Iguaia's little friend

Being born and raised 7 years after the communist regime ended doesn’t actually make a difference.

1.
My grandma always had a story ready for me, or my friends, if by any chances we decided to misbehave. One of the extremely ridiculous ones was about a mythical creature who would kidnap children, and feed them to the crows. Of course this will only happen if the child in question will refuse to eat everything that he or she had on their plate, like their vegetables, or refuse to have the mandatory afternoon sleep.
If this was to happen, then the creature would come flying from her nest, which was well hidden in the mountain, awoken by that minuscular disobedience, taking the ungrateful child with her. “She’ll grab you with her big claws and leave you to rot on top of that mountain, over there, and the only thing you’ll see before the crows come to you will be the red bloody eyes following you from afar”, my grandma would say to me every time I’d refuse to do my designated chores.
But no matter how stubborn or well-behaved I was, the old lady never showed up to take me, which made me forget about her existence. But only if I knew how different the story was form the original tale.
Years have passed and Iguaia became nothing but a laughable matter, and her terrible habit of �" not �" eating children ceased to exist. But not everyone knew about Iguaia, therefore not everyone forgot her.
In our literature class, one of the two hours was designated for creative writing. Sometimes we’d be encouraged to re-write old nursing tales, and sometimes we’d simply be left alone with our imagination. One day however, we’d been given the topic of mythology, and although none of us knew the exact definition of the term, or what we were actually suppose to do about it, according to our teacher “that was the point of writing”.
Naturally, as the only time I heard the term mythology was on my grandma’s story about Iguaia, I started writing about her. But instead of following the traditional line, I changed it to suite my liking. I made Iguaia look young and beautiful, taking the claws and wings away from her. Instead, I gave her a stunning appearance with a mesmerising voice and a passion for dance. She was not kidnaping children anymore, but she was torturing adults who would dare to watch her dance and listen to her sing.
I was very proud of my masterpiece, only to find out that such woman does exist in our mythology, but “that was an acceptable start”. That week, the creative writing lesson had no winner.
After the lesson finished, I was dying with curiosity to find out who wrote about what. None of the answers impressed me, but one. There was this quiet girl, all by herself, who did not write about anything.
“Not even one sentence?” I asked confused.
“No, I did not know what it meant.”
“No one did, but you could have come up with something.”
“Probably... what was yours about?”
And that’s how I told her the made up story and my grandma’s story. She did not interrupt me or question anything until I finished, and even after I was done narrating, she kept quiet. Iguaia was being reborn through a new young mind.

2.
Although we were in the 5th grade, so no crucial subject was being studied, our teachers decided to form study groups, which were meant to help us develop our communication skills.
“Is not going to be all this boring school work you expect to have. In fact, how is going to be is entirely up to you. Don’t look at it as school homework either, but as a way to make friends and start knowing each other better. I’m assuming everyone is wandering how are we going to do this?” when the answer was a lack of interest, followed by blank stares and audible yawns, the headmaster continued “Well... I’ve decided to put the quiet ones with the loud ones. A bit of diversity will not hurt anyone, will it? And all you have to do is teach one another. Isn’t that fun?”
And to answer that now: no, it actually wasn’t. I had no desire to talk to anyone from my class, not to mention spend my time with someone who would not talk, or shout too much. But that was not our decision to make.
My study partner was Ana, the “I didn’t know what it meant” girl. Although we were both 11 years old at that time, she was much skinnier than I was. Much shorter, quieter, and soon to realise, smarter. She always used to wear the same jumper over her washed-off blue and white school uniform. The only thing which changed was her hair-pin �" always in different colours, but black. Well-behaved and polite, with a big smile on her face which made her look slightly mad, and not as friendly as she probably intended. But as soon as someone would look at her, the smile would instantly disappear, being replaced by a barely audible mumble, tangled with whispers, and short but focused taps on the table.
On our first day together I found out that she had a brother. He dropped out of school when he was 14 years old, 4 years after she was born, because their mum died. She remembered her faintly, minuscular details, like how her smile used to look every time she and her brother were playing together, or how long and shiny her hair was; but she could not remember the important detail �" her voice.
“Pictures don’t actually help, you know, they can speak to you only if you have the memories to do so.” She tapped my forehead with her index finger giving me a shy smile.
Her brother ran away to become a shepherd, miles away from our city. He used to write her letters, asking if she’s got enough food to eat, clothes to wear, or if her health has given her any more problems. At the beginning, he would send a generous lump of money, to last her until his next letter, or at least that’s what he’d write to her, because the money were never there.
“I don’t care about money to be honest, I was happy he was writing me. He’s not doing that anymore, I wrote and wrote to him, but I’ve never got anything back anymore. I’ve given up...I’m on my own now.”
“You’ve got your dad.” but my soothed tone did not reach her.

