Chapter -5

Casey P.O.V

“Have you gotten out of work yet? I am almost done , about to leave the apartment ”. I placed the phone on the dressing table with the speaker on . I will go with the soft cherry colour lip gloss. It is going to bring out the colour of my dress . My dress was a red crop top, embroidered with black net and with a heart shaped neckline attached with a black leather body fit skirt that looked like a second skin , along with a belt .My ass looks good in the skirt. Usually I am more of a sweatpants and loose shirt kind of girl but I am jobless and soon will be a homeless kind of girl if I do not pay the rent soon, so why not treat myself for one day and forget the shit that has gone down. Placing the perfume back on the table to pop another mini Cooke in my mouth. Yumm these goodies are a piece of heaven. I rubbed my wrist against each other.

“What is the point of going for dinner if you are going after finishing a tank of cookies ?” I took another cookie and started munching loudly.

“Do you really think I am going to starve myself if my friends can not be on time?Ah thanks, I almost forgot to pack some ”.

“Why don't you order some food?” Zazu asked

“Hallo Ms memory loss. I am jobless and I have to save for rainy days. Anyways you both are paying for the dinner. I am just going for free food”. I pulled out the ankle length boots that have been lying in the back of my closet for over six months. My other cousin had gifted me but did not have time and place to wear them. It was black in colour with butterflies, one each on their back.

“Jokes apart, I have talked to the people I know about your job and sent out your resume. Hopefully they will contact us soon ” Before I could answer my phone pinged, notifying me that my cab had arrived.

“Ok my car has arrived. I need to go, we will talk about this later bye ”. I disconnected the call, took my clutch and phone . I really hope at least one of the companies will reply to me back. I had to lock my room, otherwise it would look as if an atom bomb of feathers had exploded in the room if I left it open with my cat. Tigger has no problem taking care of himself , in fact better than I take care of myself. I should take some training from him.

I think my family was utterly traumatised when I first told them I was moving to Los Angeles. My mother, in particular, seemed to take the news the hardest. She used to visit every other week as if she was conducting an inspection to ensure that her daughter had not somehow blasted the apartment into pieces like a dynamite explosion. I couldn't blame her, though. My childhood, especially with my stepfather's side of the family, had its fair share of incidents that might have left her worried about my ability to live independently. One particular memory stood out ,a time when an innocent celebration turned into a neighbourhood wide disaster, all thanks to a few packets of firecrackers.

I still remember the occasion clearly. We were just kids, spending time at my uncle and aunt’s house to celebrate some event. I don’t recall exactly what we were celebrating, but I do remember the chaos that followed. My stepfather’s relatives had gifted us a few packets of firecrackers, something my parents had explicitly forbidden us from playing with. They were firmly against us handling fireworks, knowing how reckless we could be. My stepfather, being the responsible adult he was, confiscated the entire stash before we could get our hands on it. However, kids always find a way to stir up trouble, don’t they? Somehow, before he hid them away, we managed to sneak a few rockets, and that’s where the real trouble began.

To this day, I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to light them all at once. I like to believe it wasn’t mine. I was an angel, after all ,completely innocent, incapable of mischief. It must have been one of my cousins. Yes, I’m sure of it. A group of seven or eight children huddled together in the backyard, eager and impatient, ready to witness something spectacular. We set up the rockets, one after the other, positioning them carefully in an empty glass bottle, excited to see them shoot up into the night sky in a dazzling display. We struck the match, lit the fuses, and then stood back, waiting in anticipation.

What happened next was nothing short of a catastrophe. Instead of soaring straight up like they were supposed to, the rockets went in every possible direction except upwards. It was like they had a mind of their own. Some shot sideways, crashing into neighbouring houses, while others got stuck in the branches of trees, setting them alight. The night, which had been calm and peaceful moments ago, suddenly erupted in shrieks and panicked cries. We could hear the sounds of doors slamming open, people running outside, alarmed by the unexpected attack of sky rockets.

And then, amidst all the chaos, there was Ms. Wilson. She was a seventy-year-old woman who lived next door, a strict lady with a sharp tongue who always had something to complain about. That night, however, she wasn’t complaining, she was screaming. She ran out of her house, wrapped in nothing but a towel, another towel secured around her head, wildly gesturing at her home as if she had just witnessed an alien invasion. I don’t know what exactly had happened inside, but given the way she was yelling, it was clear that at least one of our rogue rockets had found its way into her house.

While we were trying to process what was happening, one of the fireworks suddenly changed its course and began heading straight toward us. It was like something out of a horror movie—eight panicked children being chased by a rogue firecracker, running in circles around the lawn, shrieking as if their lives depended on it. No matter which way we turned, it followed. There was no escaping it. Eventually, our group scattered, each kid bolting in a different direction, but somehow, I became its unfortunate target. It didn’t leave me alone until I managed to duck behind a tree, and at that moment, it exploded against the trunk, the force sending me stumbling back as sparks flew everywhere.

By now, the entire neighbourhood was outside, drawn by either the screaming or the unexpected sky-bound attack. Our family, who had been inside enjoying themselves, finally stepped out to see what all the commotion was about. Just as the last of them emerged, something none of us had anticipated happened , our old treehouse, the one we had played in for years, suddenly exploded. A massive burst of fire and smoke filled the air as the wooden structure turned black, crumbling before our eyes. And just like that, it became painfully clear where my stepfather had hidden the rest of the fireworks.

It was sheer luck that one of the neighbours had already called the fire department. Within minutes, they arrived, rushing to contain the damage before things got worse. Fortunately, no major fires had broken out except for the treehouse, which was beyond saving. The firemen worked quickly, dousing the flames before they could spread further.

As for us? We stood in absolute silence, not daring to utter a single word. We knew we were guilty, and there was no way we could talk our way out of this one. But then, as if by some divine intervention, one of the neighbours spoke up. “It must be the work of the next door neighbour’s son,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval.

Now, that family was notorious in our neighbourhood. Their children were complete brats who constantly pulled pranks and got away with them because their parents were rich and influential. They had already set off some fireworks earlier that evening, so naturally, when the blame landed on them, nobody questioned it. Our parents remained silent, though I’m certain they could see right through us. Still, they didn’t correct the neighbour’s assumption, perhaps because they knew how much trouble those kids had caused in the past.

We felt a little guilty, but at the same time, we were relieved. The neighbours scolded that family for hours, and their parents, exhausted by their children’s antics, didn’t even bother protesting. The kids tried to defend themselves, insisting they hadn’t done it, but no one believed them. In the end, they received minimal punishment. They weren’t charged or anything, but they certainly weren’t let off easy.

Unfortunately, our luck didn’t last. The moment we stepped back inside, our parents turned on us with fury in their eyes. They knew. They had known from the start. And they weren’t about to let us get away with it. Our punishment? We were grounded for months. No playing outside, no television, no treats—nothing. Just a long, boring existence within the confines of our homes, forced to reflect on our actions.

Looking back, I can see why my mother worries about me living on my own. If I could barely survive childhood without causing destruction, what would I do as an adult in a new city? But, in my defense, I have learned a lot since then. At least, I’d like to think so.

Though it did not sit well with the twins who did not chase troubles, troubles chased them. They are born walking disasters.