4th Chapter

Valeria- 

My wolf- Kala- leads me through a short lesson on werewolves. It's not too far from what the stories say, even though she keeps saying that the stories are absolutely wrong. 

Werewolves are also creatures of the night like the vampires, but unlike vamps, werewolves can walk in the sun and transform into normal human form. There's a certain age at which one gets connected to their wolf, which is their inner beast, and apparently, I'm a late bloomer. 

Or, I'm a very good suppresser. Because this isn't the first time I'm hearing Kala speak, but I haven't been very inviting nor have I been accommodating. Probably she'd almost rot away in my head and had used the first opportunity she had to break free. 

And it just had to be on my parents death day.  

At that thought of mine, I hear her whine in sympathy. 

But I do not speak. Instead, I focus on my arrangement of Father's study, placing the files back in place according to the guides he put in place. My heart clenches as I see his cursive handwriting again and again. It hurts to think that he'd never be stuck in this study as always, noting the names of people and places and objects and meetings and …

Meetings. 

'It's a very important meeting,' he'd said. 

The file I'm holding drops to the floor. 

Father had been unable to come for my graduation yesterday because of a meeting, one he'd said would somehow affect our lives. 

I dive for his journal, which is kept underneath three stacks of files in a box carved out of the floor. Don't ask how I know his hiding spot. 

Hands shaking, I flip through the worn out pages, looking for yesterday's schedule. If my memory serves me right, Father always created memos of his probable meetings weeks before they actually happened. That way, when they actually came, he was usually very prepared for them. (Unfortunately, I'm not as smart and as planned out as that.) 

I search thoroughly, scouring through the writings on the pages as though they're my lifeline. 

But I find nothing. Not even a hint as to where he was going that day.

What I do find, however, makes the pain my heart double in size. Or probably triple. It's hard to tell with the way it's steadily increasing. 

Father's last entry was about my graduation, and for the first time, he'd written a short note on how he felt about a meeting or an event. He hadn't wanted to miss it. 

I don't notice that tears have welled up in my eyes until they drip onto the open book in front of me. Scared that I'd ruin the paper, I immediately wipe the liquid from it and wipe my eyes too. 

I miss him. I miss them. I miss them both so much. 

It's been less than twelve hours since they died, their bodies are in the room not too far from me, but…it feels like they've been gone forever. Mother would have come out if she heard me causing a ruckus in the study with all my cleaning, and she'd have wacked me on the head, yelling at me in her native tongue. 

I'd never understood the Mandarin she spoke, but she was always so proud of it, and she spoke it wherever she went. Only Father and some Asian-Americans we met on the streets could understand and interpret for her. It was becoming cumbersome, finding an interpreter, and just four days ago she'd excitedly told me she wanted to go for language lessons. With a very terrible use of grammar, might I add. But I didn't have the heart to correct her, and I had just listened amusedly as she mentioned the various places she planned to visit to practice her use of English. 

And now, she's gone. 

The tears well up again, and this time I close the book, slump into the closest chair, and let the tears fall. By 6 a.m., I'll call for an ambulance, and their bodies will be taken away from the house, never to return again. 

Never again will I see Mother blush in embarrassment when she can't understand the shopkeeper. Never again will Father's stern gaze melt into one of adoration when he looks at my mother. Never again will she bribe him to join us at the dining hall from his study.

By the time it's 4 a.m., I am spent, but I am at least through with arranging about ninety-eight percent of Father's study. Satisfied, I look at my work, but as I make to exit the room, I step on a file I must have overlooked. 

I frown and pick it up, then turn around to drop it in its appropriate position, only to stop moving when I see that it has no number on it to indicate where it's to be. 

And Father never makes such mistakes. So obviously, I am curious as to why he would deliberately leave this file unmarked. That leads me to plop my butt back on the chair I vacated before and place the file on the desk. Lots of weird thoughts float through my mind regarding the content of the file, and many a time there's this red flag waving in my head, and a voice advising me not to do it. Not Kala, by the way. 

But I don't listen to them, and I flip the first page. 

When I open it, I see lots of pictures, and lots of dates revolving around the period I was born. But that's not what scares me. Not even the blood stains all over the documents scare me. What scares me is the birth certificate I find. 

'Name: Valeria Johansson. 

Date of Birth: 19th November, 2000. 

Gender: Female. 

Born 4 a.m.,Kingard Yarn Hospital, 2nd Avenue, off Westbrooke Metropolitan Way, Illinois. 

Parents: Henry and Jacqueline Johansson. 

Nationality: Swedish.'

My parents' names are Wesley and Kim Poland. 

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