Sorrow's Story

We walked into an old bakery it looked almost abandoned except for the woman behind the counter, who looked up at us in surprise until she focused on me her nose scrunched up in disgust.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah. Can I have a blueberry muffin?” I asked putting what little change I had onto the counter.

She rolled her eyes as she counted the change and muttered under her breath, “Homeless shit.”

I narrowed my eyes at her and she handed me a dry muffin, “Thank you.”

“Let’s go,” I told Nathan, and walked out of the abandoned bakery and sat on the edge of the sidewalk a few yards away. Nathan sat next to me and I broke the muffin in half and gave him the other half.

“You eat this every day?” he asked in disgust as he tasted the muffin.

“No, I eat it every three or four days, it’s all I can afford right now,” I told him, picking off a piece of the muffin and stuck it in my mouth, scrunching my nose up in disgust at the dryness.

“What was with the ‘Sydney Morgan’ thing?” he questioned.

“I didn’t want her to know who I was, it would bring back very… unpleasant memories for her, and it would make my stay here very inconvenient,” I told him.

“Memories? You knew Lauren before?” he asked.

“I went to elementary school with her,” I told him.

“But she went to elementary school in New York,” he objected.

“I grew up here, in Atlanta, Georgia, but my parents’ jobs made us move around a lot, I basically landed in New York by the time I was eight years old and stayed there up until I was thirteen,” I said frowning as I took a bite out of the muffin.

“And then your parents moved again?” he assumed.

“You can say that.”

“How did you come up with the name Sydney Morgan?” he asked.

“Sydney was my grandmother’s name and Morgan is my middle name,” I told him.

“Sorrow Morgan…” he pursed his lips trying to find out my last name.

“You’re not going to find out unless you beat my challenge,” I warned him in a sing-song voice.

He laughed, “I will find out.”

I rolled my eyes at him, “Tell me more about this Lucinda Blithe,” I told him changing the topic.

“Well, my mom has known her since collage when they went to Emory together. Her last name is actually Henderson,” he started off, “Then she all of the sudden married a guy called Richard Blithe. They had a girl named Morgan, who died when she was nine, she died of leukemia. And she got divorced right after her daughter’s death,” he told me, “She lives here in Atlanta.”

That lying psychotic bitch, always lying, making it look like she was the victim.

“Have you ever seen any pictures of the girl?” I asked knowing the answer.

“No,” he shook his head, “Cindy doesn’t like to see her, it makes her feel depressed.”

“Do you know where she is buried?” I asked.

“Cindy told me that she was cremated and her ashes were around the forest near Lake Lanier.”

I scoffed quietly finishing my muffin, “Let’s go, we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”