Whispers rippled across the crowd. They were said in a low tone but loud enough for me to hear how they shamed me. Some cursed my existence. Some had even humiliated my appearance.
He appeared out of nowhere.
He forced the child to kill his own mother.
Poor child…
Statements of the like were said by the crowd.
The youth I used to be would likely be affected by the whispers that rebuked me. He would pretend to be all right and smile but would later cry in a bathroom stall during breaks.
But I have grown mature enough to understand that not everyone is willing to hear both sides of the story.
Perhaps Johnny had influenced me that goodwill doesn't discriminate.
I grabbed a handkerchief and placed it on the mother's head, the eyes of the child following me as I did so.
"May the Word be kind to her."
I notably wasn't aware what Word meant yet. But I understood enough to read between the lines of what Harry had said.
My eyes slid towards the child who had halted crying to look at me clearly.
I grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him away from the scene.
[Arthur Charlie will remember that]
So that was his name.
Leading him to nowhere in particular—maybe outside. The inside of this tower felt stuffy due to the large population of the first floor.
I threw him into the ground.
"Your name, tell me," said I, feigning ignorance.
He choked on his sobs.
"Archie."
The world stopped for me at once when he said that.
It was a name I knew all too well.
"Cute," I said with phony confidence. "Your full name?"
I contemplated my saving of this child. This Arthur who was barely into puberty.
"Arthur Charlie, but people call me Archie."
Perhaps I had been right that he was bound for a tragic future.
The same as the Archie I once knew.
How strange it is to be haunted by someone that was most likely alive.
Not even the rounds can obliterate you, Archie.
"I'll call you Art, then."
My hand began to quiver.
I did not see Archie in this child.
I surely did not want to meet another Archie.
So I gave Art a nickname.
It was the most I could do without experiencing severe PTSD.
Pondering, I stared at Art.
He was too young to be left alone.
Art's father was probably out of the picture.
It was up to me, then, to make sure that he won't turn out like the Archie I knew of.
Art was Art. And I won't let him turn into a juvenile like the Archie I was familiar with.
I often read novels as a child.
There was a quote that still remained in my mind after decades:
"The finest souls are those who gulped pain and avoided making others taste it."
I lived off that motto for years.
He, who was standing before, fell to his knees in realization.
"I killed my mother," said Art, his voice slow and deliberate and vibrating.
I was sure the words he said had some ounce of familiarity. He did come from The Federation's tower. He may or may not have experienced violence in some form or another.
I said, "You were brave."
"I killed my mother," he repeated. "I was afraid."
"Well, no one really says this but fear often feels like bravery."
Art sniffled and continued to strangle his cries.
I wasn't sure if it was directed to the death of his mother or if it was because he knew that he wasn't alone.
Not that I wanted him to feel the latter.
[Arthur Charlie will remember that]
-
"I hear you committed another crime, good friend."
Harry touched my shoulder.
Art and I entered the tower once he had calmed down. He remained clutching on the sleeve of my scrub like an ugly duckling loved by its mother.
"Nothing of the sort," I said. "Just some charitable deed."
"Johnny over here informed me that you were technically the first to join the rounds. In this world, at least. An infant, really?"
I jerked my head towards Johnny in irritation. That kid always had his mouth shut whenever I invited him for lunch but suddenly, he's an extrovert in the presence of Harry.
Gritting my teeth as I watched him open a gift from Harry, the latter asked me a question.
"Have you received a prize from the system, mayhaps?"
This otherworldly language…
His handsome face will truly never overshadow the provocability of his face, that stupid face.
"My flat is hours away. I wouldn't know."
"Ha-ha, very funny," said Harry, sardonic. "The system doesn't need you to be at your home for it to give you mail. It only needs you alive."
"Whatever this 'system' is, it hasn't shown itself in front of me ever since I was in the operation room."
"Touch your heart."
A tad annoyed I may have been, I did as he said.
I pressed two fingers to my chest as though checking the pulse of a person.
—————
User
↳ Reverie Vickroy Schneider
Attributes
↳ Nurse (Uncommon)
Sayings
↳
Anomaly
↳
Skills
↳ Strength Level 5
↳ Agility Level 3
↳ Endurance Level 6
↳ Word Level 7
—————
Like magic, a translucent screen surfaced in front of me.
"A profile on myself…"
"Right, right." Harry nudged closer to me. "How terrific, no anomaly yet! Still a baby with milk on its lips."
How I wished others couldn't see our own screens.
I bit the inside of my cheek, a habit that derived from my childhood and had never faded.
Another screen made an appearance:
[Where would you like to receive mail?]
[※ Note: You can only choose once]
[➤ Home]
[ Pants Pocket]
"Ah, it's a sword!" exclaimed Johnny from the corner of my eye.
He was examining the gift from Harry, or, rather, The Federation. That's what they do anyways. A bluish silver steel sword of forty to fifty centimeters in length with a greenish-stained leather handle.
I attempted to caress the screen and my hand went through like a pool of water.
"Touch whatever," said Harry.
Somehow, a part of me doubted that it would work.
My hand hovered on where the [Pants Pocket] was.