3.
The next day, after we finished school, we’ve decided on a light study topic to get us started �" reading the traditional folklore. As she did not know anything about the traditional scary stories, we thought it would be best to introduce her to them.
“Is this from our classics?”
“From all over the world, I guess...”
“Who wrote it?”
“You see, that’s the thing. It’s not only one person, that’s why it is a good book. We’ve got Grimm’s Brothers, or Anderson, oh, and my absolute favourite Ispirescu.”
It felt good to have the advantage of education over someone who did not know the basics. In a narcissistic manner, it made my system flood with pride. As a kid, having the knowledge over an unimportant subject makes you feel like you rule the world. What destroyed my superior behaviour and dragged my into the pits of shame was what she revealed to me.
Ana liked to read. Sadly for her, the only books she had were the free of charge school books, which were of no actual help when you’re not allowed to read them. When her dad was present, she wasn’t allowed all the “school nonsense” as he called it, that was why she only had limited time to finish her homework. If he’d caught her reading instead of doing the housework, as he expected her to do, then all she owed would have been turned to ash.
“After all, I am the woman of the house, now that my mum’s not around anymore.” She’d say more to herself then anyone else.
When it got to dinner time, mum brought us food. We’d finish reading and debating most of the stories, so we’ve spent the remaining time together playing games and talking. We shared our stories, funny and sad, or what I though it might be sad from my part, and that’s how I came to find out about her grandparents. They lived nearby, three streets down our school, but she’s never seen them. Her dad forbade her to visit them, and they were not allowed to contact her.
“Otherwise there will be grave consequences.” she shouted shaking her fist and hitting the air. “But one day I will just go there, and convince them to adopt me.”
“Do you think they’ll recognise you?”
She leaned closer to my ear and whispered “I think my granddad keeps following me around.”
“How do you know is him? Might be some creep. You need to tell your dad about it.”
“No, no. It is him. I feel it... here!” and she poked me with her finger straight in the chest.
I could have expressed my worries in a more audible manner, to make her understand that being followed by an old individual should not be brushed off so easily. I should have gone straight to my parents to tell them exactly what she said to me, raise my concerns with them. But truth being told, part of me though that Ana may be right in her affirmation, and the other part was not completely listening. No matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was because of my genuine trust in Ana’s instincts, I knew I was lying. I was not listening, because I didn’t care that much. After all, I categorised her excessive life sharing habit under one principle: she never had any friend, she just wants to be like. How was I supposed to know that what she actually wanted was to be saved?
When she left, I gave her the book to continue reading it.
“I’ll bring it back exactly how you gave it to me. No burning, I promise.”
“Never mind that, just make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble.”
If one thing was clear, it was this: she did make sure for the book to be safe, but she did not care if she wasn’t. Although, she had never said it to me, or at least, not directly.

4.
Days passed and our schedule was the same. After school we’d usually go around my house for our study hours, which ended with a story from Ana. I have never asked her how did she convinced her dad to let her leave the house for so long, or even if her dad knew about this at all, I just assumed that her father was aware of the situation and decided to change his behaviour.
The problem you have when you try to raise your children in a bubble, and protect them from all the bad things the outside world have to offer, is that you’re left with a child who can be easily deceived. You grow up thinking that everyone have the life you have, or even better. You grow up believing a fake smile, not looking to see if the eyes are sad when the smile is on. And no matter how much I would like to blame my parents for my childhood ignorance, I couldn’t. Still, I have never been put in shoes like Ana’s, which meant I couldn’t have been able to tell.
One day she told me how much she likes my family. She’d like my grandma’s story about Iguaia, better then the book she’s got from me.
“Why is she kidnaping the kids who are not listening to their parents?”
“Because that is her way of punishing ungrateful children.” Answered my grandma.
“She just takes you and leaves you there, waiting for the crows to come?”
“Usually, yes.”
“Does she beats them?”
“I don’t know... I’ve never been taken by her.”
“Does she... does she makes them do things they don’t want to do?” the question came more as a whisper then actual words.
“Like what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. It did matter for my mum and grandma, who were shooting each other concerned looks. They were quick to realise that a 11 years old was much more frightened by someone, or something, then she cared about a children’s story.
Another day, on our way home, she told me how her mum died. Although I was curious to know to story, I was always too scared to ask. Plus, I always though that may be something of a taboo question for her, and somehow inappropriate, therefore I tried to forget it. But this time Ana felt the need to talk to someone about her, and that person happened to be me.
“They found her dead in the river. Suicide they said. Dad always says that it was me that got her depressed so I have to pay for my sins. If it wasn’t for me, he would have been happy now, but because I drove her away, he says he doesn’t care anymore. I’m a woman now, so I have to act like one, behave like one, and take care of the house like one.”
Ana’s story left me sad and speechless. I knew she does not have the life she deserved to have, but I did not know she was getting blamed over her mum’s mental health.
That night I told my parents Ana’s story, as for some unknown reasons, not sharing it with someone would not let me sleep.
“But she’s not a woman...” was mum’s only comment, looking terrified at my dad.
They’ve put me to bet early, but I could hear them talk. At one point I could tell they were on the phone with someone, but I could not tell with whom. I was trying to concentrate and hear what was it they were saying, holding my breath as I felt like I make too much noise and that may be the problem of not making any sense of their words. Defeated by my failure and not wishing to be caught eavesdropping, I fell asleep.
Morning time, when I asked mum who was she talking to the night before, she gave me a concerned look.
“Your grandma. She’s not well right now, so we need to check up on her.”
And without realising, mum’s affirmation made me feel even worse, as I never called grandma myself, and the terrifying though of losing her made me want to crawl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.

