Legends of The Waif
Issue 1: Part 1
Burning Vengeance
Chapter 1
The fluorescent blue light flickered on the ceiling, illuminating the plastic packages lined up on the shelves, the glistening, ivory-colored floor tiles, glass fridges full of soda and water bottles, black boxes of vegetables and fruit, and empty rolling carts waiting for customers next to the entrance.
The glass doors stood still, opening for no one. It was as if the city had suddenly emptied of people. Nobody was left behind the decaying walls and moth-eaten rust. The white walls seemed freshly painted, and products lay neatly next to each other, arranged by names and products. Yet no customers sauntered through the aisles, no frugal shoppers lazily browsed the labels, only to always pick the cheapest option. The muffled sound of the small TV hanging on the wall crackled through the silence.
Eugene sat behind the counter, his eyes carelessly roaming from page to page of the old newspaper unfolded in his hands. His thrifted gray outfit fit in the supermarket atmosphere and modest surroundings. The artificial light brightened his serious face, and grizzled hair curled up above his head. His beard looked almost dyed black in contrast with his hair, but the only indicator none of them were fake was that they were both curly like coiled telephone cords. Just one glimpse was enough to realize that Eugene was the shop owner. The shop and Eugene, they fit each other so perfectly, like two halves of an apple. It seemed as though there could be no one else who would look so natural sitting there, behind this particular counter, reading this particular newspaper with those particularly creased brows.
After some time spent in this somber contemplation, Eugene glanced at his watch, showing past midnight.
"Time to go home," he sighed and stood up.
As he grabbed the keys and remote to turn the TV off, his eyes froze on the square, murky screen.
"The cases of femicide have begun to rise in the city," a young reporter was talking. "Seven women were killed by their husbands just this month, and twenty more have been injured. The grisly crimes run the gamut of murder by stabbing, injuries by choking, physical violence, and threats by guns. The most common offense, however, is acid burns; offenders harm victims by throwing acid over their heads, burning the face and scorching the upper body. While doctors can help most of the victims, some of the injuries have been fatal. Many offenders have been brought to justice, but some remain at large. Police are still searching for the fugitives."
Eugene's features furrowed and his wrinkles deepened from worry.
The newscaster continued: "Cases of femicide are particularly heightened in the suburbs and parts of the city mostly populated by immigrants. Law enforcement agencies encourage women to report abuse or crime right away, before the consequences are harsher."
"The world has gone crazy," Eugene shook his head with disappointment and turned the TV off. The reporter's voice dissipated into the dimly-lit quietude.
The streetlights melted their wan glow over the wide streets of Queens like melting candles when Eugene locked his shop doors. The small stores lined up by the sidewalks on the first floor of two story, squat block buildings had turned dark, the lights going off behind the painted glass doors with colorful name plates in different languages hanging above.
The streetlights still glistened in red and green even though only a few cars rolled by lazily, like tired animals returning to their lairs. The moment Eugene rolled down the iron door and put a lock on it, a shrill scream assaulted his ears. The sound was so piercing, so strident, it was as if the wind had shattered all the windows at once.
Startled, Eugene looked back, his heart pounding, eyes gawking through the gloom. The dark sky hung close to the ground, the air turning stuffy and suffocating. The cries repeated, now louder, crescendoing to a blood-curdling wail. These screeches sounded so desperate, only a person on the verge of falling into a pit of hell could produce them.
The screams pierced the silence like bullets hurtling through the air before trailing off, the echoes throbbing in Eugene's ears. Even though his pulse raised, blood rushed to his face, and fear rippled his skin, Eugene still turned, impulsively running toward the sound. Horror mounted in him with every step, but he couldn't stop running, his body out of his control.
In a few seconds, he found himself in a narrow alley, close to his shop. Three silhouettes melted out of the dark, and Eugene froze, narrowing his eyes. One lay on the ground while two stood. Their broad shapes and stance revealed they were men.
"Hey!!!" Eugene screamed.
Something slipped from one of the man's hands and fell to the ground with a loud, flat, tinny thud. A metal bucket rolled toward the corner. In a split second, the black outlines hopped over the fence, their running footsteps fading away.
