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Anna

It was a rainy afternoon sixteen years ago, and I was that three-year-old girl sitting on the window-sill, scowling at the raindrops trickling down the glass. I had never liked the rain back then because my dad had a strict no-playing-outside-on-a-rainy-day policy. He didn't want me to get sick.

I had been pampered from before I was born, the unplanned baby that was a blessing for a middle-aged couple. Most people wouldn't be happy, but my parents were ecstatic when they found out. With my elder brothers gone to college, I was the bundle of joy that made the house feel like home.

Despite the fact that my entire room was cluttered with expensive toys, I had been in a terrible mood. I hated being trapped indoors, unable to cycle outside in our peaceful street or climb up into the treehouse my dad had built for me. That's where my heart lay, in the outdoors.

As I watched the drops of water race with each other, my frustration grew. My nails picked at the frilled hem of my pink skirt, a dress mom had forced me to wear, and I desperately wished for the rain to stop.

I heard distant shouting once again, something that had become a usual occurrence. We had gotten new neighbors two months ago, and since my room was attached to their wall, I was constantly subjected to the torture of their shouting. Usually, it was a woman shouting, and it was followed by the breaking of dishes and slamming of doors.

Being too young to understand, I had asked my mom and dad what it was all about. They hadn't given me a clear answer, simply saying that Mr. Magnusson was hard of hearing. It made sense to me then. No wonder the woman had to shout to be heard by her close-to-deaf husband. I had automatically assumed that the man was hard-of-seeing too. Maybe that's why he bumped into things and made them break.

Pressing my small hands on my ears, I huffed in anger. I really hated the noise, and it made me want to shout at them to stop being so loud. I didn't do it, though, my mom said we shouldn't be rude to people.

Then I saw something that was to change my life forever.

My window faced their house, and I could always see their door open and close, usually when the balding man who was hard of hearing left for work. His car wasn't on his porch though, so he must not be home at all. I was too young to wonder why the woman was screaming if her husband wasn't home.

Their door opened, and I saw a small boy stumble out of it, falling down the two stairs and onto the wet pavement. I watched him struggle to get up, falling again when he tripped over his bare feet and too-long pants.

Mrs. Magnusson hurried out after him. I recognized the woman who was known as the new 'witch' who moved into the neighborhood, by the kids my age. Playing in the street, we were always careful to avoid her house. What if she baked us into cakes and ate us? There were rumors about why she shouted so much, and I always tried to forget the myths when I tried to sleep in my bed, afraid she would float through the joint wall and abduct me.

She was holding an umbrella as she followed the boy out of the door, and I assumed she was going to help him up and take him inside.

Instead, she hit him with it.

The umbrella collided with the boy's ankle, making him lose his balance and fall face-down in the mud. The umbrella came down again, this time on his thigh. The boy writhed in pain, rising on his hands and knees and crawling away from the abuser. The woman shouted after the boy, her voice drowned out by the roaring wind, and the splattering of the rain, the glass window blocking even the faintest of sound from my innocent ears.

Mrs. Magnusson didn't step into the rain, but the boy sprinting away from her on all fours was soaked to the skin, his black hair limp and sticking to his face. He didn't turn around, he didn't slow down, he didn't even look behind him to see if the woman was following, and she continued shouting things I couldn't hear. I saw her take off her shoe and throw it at the boy who was now out of her umbrella's reach. The shoe hit him at the back of the head.

He still didn't stop.

My gaze followed the boy through the fence separating my mom's perfectly-kempt flower-beds from the weeds on the Magnusson's side. He rose to his feet, gingerly limping a few steps on his bare feet, which were by now caked with mud, just like his clothes. His muddy hands wiped his face of the water dripping down his hair, coloring the face brown. He was on the sidewalk and scurrying in the direction of my house when he tripped again, landing on his face once more.

He fell but didn't rise.

I waited for him to get up and run again, or maybe for the witch to swoop in and grab him. He simply lay still under the thundering skies, the heavens pouring down upon him with full force.

I don't remember what made me run, but I was already sprinting out of my room and down the stairs. My pink pumps barely made a sound, my ponytails bobbing up and down as I skipped the stairs, holding on to the railing like my mom had taught me.

"Daddy!" I screamed.

My daddy was sitting in his big rocking-chair in our large living room, his half-moon spectacles perched low over his nose as he squinted through them at the paper he was holding. His grey hair stood fizzy as ever, lips pursed in thought as he attempted to solve the cross-word puzzles he was so good at.

"Daddy!" I shouted at the top of my voice, hoping to get his attention.

"Jerry, will you listen to her?" my mom called from the kitchen.

"Yes, sweetie?" dad asked without looking up from his puzzle, chewing at some loose skin of his lower lip.

"You said nobody should be out in the rain," I said to him.

"Yes, dear."

"But there's a boy out there," I said hurriedly.

"He must be going somewhere, baby," dad waved away my concerns.

"No, daddy, he's sleeping."