5.
I didn’t meet with Ana over the weekend, because she wasn’t allowed to leave the house if it wasn’t a school day. Honestly, I never understood why was her father forcing her to stay home, when he was always out.
On Monday morning, when we got back to school, Ana looked happier then I have ever seen her. Her grandparents came around to see her over the weekend, and they managed to convince her father to let her move in with them.
“Remember the old man I told you about? I was right, that was my granddad!”
Although I was happy for her, I felt like something did not make sense. I had so many questions to ask her, questions I couldn’t form or articulate.
“That’s fantastic!” it’s all I said.
“I hope Iguaia will come and convince everyone that I should stay with my grandparents until the day I die.”
“I don’t think that’s how she does her job.” And although I was joking, this time, my little comment made her sound angry.
“This is so not fair! Why destroy children who want to survive just because they have to fight their way to live? Why not go after the ones who force children to act the way they do?!”
“Ana, it is nothing but a story.... I’m pretty sure she is not going after anyone.”
She smiled and got my hand. “I just want Iguana to understand that... sometimes... we are the ones who need help.... and sometimes, the old one should be punished!”
I did not understand her point. Which old one was she mentioning and why was she so revolted over a fictional story? The entire fiction was completely out of order, taking me another 5 more years to understand that Iguana should have been charged with child abuse, violation of human rights and �" maybe �" murder. But most importantly, I have never got to completely embrace Ana’s mood swings. One minute she would be the shouting little mouse who fights the world and conquers nations, only to forget about the entire argument and settle everything with a shy smile.
When we got home we did nothing but talk about things we did not know. We were trying to be the philosophical adults, mean, smart, superior, but somehow still elegant and charming. We were debating life like we’ve survived thousand of wars and lived to be 100 years old. We allowed ourselves to speak like no one was listening, mocking everyone we’ve met. What we did not know was that someone was listening, analysing and memorising every word we’d say, but waiting patiently in silence.
“How is it to live with your grandparents?”
“It’s alright...” but she did not sound excited. “Not as fun as I’ve imagined, but at least I have my own room now.”
“Where did you sleep at your dads?
“Well, we had one room only, so I guess I could call it a bedroom, right?”
“Where did you eat, bath?”
“It was a multifunctional room...”
It did not surprise me. After the little things she shared with me about her family, this add-up was of no great surprise. At least she was living with her grandparents now.

6.
Sometimes we would talk about our imaginary future, or even our imaginary friends. We would sprint around the garden, pretending to be chased by terrifying creatures from another dimension, who could easily destroy the planet if they caught us.
And sometimes Ana would tell me about her world �" past, present, future; not knowing that the second she’d start talking, someone would listen.
We would often debate Iguaia and her entire - not killing �" children policy. Although we had different views, I felt that agreeing with her on one case would be the right thing to do. “Adults should pay for their actions, behaviours and words” it was often something she’d say to me, which made me say “yes, you’re completely right”, as in my imagination, her father’s actions and the words he threw at her all this time should be punished.
I always assumed to know the reason behind her hatred. I had 3 fathomable theories. 1, her mum died when she was 4 years old, so she feels like the only person who should have loved her, had given up on her. 2, she grew up in an unloving environment, with an alcoholic, drug addict and gambler as a dad, where she was forced to behave like a woman. 3, she thought her own brother had given up on her from the moment he ran away, and concluded that she was right to believe that when he stopped writing, and never came back for her.
However, the second and the third parts had changed since her grandparents took her over - she could finally afford to be happy.
“They cried for hours when we met, and I started crying as well because I finally got to meet them, and I was happy for their happiness.” I remember her saying with sheer excitement.
Her grandparents never had a chance to meet her when her mum was alive. According to her dad, her mum’s gone insane after giving birth to her, and could not bear to see or hear anyone, not even her own husband or parents. Some people call it the post-traumatic stress disorder after birth, others are calling it lying. Her own existence was a torture for Ana’s mum, and that’s when she decided to jump off the cliff into the drained river.
But the woman was keen to destroy the child that brought such suffering into her life as well. Luckily for them, Ana’s father found them before anything could happen. The woman was screaming and crying, trying to gouge her husband’s eyes out, biting and scratching him. That night, no one heard the animalistic noises, no one came to help, and even if there was someone who did, that person was long gone.
By the time her father managed to bring them both home, the woman was quiet. The violent act had died with her energy. He put Ana to sleep, assuring her that everything will be alright, although she did not remember much from that night. The next day, her mum was gone, but her things were still there, in the bags, left in the same corner her father dropped them while dragging both of them back home. Some passer-by found the woman drowned in the drained river, terribly bruised from the fight she put the night before, strangled on a seaweed.
The case was closed as soon as it was opened. The verdict - suicide.