Huffing, Eugene rushed to the person who had sat up, quivering.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I... What..." the stranger sobbed, her brittle, shocked voice revealing she was a woman.
As he knelt, the distant, dim yellow streetlight hit the woman, and Eugene felt the blood freezing in his veins: half of her face was utterly, grotesquely ruined. Pink flesh mixed with sizzling skin, dark spots of red and purple throbbed and mingled with the blisters and dead black skin, turning into an unrecognizable mass of ground up meat. The fluorescent light, illuminating her face, danced on her like fickle yellow flames, as if she was still being burned alive, unable to escape the kindling fire.
"Oh my god!" Eugene couldn't hold back the panic spilling out of him.
The woman's trembling hands slightly touched her face while her eyes darted around, disoriented. Out of her mind, she had lost her senses, unable to realize where she was and what had happened. But the moment her fingertips touched her scorched face, she screamed, the shrieking voice erupting from her mouth like lava out of the volcano. Shivers ran down her body like electricity, and she began jerking on the ground like a fish dying in a dried up puddle.
"I'm calling the ambulance; you'll be okay," Eugene tried to calm her down, but she couldn't hear him as she continued crying, her tears blending with her blood and melting skin.
Pulling out his phone, Eugene called 911 with shaky hands, barely forming words to tell them the address.
"They are on their way. They will help you," he muttered as he hung up.
Watching the woman cry, he felt helpless. His eyes peered toward the bucket, the harsh vinegar-like scent burning his nose. From the bucket there sublimated a noxious, pungent, harshly irritating odor that made one thing perfectly clear: this woman had been burnt with acid.
"Oh god, who did this to you," Eugene blurted as he held back tears. "Who would do such a thing?" He was trying to put on a strong face in front of the traumatized and injured young woman. The victim couldn't answer however. She was slowly losing consciousness from shock and pain. Only mumbled inaudible words and wrenching groans escaped her lips.
Presently, as the night deepened, ambulance sirens became audible from a distance, loud and ear-splitting, yet nowhere as shrill and horrifying as the woman's screams.
"You'll be okay; the ambulance is here," Eugene took her hands to comfort her, but as her eyes locked on him, he realized she had lost her sense of time and place, and possessed just the raw and blistered immediacy of excruciating pain.
The sirens drew closer. The red and blue lights banded the dark buildings, and soon the noise and commotion overshadowed the muffled sobs of agony.
Chapter 2
The hospital bustled in the usual clamor, the business of injuries and ailments on a dark night no different from that of a bright day. The nurses rushed from one spot to another, accompanying elderly patients or hurrying the badly hurt to the emergency room on stretchers.
The sounds of cries, coughs, chatter, snoring and doors slamming crescendoed to a blustering din in the vast blue and white building where only the kind smiles of the young nurses drowned out the depressing ambiance of plastic chairs, the smell of medicine, sobbing, and rolling wheelchairs.
Night seeped through the window as Chaz stood at the reception, filling out a form for one of the newest patients. Her long, dark chocolate-brown hair was tied in a bun on the back of her head, her long eyelashes lowered as she delicately carved out words with the pen. Slender yet strong arms revealed the fitness of her tall body, concealed by the oversized white scrubs.
The exhaustion cast down her eyes, the fatigue of the long day settling into her bones. Only an hour was left before she could rush off to the comfort of her bed. She couldn't wait. Even though this was a volunteer job, Chaz often found herself just as tired as the doctors.
Suddenly, the front doors opened, and nurses ran inside, rolling the stretcher with a woman lying on it. A ventilator covered her face, but Chaz still caught a glance of red and dark purple skin covering part of her head. An elderly man who hurried after them stopped at the ER and leaned against the wall as though his wobbly knees were unable to hold him any longer.
Seeing his shoulders trembling and head ducking, Chaz put down the pen and hurried to the old man.
"Let me help you, please," she gently touched his arm.
The man looked at her with crazed eyes, at first scared, but soon relief became embedded in them. He obeyed, following Chaz to the line of chairs in the lobby.
As he took the seat, Chaz quickly poured him a glass of water.
"Thank you," the man mumbled and gulped the water.
