True Half

Can star-crossed lovers reunite beyond the stars? "Don't forget me in your next life," He spoke his last breaths. He tucked her hair away from her crying face, trying to engrave each black strand into memory. A drop of crimson red blood spilled down his mouth, and then another. If only he could keep his hand there for a second longer… He strung a weak smile to his beauty, but his eyes came to a close. His standing hand swept across the smoke and struck death on the asphalt road. Blaring police sirens overwhelmed the woman's voiceless cries—they were too late. With a raspy breath, she bent down and gave a hopeless kiss on his hand. "I won't," She swore, and a knife plunged into her chest. * * * Rain frantically poured on slate roofs as toneless clouds thundered into the bleak night. The village's doors and windows were tightened shut, and the aroma of sullied petrichor filled the air. Around the vast outskirts, lines of wooden walls around an orphanage were slowly chipped away by the rain. At the front, a wooden stick was erected in front of the building, reading "Chapar Orphanage." Bang! Bang! "Miss Smith! Miss Smith!" A young woman cried out. "You can't do this to me! Please open the door!" As if to answer her, the front door flung open, crashing into the unsuspecting woman. The older lady inside the house looked down at the woman whose wet hair plastered over her bleeding nose like black seaweed. "Leave, Mira," Miss Smith said. Mira shivered into jitters, and her eyes were frantically trying to focus after being hit on the nose. Ignoring the blood falling off her chin, Mira reached out her frail hands to clutch on Miss Smith's dress. "You are my mother!" Mira pleaded. "I, I just lost Leo and I can't afford to lose my whole family on top of this!" She crawled at her feet, obliging her dignity away for the slight chance of redemption, and Miss Smith promptly smacked Mira across her face. A burning pink crisply arose on her fair cheek, and Mira trembled as she reached out to cup her face. "Wake up, Mira. You are not young anymore," Miss Smith impatiently spoke. "I am absolutely not your mother. We already have enough mouths to feed in this godforsaken famine." Mira's eyes widened like a doe. A flash of reverberant lightning struck and revealed Miss Smith's cold-blooded face. Tightening her grip on her dress, Mira raced to find a solution. Mira argued, "Miss Smith, even if I am not your daughter, I am able to work the fields and farm for food for the children! If my work output is the problem here, I am more than willing to stay up all night as the oldest child here—" "That is exactly why you must leave," Miss Smith interrupted, "You are, first and foremost, a mere orphan that has outstayed her visit at our orphanage. With your lovely face, dozens of suitors are at your beck and call if you ask for it, but once the old passage of time comes," Miss Smith bent over to touch her swollen cheek, but Mira winced away, "... they will no longer be willing to help you. This is for your own good." With her face away from Miss Smith's view, she fiercely clenched her fists into hard rocks as a reddening high embraced her ears. "I was never your mother," Miss Smith said, "Your suitors are limitless, but you have not taken advantage of this fact. So, I have been gracious enough to have arranged for Mr. Anchester to take you in while you were whining at the door. He is the richest man in the village, albeit quite old, but he is not a peasant like your ex-lover Leo. If you know what's good for you, you will wait outside until he picks you up." The door slammed closed, and Mira stared at it in horror. Unbeknownst to her, a tiny, faint star fell from the clouds and concealed itself on the back of her neck. Pressing her hand onto the sated porch, Mira groaned in pain as she attempted to stand up. Her legs almost gave up on her, but she got on her feet. There was no way she was going to be a sheep bride to a sickening, old man. She started to run on soggy grass and mud, her doll shoes plumping into the earth with each step. The moon shined her way through the village, even as the rain continued to fall. Mira carefully maneuvered over a fence to inside the village merchant's property, and she was shortly in front of his stables. "Damn it!" Mira cursed. There was a lock on its door. Mira, frustrated, aggressively shook the lock and then kicked at the door. There wasn't even a dent. Red bitterness enveloped her cheeks, and tears threatened to spill out once more. She gritted her teeth and mustered the strength to look around the stables for an opening. It was no use. Mira searched every nook and cranny, but the wooden building was sturdy with no weak spots. Her body was losing heat faster than ever, and she needed shelter immediately. Was there anyone willing to take her in? "Mr. Wilson? Penny? Mrs. Jackson?" Mira went through her mental list of contacts, "No, none of them would allow it unless I got Miss Smith's explicit permission." Not to mention the fact they would be afraid to get cursed by Mr. Anchester. Anyone who crossed his best interests would get plagued by a deadly illness, including his three previous wives. Would Mira have to risk sleeping outside? A huge, plain textile over a small structure near the fences caught her eye in the mist. "The merchant's carriage," Mira whispered. Mira quickly ran to the covered wagon with no horse. Sure enough, its compartment had the town's goods to be sold in the city the day after tomorrow. With a grunt, Mira sluggishly jumped onto the wagon, almost losing her step. She coughed. It was dusty and dim inside the wagon. Filthy air floated near the small shade of moonlight, and rain trickled at the entrance of the carriage. The wooden flooring was hard and uncomfortable. Poorly stitched patches covered the few disparaging holes of the carriage's cloth. Mira searched the compartment for useful items, and she found a pair of men's pants, black-laced boots, and two woven blankets. She took off her heavy, brown dress that stuck to her skin like glue and dirty doll shoes. They were both soaking wet, and Mira placed them on the ceramic vases to dry for the time being. Her bare legs trembled with the blowing wind, and she quickly wore the oversized pants over her white blouse and the boots. Wrapping a woolen blanket around her chest, Mira curled under another to warm herself before she'd die of hypothermia. "Oh, God of Syre, please do not forsake me," Mira prayed. And He didn't.