7.
Happiness does not always lasts. As a kid, we judge that by comparing limited factors such as not getting the exact toy we want, or by being told to go to bed early. But for others, happiness is a much more comprehensive subject, which is compared with a series of unlimited factors. Ana never tied her happiness around materialistic things, but on ones you need to be born lucky to have; and sadly, her happiness was about to reach an end.
Her grandparents, although her only remaining family in her eyes, were not her parents. And since she moved out of her dad’s place, something that her grandparents have done, led to more bad than good. She got put under the orphan status, which meant that she was not allowed to remain with her family, as they were not her official guardians.
But no matter how much they tried to get the custody, for some unknown reasons, the government officials always refused. Ana had two more weeks to be happy.
“It will be temporary. Just until they complete the paperwork and sort everything out. Then I’ll be back home.”
Although I knew nothing about the entire adoption process, what I knew for a fact is that once you’re placed in an orphanage, there was not a faint chance of going out of there. Or at least, not in our town.
When I told mum about Ana’s situation, she did not look surprised. At that time, her calm approach was making me angrier, as she knew as well as I, that once she’ll be taken away, she’d wish she rather have died with her mum.
“But it will be sorted, right mum?”
She did not answer. She was mechanically folding the clothes, staring at the wall in from of her, debating if she should say anything at all.
“What is the only thing I asked you not to do?” she put the jumper down, nicely folded and turned around to face me.
“Don’t ever lie..”
“Exactly... now it’s my turn not to lie to you, right?”
“Right!”
That’s how the truth came. Unexpected, but invited in. It did not mean it was welcomed, we never welcome bad news, but it was well received.
Ana’s father lost custody after her grandparents raised their concerns regarding her safety with the Child Protection. The organisation decided to temporarily move Ana with her close family, due to her sensible mental health, as identified by them, bur her grandparents were not given the child’s custody. “Too old to be looking after her”, I believe to be mum’s words while describing the situation, and no matter how much they tried to change the outcome, or how many people up the hierarchy they’ve spoken to, the result was always the same. They’d be long gone by the time Ana riches 18 years old, and they were perfectly aware of it.
“The decision is final then, she’ll be put in an orphanage?” it was more of a statement for myself then a question.
The cold blow of reality slapped my face as to wake me up from a weird dream. A sad feeling flooded my bloodstream, and a sharp stabbing pain was bothering my stomach. The pain I felt seemed physical, but I wasn’t injured. The strange sensation made me feel sick, and trying to hold it in and not letting anything show was not my strong suite. Even an ignorant child like me could place an orphanage on the bad places to never visit. I was well aware of the disgusting and unliveable conditions the children were left in, because my mother, unknowingly, made me witness them. Whenever she could free some time on her calendar she’d go down there to donate clothes, food, books, or money. I went there with her one day simply because I was curious. “Everything you take there, you give it to the kids, never leave it at the door, never with the supervisors, always with the kids” it was something she said to me on our way home. She’d make sure they’re healthy as well, maybe that’s why the owners refused her access here. “They’re greedy, that’s what they are! Everything they get, they keep. They get thousands of donations every month, charities - private or public, from everywhere, and that place still looks like a s**t-hole. You want to know why? Because they keep everything they get! Having children begging on the streets, unfed, unwashed and ill... how can any of us consider this normal?! They don’t take care of the children... they don’t care...”, mum’s complain reached many ears, but nothing changed. After all, cases like this one were considered normal in a corrupt country, and why would anyone ever bother to fix for free?
Ana would soon be one of them. A poor girl, begging for food, ending up in a coma in hospital because some rich drugged-up guy will think it would be funny to tie her up on the back of his car and drag her around while speeding. For her, there were only two options, she’ll either die of neglect, or because she’d decided she had enough, like most of the children in there. And the town will not care, because she was a no-one. The government won’t even hear about it, and even if they do, they’ll be too busy privatising the country, to secure a place at the European table, than to improve the living conditions of the less-lucky.
“She was best with her dad.”
“No, she wasn’t! But there is something you might be able to do to help.” Mum’s voice sounded grave and desperate.
“There’s this family, you might not remember them, very very nice and lovely people, and they live.... somewhere up North. They come here every summer, and luckily, they got to meet Ana just in time. Since she moved with her grandparents, Ana spent loads of time with them, and they absolutely adore her. And she loves them” �" my sceptical look reached its point, which needed her to clarify that the feeling was mutual �" “Until it got to the adoption point. Yah, you heard that right, they want to adopt her. The problem is, Ana refuses to go with them. She thinks she’ll never see her grandparents again, she’s scared that they might change their minds after... all sorts of worries which we can’t properly argue with her because she won’t listen. We want her to understand that she’s loved and will always be loved by this family, and we want her to go with them, not forced, but happily.”
It was a long wait until I finally got my words together and said “She can’t possibly choose the orphanage over that...”
“She’s not. She thinks her grandparent don’t want her and are trying to get rid of her. Her adoption paperwork has been accepted, so legally she’s Ana Morreale. Now... my question is... could you help us make her understand? She talks to you more thank she talks to any of us.”
“If they’re such nice people, why not adopt her but let her live with her grandparents... or if her grandparents don’t want to get rid of her, like you said, why not let her stay with them under another name?”
She smiled and brushed my hair away.
“They’d be more than happy to do exactly as you said, as that would have made Ana happier. But it is not a possibility. The child protection people will make regular visits to make sure that she’s been moved in with her adoptive parents and they will keep a detailed record of everything. If they find Ana where she’s not suppose to be, she’ll be taken to an orphanage.”
“Why not move her when the people come over, just for one day?”
“That’s out of question as well.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s too far...”
“Thought you said it’s up North... North is not far, is it?”
“It is hours away, it would be exhausting for everyone.”
She took my hand into her palms and held them together as a prayer to her request.
“I would never lie to you with something as big as this. Ana has spent the past 3 months with them, and I can assure you, they love her like she is their actual daughter. You just have to help her understand that.”
“Mhm...” I nodded while she kissed my forehead.
Three months and I never heard about their existence. She did not talk to me more, or if she did, I was probably not listening enough. Either way, the mysterious family was never a conversation subject between us, which made it hard to mention it now.