Then his eyes flitted toward the ER door, dread twisted his ashen features again.
"Will she be okay?" he mumbled. "She was burnt with acid."
Chaz's eyes followed the man's gaze, and the memory of the woman's shriveled face flashed in her mind.
"She will be okay," Chaz smiled, trying to encourage the man, but she wasn't sure of her words as acid burns were difficult to heal.
The man seemed to calm down, stopped shivering and color returned to his face. Chaz pointed at the papers sitting next to him.
"Whenever you can, please fill out this form, mister," she said.
He nodded.
She wanted to cheer him up but heard her name.
"We need your help, Chaz," the nurse who hurried out of the emergency room waved at her. "She needs bandages. Room 205." Nodding, Chaz stood up, seeing the man already filling out the form. Preparing the white bandages, Chaz quietly opened the door and peeked inside. The artificial lights brightened the small hospital room, austere and empty of furniture with only white curtains and a bed in the corner.
Closing the door behind her, Chaz walked toward the patient sleeping in the bed, the blanket covering her lower body and the rest of her wrapped in a bluish patient gown. The slight dripping sound of the IV lanced the stillness.
As Chaz's eyes landed on the woman, she winced, feeling like ants were gnawing at her skin with their sharp mandibles. She couldn't help but feel the pain the patient had felt: a large part of her face was nothing but a mash of blisters, burnt skin, and drying blood. “Poor thing," Chaz whispered.
The patient's long red hair had spread on the pillow, her white neck and the unharmed half of her face revealing her beauty: the acid hadn't injured her full lips, pointy nose, and elongated right eye. Though her left cheek and eye were buried under the scorched skin.
Chaz gently wrapped the bandage around her injury, checked her pulse and blood pressure, and walked out. The dread creeping from the back of her head whispered in her ear that something was not right, that this couldn't have been an accident.
The nurse who had brought the burnt patient stood outside, pouring instant coffee while rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"Where's the old man?" Chaz asked. "The one with the woman in 205."
"We convinced him to go home and rest," he replied and sipped the tasteless coffee.
"Do you know what happened to that woman? Did someone burn her with acid?"
"I have no idea," he shrugged. "She was like that when we got there."
He turned, sauntering toward the hall, dragging his tired feet.
Even though the exhaustion weighed down Chaz's shoulders, too, her curiosity was stronger than her fatigue. She sneaked toward the cabinet behind the reception. She peered around, ensuring no one was around, and quickly slipped the old man's document from the top of the pile. Her eyes hastily skimmed the paper.
"Eugene Akter, 67 years old," Chaz muttered, her eyes sipping up every word. "Grocery store in Queens."
Putting the paper back into the folder, she hurried to the corner of the hallway, taking her phone out of her pocket. The clamor had died down, and the hospital was now falling into a dormancy of hush, the calm between storms.
Chaz hurriedly typed a number.
"Hey, Cam," she let out after a few beeps. "I have some news. Grab a pen and paper."
Chapter 3
The clouds had scattered from the sky, leaving it blue and calm, like an ocean after a squall. The sun blazed out from the pure blue, unbearably hot. The scorching light quickly dried the damp ground. The trees quivered in the slight breeze, as if startled. But the breeze didn't bring the scent of newly blooming flowers or the tranquil buzz of bees. Instead, the air reeked of cigarettes, car pollution, and the unerasable stink of dirty laundry.
People had filled Eugene's grocery store: elders strolling down the aisle, teenage girls with colorful hair picking out soda bottles and giggling, a mother trying to calm her squawking kids, office workers buying cigarettes and instant coffee. The accumulated din mixed with the noise of busy streets and car honks outside.
Standing in the corner, Cam peered toward the shop owner, remembering his detailed description from Chaz's story. The man standing behind the counter, observing the customers, matched the description. No one else could be 67-year-old Eugene with gray hair, a bushy beard, and kind eyes.
Wearing a long black jacket that almost resembled a cloak, Cam blended with the dark background of the faintly lit corner, her honey-blonde hair hidden under the cap. She peered around a shelf and grabbed a pack of noodles, a reason to approach Eugene, when suddenly she saw him turning tense. Her eyes followed his glare, landing on the two men standing with newly bought beer bottles. With hanging bellies and unshaven faces, they looked like lazy husbands living off their wives' hard work.
