Page 19 of Apathy
The story goes that shortly after Winworth was established, the wealthy families started occupying the parts of the land near the forest and the river, taking their friends with them and giving them land that was good for crops. In the process, they pushed those that weren’t considered a “blue blood” to the other side of the river, letting them fend for themselves.
Well, letting them fend for themselves and at the same time using them for their wicked games.
I wanted to laugh at the fake picture they were trying to present as I looked at the buildings closest to the bridge. If you were a tourist just walking on the bridge or on the other side, the East Side of Winworth would look exactly the same as the West Side, with their beautiful architecture and welcoming energy. But if you walked down the street and took the left turn, you would see the true picture of this side.
Closed shops with wooden panels over their windows lined the streets, because people here didn’t have enough money to enjoy the treats from local bakeries or to go to the coffee shops during their break. If you drove further down the road, following the signs toward the factory for aluminum, you could see the true face of misery. You could see the children running all over the street, missing pieces of clothing, with their dirty little faces and starved eyes.
You could also see the vicious men and their calculating gazes as they watched those same kids, counting the years until they could use them for their business—until they could condemn their lives to eternal agony. But people always saw only what they wanted to see, and even when the truth was right in front of their eyes, they almost always chose to keep their eyes closed, so that they could preserve their own peace of mind.
And I didn’t mind that, I understood. But I couldn’t understand how humanity could fail this much. How could all those politicians close their eyes when it was obvious that this part of Winworth was completely neglected and almost forgotten? Laws didn’t exist on this side, and the only rules you had to follow were those imposed by local gangs who came into power when people that were supposed to take care of the entire Winworth stopped caring for those that didn’t wear branded clothes and golden smiles.
I could feel eyes on me as I took the right turn at the end of the street, heading toward the alley I used as a shortcut to get to our house. The East Side of Winworth reminded me of one of those medieval cities in Europe, resembling a labyrinth more than a town people lived in. The only street that was wide enough for two cars was the one connecting the bridge with the rest of Winworth. The other ones were barely enough to have one car, let alone two.
Uncle Neal hated that I didn’t want to use the car to go to school, but I preferred walking. It would surprise you how much thinking you could do while on foot.
My eyes traveled over the faded, peeling paint on the buildings. Most of the tenants here either worked in the factory or in West Winworth, trying to survive until the end of the month. From paycheck to paycheck, wallowing in misery, and instead of leaving this godforsaken place, they stayed.
As I passed the only open store on this side of the town, with its flickering light right above the door, I could already see the gate leading to our house. It was a sad reality these people had to suffer through, but until the remaining founding families agreed to change something, we could do nothing but talk about wanting something better here.
The shrill sound of my phone ringing broke through the silence of the night, and as I started opening the gate in front of our house, I pulled it out, smiling at the name on the screen.
“I’m in front of the house,” I spoke, pressing the phone between my shoulder and my ear.
“Is it done?” My uncle’s voice reverberated in my ear. “Are you in?”
“What do you think?” I laughed. “They welcomed me as if I was always part of their group.”
“Good, good. And they don’t know who you are?”
“Nope,” I answered and walked to the front door. The light illuminated the pathway as the front door opened, revealing my uncle standing there with a serious look on his face. “They don’t suspect a thing,” I started, ending the call on my phone. “And they won’t suspect anything until it’s time.”
They wouldn’t suspect a thing because none of them knew that we existed. Twelve years ago, I stood in front of a man with a knife and a sinister smile, pleading for my life, trembling from the fear coursing through my veins. And when he plunged that knife into my stomach, when the scream tore from my throat, swallowed by the fire spreading through our house, I promised if I survived it, that I was going to come back.
I was going to come back and hunt them how they hunted us.
Skylar
Zane St. Clare was eighteen years old when he died.
Only a year older than me, and as bright as a supernova, I couldn’t help but fall for his charm and pretty face that always seemed to be adorned by a smile. He shone so bright that every single person that had ever met him, wanted to be in his presence, to soak that brightness, that positivity.
And now he was gone.
Maybe if we weren’t just a bunch of spoiled brats who thought that they could play with dangerous things, he would still be alive. Maybe if we reported everything we knew about his disappearance, he would still be alive.
A thousand “maybes”, a thousand missed opportunities, regrets, and anger, but none of those could fix what we did. I went over what happened a million times, thinking it through, trying to figure out the missing pieces of the story and who had kidnapped him, but it was futile chasing after something that was lost. I guess that’s what hurt the most, what annoyed me the most was the fact that they never caught the person that killed him.
Or perhaps what annoyed me the most was the fact that I blamed myself for what happened. If it wasn’t for that stupid idea we agreed to, Zane would still be here.
“You’re fucking slow today,” Lauren started, stopping a few feet in front of me.
Since we were in elementary school, we used to go to the cabin on the riverbank owned by my parents. Kane’s family used to own the one on the other side of the river, until… No, never mind. I had to stop thinking about that night and everything that happened prior to it.
If I continued thinking about Zane and what could’ve been done to avoid that fatal night, I would end up in an asylum. The drugs we were taking stopped working three days ago, when the images haunting me day in and out, continued flashing in front of my eyes.
It’s been seven days since Megan went missing, and people were already losing hope of finding her. She either ran away or worse—she was dead.
It was Lauren’s idea to come here today and spend the night. Winworth wasn’t exactly the place that had events going on during the weekend, and since all of us seemed to be shaken by what happened with Megan, she wanted to cheer us up. Truth be told, cheering us up was just an excuse to organize a party. Most of us had simply closed ourselves off, hiding away from the world, dancing with our demons, drowning in the numbness overtaking our bodies. But Lauren, being Lauren, was undoubtedly already bored sitting in her house for the entire weekend.