8.
What confuses a child is lack of trust or communication with adults. When you’re young, people believe there are certain aspects of life which you will not understand, or that you have not fully matured, intellectually speaking, therefore your brain will not comprehend the magnitude of a situation.
Contrary to the traditional believes, children are capable of understanding, if the explanation comes from the right person and it is put before them in simplistic words. Actually, even if there are no words involved, a simple look, change in behaviour or voice will make that child understand that something, deep inside your soul, something is troubling you.
That is why I knew I had to speak to Ana. I did not know how I was going to do it, but I knew what convinced me: mum’s reaction. Something in her eyes, the way she was trying to hold back the tears and mask the trauma behind her words, made me realise that if I do everything right, I will find out more than a 5 minutes brief.
When I met Ana the next day, I felt like I forgot how to behave around her. Suddenly, I was the quiet one, trying to gather my thoughts and everything I knew about her situation under one brain cell, and all the questions and possible outcomes under another. But words seemed to be stuck in my throat every time I opened my mouth to ask her something.
“What’s wrong?”
My lack of attention and participation in her conversation got to her, changing the happiness look which she wore until then. Now she was the worried, shy Ana I knew.
“Nothing....”
“Has anything happened?”
That was it. Right in front of me, my chance to ask the perfect question came unasked.
“No.”
And that’s how my only chance flew out the window, taking what was left of my courage with it.
“What’s wrong with you?” was everything I managed to ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to ask what’s good, because that means assuming that everything is perfect and nothing ever goes wrong, so instead, I will ask what is wrong, so you could tell me that bad and then enjoy the good together.”
The concerned look was unmoved, stabbing me in the heart as a punishment for a poor choice of words to form my answer. She was tapping her index finger on the table, debating if she should tell me the truth or simply brush it off.
I always found that small act odd. It was a rhythmical movement, two long taps, with one pause between them, followed by three quick and sharp taps. It sounded like an improvised drum with poor acoustic, which you might have heard on one of the road trips while you were sleeping in the back.
I remember, one day, I wanted to ask her about this song her mind was playing, but it felt like such an intimate movement for her, that I’ve quit the though as fast as it got me.
“I sent a letter to my brother.”
The song was finished, and now it was nothing but story time. Maybe my chance did not flew out the window after all.
“About what?”
“Everything!” it was like she was waiting for me to ask. “Everything that happened, with dad, the fact that I’m staying with my... our grandparents. Asked him again why did he stop sending me letters. I told him about our little story, you know, Iguaia, such a silly little thing to make fun of, asked if I could see him anytime soon.”
“Maybe he’ll answer this time.”
“Oh, he will definitely answer.” she sounded confident, even though the victory wasn’t yet there to celebrate.
“How do you know?”
“Because it wasn’t dad who send it this time, it was me. So I know I sent it, and he’ll receive it.”
According to her, the conversation was over. She said what was wrong, but not the entire story. What I actually was interested in was the meaning behind her everything, because now that I knew the truth, her childish smile and pat on the shoulder could not fool me anymore.
But I just couldn’t ask the question I was forming. After all, it was her choice to make, and she knew best what made her happy. If she wanted to be difficult around people that loved her, then I should just let her be, and maybe, with a bit of luck, everything will work its way just fine.
Maybe what I knew about orphanages was completely false, and maybe what I saw was my imagination being too real to handle. There were plenty of maybes to be placed in my argument, and no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that the sky was - maybe - green, when it came to Ana, I knew what the real colour was.
“Do you think he cares?” the concerned look was replaced by the hurt feeling, which showed so easily on her pale face.
“Your brother?”
“Yes... do you think he’ll come, or that dad was right?”
“He cares, and he’ll come. You’ll see.”
I was a helpless pawn for this case. Instead of bringing the conversation to the point I wanted to debate and discuss, I was doing nothing but give bored answers. If mum though I’ll be of any help, I was only hoping she did not put her hopes to high.
“I wrote to him about dad as well, so he should care. Told him he’s in prison now.”
“For what?”
“The crime case.” I wasn’t following. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t made aware of any crimes her dad might have committed, which felt like a blow to the head. “Police believe he might have killed mum.” She continued seeing my confused glare.
“What do you believe?”
“She killed herself because I was too much of an emotional burden for her.”
The tapping started again marking the end of the conversation once more. This time, I was filled with relief for the fact that she decided to put a stop, because her backfire got me by surprise. Was it legal for a child to go through all this emotional and psychical trauma? Or more importantly, how could someone live happily, when grief and guilt are hunting you.
“Did you tell him you’ve been adopted?”
Without even realising, the loathed question got to be asked, but the tapping was still there. I knew she heard it, it was more of a hoarse shout than casual slip.
“I did... briefly. Told him I’ll be long gone by the time he gets here, just to scare him, make him rush so I can see him.”
“So you’re going with them....”
“No! I decided to run away.”
“Now that is stupid.”
“It is not! If they can’t catch me, I’ll be free. And they won’t catch me, I guarantee.”
The crazy determined look she gave me took me aback. Everyone was working on her happiness now but she was too blind to see it. People I have never met wanted her to have the perfect life, working to construct a bright future, and all she was thinking about was how to set everything on fire and evaporate into thin air.
“Where would you go?”
“Up there.” She pointed at the top of the mountain. “That way, I can meet Iguaia and tell her how much of a nonsense everything she does is.”
“That’s not even real!”
“How do you know?”
“Because.... because I do!” I could hear the frustration behind my voice which made me sound like a spoiled child. I took a deep breath and placed my hand on hers, to stop the annoying tapping. “Listen, you’re my friend and I want to see you happy. As much as I will hate it to see you leave... actually, I don’t want to see you leave at all, so when that happens, do me a favour and simply go, I still want to know that you are well. Right now, you’re throwing the best chance you have because you’re scared. And I don’t get it, I’m not going to sit here and lie to you about how much I understand your situation, because I don’t. But I am trying to, so I’m begging you Ana... think about it!”
“I heard them talk” she whispered “no one is going to be safe when he’ll be out.”
“Who?”
“Dad....”
“He’s not going to get out. And even if he does, you’ve got people who are going to protect you. If you run away, you’ll be on your own. Is that what you want?”
“I just want everyone to be safe....”
“They will be... think about it. Promise me?”
She nodded. Maybe it wasn’t the best way to convince her, but it was a start. In fact, I knew I haven’t convinced her, she was agreeing to stop the conversation, and that was fine with me. I had as much interest to continue talking as she had to listen, which worked for both of us.
“What if she’s up there, waiting for someone to come to her and tell her off?”
“That is nothing but a stupid story.”
Iguaia hunted many souls, but she finally made a comfortable home out of Ana’s. She wasn’t only living there, she was taking control over her behaviour, making her slightly insane, with every step she took. Scary bedtime stories tempt to be that way sometime. Some people grow out of it, and some simply let the beast inside and end up living together.
Whichever step Ana was about to take, I was just praying it won’t end up leading her to a closed door.

