Yurui The Cursed One

I dig my heels in. “Wait.”

Her grip tightens.

“Yurui,” Mom says. Her voice tightens around my name. I give her a pleading look.

“Please.”

There goes the last of my pride.

Mom’s face changes. A small fracture, gone almost as soon as it appears. “It is just a sleeping bag.”

Just a sleeping bag. My most precious possession. I cared for it like it was my own baby. And she dismisses it like it's some trash. I stop fighting. There is only so much abuse one can take, and after everything I’ve been thru these past few days, there is simply nothing left to give.

The blonde woman leads me into the stairwell. Mom follows behind us, careful not to get too close. The door to the balcony stays open, morning light spilling through it onto the dirty floor. I look back once. The balcony is already shrinking behind me, slipping farther and farther out of reach. And then it hits me. I may never come back. This very well might have been the last time I ever set foot in there.

The woman drags me down the stairs. My shoulder throbs with every step. My cheek feels swollen. I keep my eyes low because that is what my body knows how to do. Keep your head down and try not to cause any trouble.

We pass the fourth-floor landing, where someone has left a bag of trash split open near the wall. Flies rise when we pass. On the third floor, an old man opens his door a crack, sees the woman’s suit, and closes it again without a word. Smart man. On the second floor, a child peeks between the railings. His mother yanks him back by the collar. Smart woman. By the time we reach the entrance, my tears have dried stiff on my face.

Outside, a lone black car sits in the cracked parking lot. Sleek, luxurious, almost limousine-like. The kind that doesn’t belong here. I'm honestly surprised we found it in one piece after it's been sitting here for a good half hour. I guess the Miracle Inc. hood ornament did its thing.

The woman opens the back door. I do not move. Mom comes up beside us. For a moment, the two of us stand close enough that I can smell her makeup. Powder. Something floral. Under it, bleach. The same old bleach from under the sink. That nearly finishes me.

“Mom,” I say, my voice cracking.

She looks tired. So tired. I almost forgive her.

Then she says, “Do not embarrass me.”

The blonde woman pushes me into the car. I hit the seat hard and catch myself with one hand. The door shuts before I can straighten. The lock clicks quietly. Mom gets into the front passenger seat. She does not even look toward the back. Of course not.

The blonde woman takes the driver’s seat. The engine starts with barely a sound. The air inside is cold and dry, carrying the smell of new leather, dashboard polish, and expensive perfume. The seat under me is softer than my bed. Nobody speaks as we pull away from the building.

I press my forehead to the window. The apartment block slides past. Our floor is too high to pick out from here. All the balconies look the same from below. Rusted railings. Hanging laundry. Satellite dishes. Cracked concrete. Too many people pressed into too little space. Somewhere up there, under a cracked plastic bowl, my sleeping bag is still folded, waiting for someone who is never coming back.

The car turns. The building disappears behind another building.

Just like that.

My chest gives one hard, stupid lurch. I do not make a peep. Mom does not turn around.

The city changes as we drive. At first, it is all familiar ugliness. Narrow streets. Stained walls. Food stalls opening under patched tarps. People in work clothes moving with their heads down, already tired before the day has even begun. Then the roads widen. The windows get cleaner. The advertisements get brighter.

Beyond the apartment blocks, Miracle City slowly unfolds in the distance. Glass towers rise above cracked roofs and crowded balconies, their polished sides flashing white in the sun. Banners stretch between buildings, bright with smiling faces, shining hands, and Miracle Inc. slogans dressed up in soft, cutesy letters. It’s almost as if you can sell people anything as long as you make the font cute enough.

YOUR FUTURE IS SAFER IN OUR HANDS.

POWER WITH PURPOSE.

MIRACLE INC: BUILDING THE NEXT HUMAN ERA.

I stare at the words until they blur. The woman drives with both hands on the wheel. Perfect posture. Perfect silence. Mom sits beside her with her purse clutched in her lap.

Her new purse.

Of course, they gave her a purse too. Designer, by the look of it. Smooth leather. Gold clasp. Carefully chosen to match the new clothes, because apparently, if you are going to sell out your own daughter, you might as well do it in style. Well, at least let's hope it is comfortable. It’d be a shame if she got a rash or something.

Anger rises in me again, burning all the way to my ears. “So,” I say, my voice full of sarcasm, “did you get anything else in exchange for me, or was it just clothes and accessories?”

Neither of them answers. I keep looking out the window. “Was it worth it?”

Mom’s shoulders stiffen. The blonde woman glances at me through the mirror.

“Your mother was compensated for her troubles. You were not sold.”

There it is. The language they use to wash blood off their hands. Aka the Corporate magic. Use the “correct” term, and suddenly a crime becomes a standard policy procedure.

“Fine.” I stare out the window. “Was the ‘compensation’ worth it?”

“Yurui,” Mom whispers.

Hearing my name come out of her mouth now makes my skin crawl. “No,” I say, cutting her off. “Don’t you Yurui me.”

Finally, for the first time this morning, she turns to face me. Beneath all that makeup, her face has the waxy paleness, making her skin resemble that of a corpse.

“You think you are the only one who suffered?” she says.

I look at her. Really look. The lines around her mouth. The shadow under her eyes no powder can hide. The hands gripping the purse too tightly. The woman who raised me, fed me, resented me, stayed with me for all these years, and then, the moment she found a door marked exit, without a hint of hesitation, she shoved me through it headfirst.

“No. But I think I am the one being dragged off to some mysterious facility.”