"Did you hear what happened last night?" one of them asked his friend. "Someone attacked a woman not far from here."
"Yeah, I heard," the second man said aloud and gobbled his beer.
"What did she do to deserve it?"
"She must've talked to someone she shouldn't," the man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Or forgot her place at home."
Suddenly, with a reddened face and eyes glowing with anger, Eugene slammed his fist on the counter.
"How dare you speak like that about a person?!" he yelled, attracting everyone's attention. Silence fell, and every head turned.
"I saw her face melting away from her skull like a popsicle in a fire. Do you know how much pain she was in?"
The men fell quiet, but a sinister smile still danced on their faces.
"Why aren't you asking how a man can do this to someone?" Eugene continued, rage thundering in his voice. "Why aren't you trying to put yourself in that poor woman's shoes? She never deserved such torment, whatever she had done. This is just a result of an insecure and weak man. I think we all know a few of those, don't we?" He locked his eyes on the men.
The customer guffawed, his eyes revealing no compassion.
"Put myself in her shoes? Now, why the hell would I do something so silly?"
"So you would throw acid on the face of someone in your family or anyone for that matter, to prove a point?" Eugene bumped the counter with both fists. Sparks of anger spilled from his eyes. "Because clearly, you're so stupid you don't even know how to express yourself verbally, so all you would have left to do is abuse them, deform them, traumatize them for your own self-worth!”
"I don't think that's any way to speak to a customer," the man interrupted.
"I don't care if you come back again!" Eugene shouted. "I am the one who had to call the police so that this poor woman could make it to the hospital without dying."
He grabbed the cash the men had just paid him for beer and threw it into their faces. The silver coins rattled on the cold floor tiles.
"I would rather have no customers than have customers like you!" Eugene growled, about to bare his teeth like a feral animal.
The men peered around, noticing how everyone stared quietly, unwilling to defend them. Finally, they turned, bewildered and humiliated, leaving with hurried footsteps. As soon as doors closed behind their back, the chatter resumed, the customers now immersed in judging what had just happened.
Cam gazed at Eugene huffing and holding his chest with his hands as though trying to tame his galloping heart. Her eyes, hovering below the thick brows and dense lashes, narrowed with satisfaction. Holding her instant noodles, she approached Eugene.
"Did you see the men who burned that poor woman?" Cam asked as she leaned on the counter.
Still red like a pomegranate, Eugene jerked on the spot, his eyes dilating.
Cam hid her face under the cap, the shadows darkening her eyes, but Eugene still
crouched closer, realization lighting up his face.
"It's you, isn't it?” He paused, gazing at her veiled features. “The Legion... I've heard about you guys."
"What can you tell me about those men?" Cam's demanding tone pushed Eugene to hold back from asking more questions, and instead to start rummaging through his memories.
"I saw them in my shop earlier," he said with reflective eyes. "Two young men, dark skin, dark hair. I think one of them had a tattoo on his neck."
"You think?" Cam's voice deepened like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake.
Eugene swallowed.
"He had a tattoo," he replied. "They bought cigarettes."
"Anything else? Something distinctive."
"No," Eugene pursed his lips before his eyes gaped. "Oh, right! They talked in Pakistani."
Cam nodded, her sharp mind memorizing every word. She felt the anger bobbing up to the surface of her psyche: the unmitigated wrath she felt toward these men. She had known hundreds of men like them. Cowards unworthy of her sympathy. She didn't need to see their faces or study their behavior to know what needed to be done.
"Okay, thank you," she said and slid cash toward Eugene. "Please, keep quiet about our conversation."
Now more confused than angry, Eugene couldn't peel his eyes off her face. Cam stepped back, lowering her head to mask her face.
"If you remember more, please, contact me," she murmured.
Looking down on the counter, Eugene noticed a small white card under the cash with a phone number engraved in the center.
"What is your name? What is the name of your group?" Eugene couldn't suppress his curiosity. "I've been trying to think maybe I'm wrong, after all, it is just a legend,” he stammered.