9.
I did not tell mum about our conversation. In fact, for the next 5 days, nobody mentioned Ana, which made it seemed like nothing we knew was real.
But although we were not talking about it, that did not mean it was to be put in the past. My parents were still whispering about it the moment I had my back turned, and it wasn’t because they were keen on gossiping, but because they did not want me to be part of it.
I could tell they were feeling guilty for having me know about something so brutal. Or maybe, the reason they looked depressed lately had nothing to do with me at all, and if that was the case, it made me so paranoid that I started following them around the house. But it is hard to be a shadow when it is already dark on your street.
Ana did not mention her brother, nor what her next plan would be. Truth being told, it seemed like she was finally accepting the situation, forgetting the old story.
One time, her new family came to pick her up from school. They were going to see an old church, out of town, which was build entirely out of wood. The attraction wasn’t the old woody church, but the fact that only one type of wood, from one tree only, was used to construct the church, and everything inside it. Grandma told me the story. Years ago, something that appeared to be the shape of a woman’s face appeared on a tree, and the face was crying. People automatically believed that some divine power had to be involved, so they chopped off the tree, and build a church out of it. Everyone from all over the country would come to pray, as it was said that every prayer made inside it would be fulfilled. When mum was pregnant with me, she visited the church as well. She prayed for a healthy boy. Little did mum know that when she was saying her prayer, God was gone on holiday.
That day, Ana couldn’t stop talking about the place. How she’ll make a wish, and how the thing she mostly desire will come true. All I could do was listen and enjoy the news with her.
I wanted to ask her what she’s decided, but I felt like that may not be the right moment. Her happiness seemed genuine, she wasn’t playing the imaginary drums anymore, which made me assume that she’s made the right choice. If not for everybody, at least for her.

