didn't seem to move at all. I stared into the crowd of guys, trying desperately to catch sight of the tar-colored crown of her head. In vain. Irene wasn't here. If we didn't eat breakfast on time, Mrs. Cole wouldn't be happy. You can't skip meals. Besides, I've been going crazy for two hours this morning, which must have taken forever, no less. Then Mrs. Cole would surely have a chance to put me in a housing for the mentally ill if she had a reason.

Stepping over two rungs of the stairs at once, I hurried into the third-floor hallway, where the girls' rooms were. If this were a competition, I would definitely be the winner. No one had ever got to the top floor of Wool's orphanage with such record speed. The concrete walls echoed with my fidgeting footsteps. Irene was nowhere to be found. Maybe the second floor? I hurried downstairs. A little out of breath, I slowed my pace. Where had she gone? Damn it. Why wasn't there a button you could push, and a person would immediately appear in front of you? I glanced down the dull corridor, at the very end of which hung an antique, worn clock. From the first floor, the echoes of children's pandemonium could be heard. Abruptly, I turned toward the stairs. I can't be late. Ready to take a step to get down to the first floor, I froze. My ears caught on to an incomprehensible rustling noise coming from the small storage room where the mops and other household utensils were kept.

Ghosts and boggarts are fantasies. I boldly pushed the door open.

I could see two figures: a gloomy, fragile one with dark, tightly braided braids, and a second, larger one. Irene, with an absolutely indifferent look, stroked the hanging objects in the air, occasionally glancing at the boy opposite.

Can she move objects without touching them, just like me? Are there more surprises?

Chris desperately clutched at the air with his hands, and a muffled wheeze resounded through the closet. It seemed as if his lifeless body was about to collapse to the floor. A dark bag closed in on his neck.

Every cell of my body was filled with an amazing sense of euphoria. How... beautiful she was! The strength and power in that fragile silhouette stirred my consciousness and my darkest fantasies. I was sure that nothing could surprise or delight me, but this picture was an incredible trigger for new sensations that I wanted to experience again and again, and that were so hard to control. I exhaled softly.

"Irene, stop."

No one would have guessed that I was suppressing the shivers in my voice from the emotions that were overwhelming me for the first time. The girl yawned, and the look in her emerald eyes shifted lazily from chubby Chris to me.

"He didn't give me the money his grandmother sent him." With a wave of her hand, the bag tightened, and the boy breathed even harder.

"Irene, there's nowhere to put a corpse," I carefully voiced a problem that would be really hard to solve.

"I just want to make sure that fat bastard never needs money again," the girl said monotonously.

I nodded my head, barely perceptibly, giving the command again. Irene sighed sadly, but she listened to me, anyway. The next moment, Chris recoiled against the wall, pulling the bag off his head. His normally ruddy, puffy face was blue-pale, and large peas of sweat ran down his forehead. Breathing heavily, he held out a few coins to the girl.

"Fine, Chris," Irene smiled, and in a carefree manner, she put the money into the pocket of her dress and strode lightly toward the exit. I watched her go. Her light-colored clothes were dirty again!

"I completely forgot!" Irene stopped in the doorway and gave a chuckle.

In a snap of her thin, pale fingers, the levitating objects fell to the floor with a clatter. She walked out, closing the door behind her. The feeling of paternal concern faded away, and a predatory grin appeared on my face.

"Chris, don't you get it?" I spoke ironically, turning to the boy. "She made it clear back then that it was better not to mess with her."

The boy didn't answer me, still trying to catch his breath. I winked at him in a friendly way.

"Put things in their places," I ordered, and I hurried to breakfast because I couldn't be late.

There were only three kids in front of the sink, two of whom were anxiously asking each other where Chris had gone. Everyone else was already in the dining room. Irene, casting an indifferent glance at me, handed me a piece of soap, which I silently took, watching her small palms under the icy stream of water. The monotonous procedure was like a dream.

Taking the tray, I followed the frail figure to the small window where Mrs. Cole was serving. A portion of porridge plopped into an aluminum plate, and I automatically put it on the tray. The woman was pouring tea.

"I see you've made a friend, Tom," Mrs. Cole sounded polite, as if she were even… Friendly? I'm not fooled. She always reeked of lies, austerity, and lack of warmth. Put that woman within a couple of miles of me, and it'd be unmistakable that she was anywhere in the vicinity.

"What do you mean?" I furrowed.

The woman smiled, her eyes fixed on Irene, as she headed toward the corner table in the sunlight. I shrugged my shoulders in a confused expression of incomprehension. Well, no. Mine is mine. And no one even needs to know about this communication. Besides, the question of friendship is something incomprehensible to me, so the verdict sounded strict and confident.

"We're just sitting at the same table."

Taking the mug from Mrs. Cole's hands, I followed Irene. The closer I got to the table flooded with sunny, warm rays, the more it seemed like I was dreaming. I didn't remember how we ended up at the window in our place; I didn't understand what I was eating or what the porridge tasted like today; I had absolutely no sense of whether there was sugar in the tea or whether it was just dark-colored water. My consciousness was submerged in the figure opposite, and the image from the small second-floor pantry was still in front of my eyes. From time to time, Irene cast a silent glance. Her black braids, eager to dive into the bowl of porridge, were briskly thrown back with a grunt. She caught my gaze and flashed it back without blinking once. The emerald seemed like a swamp that was irrevocably sucked into a quagmire, and I didn't want to fight it. What else was hidden behind the guise of this virtue?

At that moment, I realized an important thing: Irene looks so innocent and helpless to others. But give her a reason, and she will strangle you with her own halo, and then put it back on her head.