“But I do remember, years ago, people talking about a rogue group taking vengeance on the most irredeemable criminals in our city. But it was all fake, right? Stuff of legends. At least, I thought so..."
"We have many names," Cam's voice dropped to a whisper. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the customers walking toward the cash register.
"It's something like Talon or Rex," Eugene kept on.
Without uttering more, Cam turned, hurrying to the door. Eugene's loud, hopeful voice followed her quick steps.
"Oh, it's Lex Tal Legion, right?! That's it!"
Without glimpsing back, Cam slid through the door gap and vanished from sight.
Chapter 4
The darkness was damp and suffocating, crawling around Munir as she stood in her tunic shirt and pants, her pitch-black hair freshly cut to the ears. Standing in the gloom, she felt the stuffy air filling her lungs, choking her. Gasping, Munir sensed dread crawling from the back of her head. She wasn't alone.
Soon she heard hissing sounds, as if snakes had slid down from trees, coiling toward her. Horrified, Munir cowered, scared of the night crawlers squirming out of the darkness. But instead of snakes, hands appeared and melted out of the gloom from every direction. Circled by these hands, Munir swallowed, realizing that she preferred being bitten by snakes to being touched with these fingertips.
She wanted to shrink, to turn into an ant so she couldn't be touched, but the hands got closer and closer, reaching out to her. The grotesque hands: big and dirty, covered with layers of gray hair, wrinkles and age spots, brownish patches and warts, curled out of the darkness to grasp at Munir like monster tentacles, trying to wrap around her and take over every inch of her body.
Sweat beaded her face, and tears welled up in her eyes. Soon, smiles appeared around her, too, the sharp smirks glowing like silver scythes.
"You look so pretty, Munir," their distant yet close voices reached her, with honeyed tones and softened words. “Boy clothes fit you so well.”
“Perahan tunban looks so good on you. You are a pretty boy.”
"Why don't you take this shirt off? You'll look prettier."
"I have a gift for you. If you take your pants off, I'll give it to you."
Munir felt the hands crawling up and down her, feeling her body through the fabric, grabbing and punching while the smirks grew wider, amplified by satisfied scoffs and pleased chuckles.
She shivered, trying to brush off these hands, but they kept clinging to her, the gentle voices urging her to get undressed, the fingers twisting in her hair, palms caressing her cheeks.
The darkness got deeper, the air more suffocating, and Munir felt the hands now unbuttoning her shirt, fumbling with the strips and laces, crawling to her neck and working their way to her chest, still flat and undeveloped. Munir's childish body cowered with fear, well-aware of what was about to come. Suddenly she heard someone calling out her name and she soon woke up.
***
The night was deep in New York, seeping through the open window. Munir found herself in her bed, damp from sweat, hair sticking to her wet forehead. With her heart racing and pulse hitting the roof, Munir looked around, still disoriented.
"It's okay, it's just a dream," she heard a gentle voice and a soft hand caressing her arm. Her eyes flitted around the dark room and landed on the woman sitting beside her, smiling.
"Lia," Munir sighed and covered her face. "I'm so tired of these nightmares."
"Still the same?"
"Same one."
She sat up, staring at Lia, still comforting her. Munir had hated to be touched, but
somehow Lia's hand was always warm and soft, skimming on her skin like velvet, calming her. The streetlights lined the room, and Lia's fiery red hair seemed even more vivid, contrasting with her pale skin. Her blue eyes had lowered as she shared Munir's pain.
Munir pushed back her black hair and wiped her forehead, her hickory-brown eyes still watery.
"I'll never escape this curse of Bacha Posh," she murmured and swallowed the tears.
She would never forget growing up as a boy, forced to dress and act like one to conform to her families needs as there were no boys in the home. At times, she was forced to entertain and please adult men who had a thing for virgin youth. Masked as more freedom to attend school and work, turning her into a boy had brought her nothing but pain. Munir never had a childhood – and though she had escaped the pits of hell, she had lost the best years of her life.
"You will," Lia's voice echoed in the dark. "That’s not you anymore. You are far away from your past now, from that cruel reality. And you have grown into a strong and powerful woman. You protect yourself."