10.
A promise means everything for the person who makes it, only if you’re superstitious enough to believe in it. For Ana, promises meant breaking them, if what she said would make her soul ache in the future.
The last day of school wasn’t mandatory to attend; but having nothing else to do, I’ve forced myself to go. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone in the classroom, as most years not even the teachers were there. But today, someone was there: me.
I went for the last table, put my backpack next to me and stared at the black board in front of me. It didn’t even look like a classroom anymore. The old wood desks had scribbles all over them �" names, hearts, test answers, swearing’s. Some even looked like they’ve survived a fire, sitting proudly on the front row. The grey carpet had ancient stains on it. It was a combination of ink and cigarettes burns, covered by plenty of dust and grease. Seeing it stripped naked of students, the classroom looked depressing. Although they tried to make it look more welcoming by putting some posters up the wall, looking at them now it made me realise what a poor choice that was. The country’s flag was hang up in the middle, followed by pictures with novelists, philosophers, inventors and humanitarians. Everywhere you turned, there was at least one pair of glacial eyes watching you. I was surrounded by dead people.
I knew most of the names, great minds who got murdered by the communist regime, or who had to flee the country in order to survive. Inventors who risked their lives to bring a better future, writers who never made it alive after publishing a book because it encouraged people to see the reality, or freedom fighters who died while trying to save the country.
I went to the black board, picked up a bit of chalk and started scribbling. It was something relaxing about the scratchy noise the chalk made, every time you’d write something. What wasn’t nice was the white dust you were left with on your fingers, and sometimes even on your clothes. Not to mention the most annoying part, which was cleaning the board. That was an entirely new system, which would leave you with a mouldy stink impregnated in your skin, and sometimes soaking wet.
I remember when Ana told me that the superintended was looking to renovate the school this summer. He wanted to change the filthy carped with wooden floors, and bring new desks in. “Apparently, they’ll get rid of the black boards as well, they’ll bring in the ones you write on with a marker” she said to me. She heard our French teacher speak to the maths one, which was sure to be true.
Part of me whished for the change to happen, the other part was thinking of way to buy more chalk and have it with me every time I go to school. After all, how else was I suppose to skip classes, without having my parents called in for a meeting. The chalk was my only friend left now: squash it, put it in the water, drink it, and welcome a nice and short-lasting fever. No question asked, the teachers will send you home, and even dismiss you from any classes you might have had the next day. So no black board, no fever for me.
After I painted all over the board, I went back to my desk to pick up my bag. It was time to go home; no one was coming anyway.
On my way out I’ve met with only two teachers. The German one, who loathed me deeply, and I her. The communication between us was somehow lost in translation, as I would refuse to speak in German during her lessons, answering every question in French, and she would refuse to pass me.
With her was the religion teacher, who wasn’t a big fan of my presence either because of the multitude of questions I’d ask during his class.
It turned out to be an unsuccessful trip. My journey back home felt so lonely and long, it was like I’d been walking for decades to reach a point on a map I already knew.
My parents were gone to work already, leaving grandma to look after me. But knowing that I do not need constant watching, I found her in the garden, taking care of mum’s flowers.
“Are you trying to kill the roses?”
“Only the pretty ones.” She winked at me and turned back to her digging. “Someone’s waiting for you inside.”
“And that shouldn’t make me worry because....”
“Because it’s your friend.”
It did not need any more explanations, because I already knew who it was. The only person who my parents, or grandma, will let wait for me in my room, my sacred place, was the person they’ve mentally adopted.
Ana did break her promise, and I thank her for that even today, because my pride would’ve had me grow up frustrated.
“I got you something.”
That was her way of greeting people. She would cut the time-wasting hello, how are you, and start with the topic she wanted to discuss about. A slightly unique way of breaking the ice, even when there was no ice to break.
“I haven’t... I did not know....”
“I know... I didn’t want to tell you.” She grabbed her bag and pulled out a book. “Here... for you.”
“Folklore...?”
I don’t know what I was expected to receive, but an old dusty book wasn’t anything I would have pictured. The black hardcover was illuminated by the gold title, having no author written at the bottom.
“There’s one story I though you might like.”
When I opened the book, the pages felt wet and fragile, making me thing that if I keep turning them, the book might fall apart. There were only three stories. The first one was about a young shepherd who had a talking sheep, which could see his future. The second one was about the superficial love between a mortal man and the evening star. And the last one was about Iguaia. A 15 pages story, with pictures, about the immortal woman with trained craws.
The book was more of a present for her, because as much as I was fascinated with the story, since we became friends, I started to hate it. I did not question her choice, as I felt that the story she was obsessed with had much more added to it in the original then I could possibly understand.
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you... you were right. It’s time we put the story to bed and let her do what she does best.”
“Better that way.”
“I wrote my address on the first page. Don’t forget to write me.”
Opened the book again, and saw Ana’s neat writing. Her destination for the following day was somewhere up North, or at least that’s what mum said to me. In fact, her next stop was up a continent and a lifetime, which made me realise how that was the last day of us being in the same room.
“At least you speak French...”
“Sadly, they don’t speak only French there” she corrected me “but it’s going to be fun. I’ll have a private tutor until I can speak fluently, then I’ll go back to school.”
“You’ll come to visit, right?”
“Every summer. And you’ll come and visit me.” She ended clapping her hand in excitement.
“If mum allows it...”
“Sure...”
I should have been happier. My selfish and controlling attitude was about to burst out and create chaos on a day which meant everything for someone I, supposedly, cared about.
Today was the day I would lose my friend. Today was the day I will not find the full story, because no one was willing to share. But most importantly, today was what would make a massive change on Ana’s life, and her entire perception of this world. And like that, offering her the love and support she was clinging for, one day we’d be able to paint the picture with the same colours.
“My brother visited me earlier.”
“He does care then..”
It was an easy change of topic for her. If you do not speak about the things that lay in front of you, that meant they will never hurt you. Ignorance is bliss.
“He said he’s been writing to me every day, but I never replied. Told him I never got his letter, and he never got mine either. He’s been sending me money all this time....”
“Why not come to see you?” I interrupted.
“Someone could have lost a leg....” she smiled .
“Do you mean your dad?”
“Don’t know, whichever was lucky enough probably.”
“He’s still arrested , right?”
“For now, yes.”
I’ve opened the book again to inspect the pictures under Iguaia’s story. To my surprise, half of my imagination was captured between those pages, while the other half was probably lost between the lines. She really was a terrifying looking woman, with massive fangs showing from under the upper lip, and bulging bloody eyes. Her wings were gigantic, resembling two gruesome torn curtains, the colour of uncertainty. The first illustrations were depicting her surrounded by dark and white roses, her garden which lay on top of the mountain, watching over her land. The second one was showing her surrounded by 3 or 5 children, dancing around her in a circle, holding hands. The children looked happy, and the song seemed to be a joyous one, as it transformed Iguaia’s ghostly face into a bright red rose. I flipped through the pages until I got to the last one, scanning the imagines in a superficial manner, just to understand the real reason behind Ana’s present. Half of the pages were dedicated to show Iguaia’s love for children, while the other was kept to accentuate the hatred she held against adults. I told myself I’ll have time to dissect and digest this information once I’m left by myself.
“I’m assuming neither of these stories are the children’s version.”
“No, the pure old original, just how it should be.”
I nodded. She wasn’t that skinny girl I fist met, nor the shy or quiet one. She wasn’t even wearing the faded hairpins, having her long mousy blonde hair left untied over her shoulders. The confidence behind her dark eyes was showing, sealing the entire attitude with a smile. We sat there in silence for 3 more hours, thinking about what we should say now and keep for another day, or what we shouldn’t say at all. When I finally arranged my words together, it was already too late, as her new family came to take her home. I left the most daunting question unheard: what did your father do?
That night I had a dreamless sleep. After her departure, the cruel realization that something far more terrible might have happened to her hit me unexpectedly, which made me consume my thought and energy with formulating more questions which will never meet an answer. I feel asleep with the determination that one day, I should find out everything, telling myself that no matter how long it will be, I shall never forget the shy little girl with music in her fingers.