This caught my dad's attention, and he looked over his spectacles with an amused expression.

"He's sleeping out there on the sidewalk," I repeated myself.

Dad smiled. "Did you fall asleep while watching the rain again?" he guessed, his tone gentle.

"No, daddy!" I stomped my foot on the ground. "He's out there, and he's wet."

"Jerry, I think she's right," my mom called again. "Good God, it's a child."

My dad was already on his feet before I could say another word. Stuffing his feet into his large bunny-slippers that I loved to play with, he hurried over to the window to look outside. I watched his face whiten and brow furrow, and without a word, he was rushing out of the door.

"Daddy, it's raining!" I shouted after him, but he didn't stop, not even to take his raincoat or change his slippers. I attempted to follow him out, but gauging my intentions, my mom wrapped her arms around me and steered me away from the open door.

It didn't take long for dad to return, carrying a limp and muddy rag in his arms. I scrunched up my nose, disgusted by the dirt staining my dad's clothes and the water dripping down his hair. Mom hurriedly closed the door behind him, quickly opening the door to the room she and dad shared. My parents didn't hesitate taking the wet and dirty boy into their room, laying him down on the clean white sheets, and covering him with the brand new comforter.

He's making everything dirty, I wanted to yell, but didn't say a word when I saw how worried both my parents were. They were hurrying around, my mom making soup while dad turned the heating higher and stripped the boy of his wet clothes. We didn't have any boy-clothes in my house, my brothers being adults or in their late teens, but dad didn't hesitate to fold his own shirts up and wrap the boy up in those. 

"Mommy, he's dirty," I complained to my mother when she asked me why I was standing outside my dad's closed door.

"Dirt can be washed away, honey. But you know what can't be washed away?" mom asked me, her wrinkled face panic-stricken.

I shook my head, not understanding why her smile was strained and why her brow was furrowed.

"Kindness, my darling," she answered. "Will my daughter be kind to the scared little boy in there?"

I wanted to ask her what he was scared of, but the worry on my mom's face made me nod in silence. My parents were never worried, or at least I had never seen them this worried.

My family was perfect, still is, with my parents who were old enough to be my grandparents, and my three elder brothers who only visited for the holidays and got me whatever I wanted. Holidays were the best time of the year, with my entire family together, their faces glowing and laughter echoing within our walls. 

That's what family is supposed to be, or that's what I always thought.

Until I met the Magnussons.

"Patricia," my dad came out of the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "He's the Magnusson kid."

Mom nodded solemnly, a pained frown marring her face.

I knew the boy too, not as 'the Magnusson kid', but as 'the new kid'. He had joined our kindergarten class two months ago, but nobody knew his name. Our teacher, Miss. Stacy, had asked him thrice, but he had mumbled something that none of us could hear.

Nobody liked talking to him, mostly because he wore dirty, oversized clothes, smelled bad, and had greasy, unevenly cut hair. He didn't speak to anyone either, sitting alone in a corner and staring at his own feet. He didn't have any books or crayons, and when Miss Stacy asked us to share with him, nobody wanted to. He never had any lunch, and when we all had nap-time, I could sometimes hear the sound of sobbing coming from his direction.

Everybody said he was sad because he had to live with a witch, a witch named Mrs. Magnusson.

"This has gone too far," my dad said. "We have to involve child services."

Mom nodded. "Maybe we should talk to them first. Maybe he's not their child. I mean, who would do this to the poor boy?"

"Whoever he is. We have to call the cops. At this rate, they'll kill him."

"Okay." Mom pursed her lips. "Let's do it."

Dad hadn't answered, and I had taken advantage of his momentary seriousness and sneaked past him into the room. I didn't like the boy being here. He was dirty, and he was making my house dirty. My mommy spent all day cleaning it.

I was surprised to find the boy awake, his eyes staring up at the ceiling as he lay in my dad's bed, wearing his clothes. A bunch of comforters were piled on top of him, making his small frame nearly invisible.

He jumped when he heard me entering, quickly attempting to sit up under the comforters which limited his movement. His hair was still wet -- although standing at odd angles because my dad had clearly wiped it dry with a towel -- his face pale and lips blue due to the cold. What stood out though, was the frightened green eyes, widened as if he was a dear caught in the headlights.

"Don't be scared, I won't hurt you," I had said to him, remembering what my mom had said to me outside the room. "My name is Anna. What's yours?"

My initial disgust with the boy had vanished; he didn't look dirty anymore. He looked clean, and shy, and afraid. Why he was afraid of me, I didn't know, but I wanted him to know I wasn't going to hurt him. That is what my mommy had said I should do.

"K-Kyle ..." he had mumbled almost inaudibly, and I had heard his voice for the first time that day.

A hand rested on my shoulder, and I looked up to see my daddy's proud smile. When my gaze returned to the frightened little boy in front of me, I didn't know who he was or why he was there. I didn't know I should thank the rain that it had brought him into my life.

I also didn't know he would one day be my life.

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