She looks like I slapped her. Good. If she wants to throw me away, she can at least have the decency to feel the weight of it.

The blonde woman’s voice cuts in. “Further emotional escalation will not alter the terms of transfer, so you can stop.”

God, I would give anything for the opportunity to strangle her right now.

I lean back against the seat.

“Does talking like that make it easier to live with yourself?”

“I am not here to discuss moral interpretations.”

“You are not?” I ask, my voice full of sarcasm.

“No.”

The answer comes so quickly that I turn her way. Her eyes are on the road.

“I don’t know what you are implying, but I am very satisfied with the direction my life has taken. In fact, I would say I am exactly where people like you dream of ending up.” She pauses for a second. A small smile creeps across her face. “I bet you dreamed of being where I am for years. Sitting in that rotting apartment, imagining yourself in clean clothes, with a good corporate job, in a nice part of the city.”

I do not know what to say, because the worst part is, she is not entirely wrong. I would never admit it out loud, but of course I have dreamed about it. Every day I spent countless hours daydreaming about a nice, cushy life in a nice part of Miracle City, a good, cushy job. Now, to be fair, so did everyone else who was born in the slums, so I wasn’t unique or anything. So I stay silent. There is nothing I can say that would not make her smile wider.

The car passes the school district exit. For one second, the towers of Miracle Academy cut into view between two buildings, pale white against the light blue morning sky. My stomach twists before I can look away. I think of the classroom. Yashiro’s voice. Kika’s smile. Maevis standing at the front, watching me with calm blue eyes that always seem to know more than they should. My hand curls against my lap.

“What about school?” I ask.

The blonde woman does not turn her eyes away from the road. “Your enrollment is no longer relevant.”

No longer relevant. My life keeps getting smaller and smaller every time she opens her mouth.

“And my grades? The academic records from previous schools?”

“Sealed.”

“My friends?”

The word feels strange in my mouth. I know I do not have any. Maybe that is why it hurts. The woman does not answer. Mom briefly glances at me and turns forward again. A weak laugh leaks out of me.

“Right.”

We pass another sign.

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Beyond the city edge, the road begins to lift. The buildings spread apart. The sky gets bigger the farther we drive, and I hate how exposed it makes everything feel. Miracle City slowly disappears behind us. The streets thin out. The glass towers sink into the haze. Buildings give way to empty lots, broken fences, and stretches of road with nothing on either side.

If I screamed now, no one would hear me.

Ahead, a checkpoint blocks the road, its white walls covered in silver panels making it shine so bright against the sun that it hurts to look at. As we draw closer, the guards do not turn their heads. Only their eyes move, following the car for a second before sliding away.

The car slows. A camera swivels toward us. Red light scans over the windshield, then the side windows, then me. For one second, the red line crosses my face, almost blinding me. I hold my breath. I pray to God it detects something. Maybe notices that I’m being dragged against my will and sounds an alarm. I mean, Miracle Inc. or not, human trafficking is still illegal.

The light turns green. The barrier rises.

Somehow, that doesn’t even surprise me. The woman drives through. Who am I kidding? Of course, nobody was going to save me.

Past the checkpoint, the city disappears completely. I twist in my seat to look.

The blondie chuckles. “You look constipated.”

I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my skin and draw blood. I swear to God, it takes all the willpower I have not to unzip my seatbelt and lunge at her.

Mom doesn’t react.

The road opens ahead, bleached white by the sun. Beyond it, the desert waits. Not golden like in old pictures. A flat, pale emptiness reaches all the way to the horizon, where heat bends the air and makes the distance shimmer.

The remains of dead skyscrapers stand out there in the distance, half buried and leaning, their broken windows dark even in daylight. Out there, in the endless sea of sand, they look like scraps of garbage spat out by Miracle City and left to rot in the sun. Now I understand as to why they built the facility all the way out here. Attempting to escape into that endless expanse would be nothing short of suicide. Out here, you could travel for miles before finding another human being. For better or worse. Either way, the chance of survival is close to nothing.

The car is quiet. Too quiet. After a while, my body starts to shake. Hard enough for my teeth to start chattering. I press my hands between my knees and try to hold still. The sun has warmed the leather seat until it started to burn through my skirt, heating up my but. My cheek aches. My shoulder throbs. My throat feels scraped raw from all the crying and shouting.

I think about the sleeping bag.

I should be thinking about Miracle Inc. instead. About the facility. There is no telling what they will do once they realize my blessing, or whatever it is, is not normal. I can already imagine the clean table, the bright lights. My body cut open while someone takes notes. Where Miracle Inc. is concerned, nothing is off the table. Sadly, I do not have the luxury to mourn my precious things. Every moment should be spent trying to come up with a plan. Any plan. Something that gets me out of becoming Miracle Inc.’s newest lab rat.

Blank. Nothing. Not a single useful thought comes to mind.

I press my forehead against the window and close my eyes. Tears slide down my face in silence. No sobbing this time. No shaking. The sheer helplessness of it overwhelms me. Neither Mom nor the Miracle Inc. woman so much as glances my way. I guess now that I am already inside the car, I no longer matter.

We drive in total silence. I rest my chin on my hand and stare out the window while clouds slide past my eyes. The sun hangs over the desert, throwing everything into a hazy mix of light and shadow. Little by little, I start to calm down. I keep staring out the window until my eyes get heavy and I start drifting off.

Somewhere behind us, high on a forgotten balcony, the only place that I called home gets smaller and smaller until even grief itself cannot see it anymore.

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