11.
I wasn’t actually planning to continue with my impulsive thought of finding the truth. In fact, what I wanted to do was to let time erase the ugly side of everything, and let reality hit me in the shin when I get older.
But curiosity and children never work good together, and I, once again, was playing to commit to the system. After all, what is a pattern if no one is following it?
As I was unable to fall asleep two days after Ana’s departure, I decided to go and ask my parents all the questions I couldn’t ask her. But the exact feeling that choked my words down my throat when I wanted to ask Ana, tied my hands behind my back when I wanted to knock on my parents bedroom door.
“I’m worried about her... she’s never quiet, and it’s summer. All she does is to lock herself in that room and sleep, day and night. She doesn’t want to talk.” I heard my mum’s concerned voice.
“She’s sad her friend left.... you know how she gets sometimes. Just let her be now, all we need to do is show her that we’re always here if she wants to talk.”
“I wish I could tell her.... I wish for this whole thing to never happened.”
My mother’s voice was braking, and I could tell she was fighting hard not to cry.
“Don’t tell her now...
“I know! I’m not an idiot!” she snapped.
“Never said that....” dad’s voice sounded soft and thoughtful. “I have nothing best to tell you, so I’ll wear what I said: let her be for now.”
“That poor girl...”
“Stop thinking about it.”
“I can’t!” heard her horrified shouted whisper. “Raped by her father, physically damaged, mutilated.... God, those cuts and stabs....”
“The b*****d got what he deserved in the end.”
“Not even half of what he deserved!” said mum spiteful.
I pressed my ear on the door and held my breath. I did not want them to find me there, right when the conversation was exactly where I wanted it. My questions were finally answered, and I was determined to listen until the end.
“You can tell that wasn’t suicide.”
“Of course, but do you think someone cares?” the sarcasm in dad’s voice changed quickly to a more pleasant tone “All I’m saying is this: he might have managed to keep it quiet, but when everyone finally finds out.... well, something like this happens. If the boy hadn’t done it, someone else would.”
“Do you think?
“Definitely... he murdered his wife and threatened some homeless chap to lie for him on the stand so he won’t be put to prison. That woman was trying to escape him, and what a escape that was. He told his son to never come back home or he’ll kill his sister, scared that kid away for so many years, he never dared go to the police because what hope did he have left.... they left his dad free after he killed his mum, how could you trust such a system?”
“That poor girl...”
“That poor girl knew something was wrong but she had no one to talk to. No one to care about her. Grandparents were too scared to take her away, she was frightened to seek help.... it is disgusting and horrifying, the b*****d deserved it!”
“He died the same way his wife did.... a goodbye message for his sister.”
“If you ask me, someone should have raped him with a 30 inch log wrapped in barbed wire, while cutting his limbs off, slowly.”
Never ask if you’re not ready to listen. Sometimes is good to be lied to.
I went back for my room and got the farewell book from Ana. She said I’ll understand everything if I read the real story, if I get to know the true Iguaia. That night, I fell asleep hugging the Folklore.




12.
Iguaia was neither human or demon. Iguaia was the disgusting reality that surrounded Ana’s father. She was considered a woman by people because she was creating life out of darkness, and her intentions were not even horrifying.
The pictures were not portraying her real self, as the pictures were there to show what she looked like in our every day life. Her aspect was mirroring the awful reality which surrounds the unlucky, like Ana. But her inside was programed to protect and save, exactly like a computer.
Iguaia had no interest in children who were not eating their vegetables, nor with the ones who were slightly spoiled or ungrateful. Her mission was to save molested and abused children, teach them the secrets of life and happiness, feed them, clothe them, bathe them in love, and raise them the way their parents should have done. Her hatred was aimed at those who abused the young souls, torturing them in the most cruel ways someone could imagine.
Adults were seeing the demon costume she proudly wore, as to always make them aware of her existence. Children, on the other hand, were seeing the beauty in her. She was revealing to them wearing the face of the person who loved them the most. That was how she’d save them.
Ana was right. The original tale did make sense, if not for me, at least it did for her. She found her Iguaia now, which will bring her the happiness she always longed for.
As for her dad, maybe the demonic lady did not wear the claws or fangs the night he died, but she made sure to put on something even more terrifying: the face of the brother who was doomed to escape and live without a family.
There was only one thing Ana got wrong: Iguaia was not doing a nonsense of a job after all.

Author's Note

First draft, work still in progress. Hit me with your feedback and I will respond with nothing but respect and admiration.