Munir looked up, nodding, a sense of relief washing over her. Lia was right: the nightmares were only her dreams. Her reality was different from her past. She would never go back there.
"Thanks for waking me up," Munir tried to smile, but her lips were still quivering.
"Again."
"No problem," Lia's red curls slipped from her shoulder like stems of some exotic flower.
"You know I don't sleep."
Munir stood up, and standing with her back to Lia, pulled her damp shirt over her head. The wardrobe creaked quietly as she searched through it.
"When are you going to check on your insomnia," she said worryingly as she slipped into an oversized black shirt that reached down to her knees.
"I don't want to fix it, though," Lia smiled as they walked out of the room. "If I wasn’t an insomniac, who would spend nights finding the information we need?"
The cold blue light of the computer screen brightened the living room as the women walked toward the kitchen. Munir glanced at the laptop open on the table and multiple tabs overlapping on it.
"Any progress?" she asked as she followed Lia, watching her hair bouncing behind her shoulders. Soft carpet swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Munir watched Lia's delicate stance, her hands gently swaying at her sides.
"Not yet," Lia shook her head. "The faces weren't caught on any surveillance cameras."
Dim yellow lights brightened the small kitchen, the white cabinets and round table in the center. Lia put on a water boiler, and the white mist soon floated above it. Munir sat at the table, folding her legs on the chair, her eyes pinning on the white tulips in the glass vase. She felt calmer now, but the images of the horrifying nightmare still gnawed at her consciousness.
"Are you going to see that girl again? Sofia, right?" she asked and looked up at Lia, putting out two mugs. "The one you had dinner with last week."
The water boiler began screaming before Lia turned the gas off and poured the sizzling water into the cups, then threw mint tea leaves and a spoon of sugar in each.
"Mmm, I don't think so." Lia pursed her lips to one side and sat across Munir.
Murmuring a thank you, Munir clasped her hands around the mug and let the hot mist fondle her nose.
"Why?"
Lia smiled, taking a sip.
"She assumed that there's no way Cam and I don't occasionally hook up," Lia whirled the spoon in the mug, tiny bubbles bobbing up on the surface. "Because we are both lesbians and live together, she said, we must be hooking up once in a while."
"Oh," Munir giggled.
"Yeah," Lia raised her brows with sarcasm. "I didn't really like that. And she kept pressing on it. Got really annoying in the end."
"I see..." Munir pouted and took a sip. The hot liquid flowed down her throat, washing away the last bits of the sour taste the nightmare had left in her.
"Too bad. She was cute."
Lia shrugged, her eyes lingering on the window.
"It will soon be sunrise," she said, gazing out at the quiet city, empty streets, and shady windows. "You should go back to sleep."
Sighing, Munir nodded and stood up with the mug in her hand. The cloud of steam shaded her face like fog in a mountain forest. Her kind smile was sculpted out of the white mist.
"Thank you, I feel better now," she said.
"No problem," Lia beamed.
She watched Munir's silhouette disappear into her bedroom.
The street lights dimmed with the twilight pouring the first strings of light over the horizon. Lia returned to her laptop and put on her glasses, which soon left red dots on her nose. Knotting her brows, she put her face close to the screen, letting the artificial blue light sting her eyes.
Lia began watching the video once again, shot from the camera across the street from Eugene's store. The images of two silhouettes running through the dark reflected in her eyes like mirrors, she paused again, zooming in on the men, but they were darkened like shapes cut out from black papers. Finally, frustrated, she hit the button and resumed the video, staring patiently before her eyes widened.
"Car!" she murmured excitedly, as she saw the men hopping in a gray car and peeling off. She paused and zoomed in on the plate number. In a second, a smile rose to her colorless lips, her sleepless eyes brightening.
She grabbed the phone, quickly typing a text.
Escape car plate number: SCL-5684.
In a second, the screen lit up with a message from Cam.
Thanks. I'll check the details in the morning.
Sighing with relief, Lia dropped the phone and sunk deep into the couch, her eyes slowly closing. Now she could sleep for a few hours, without the gnawing feeling of failure nibbling at her heart.
Thank you for your support!
Check back next week for part 2 of Issue 1: Burning Vengeance