Frida lied, on the couch, in a torpid state. She was asking questions; questions that one may ask in a stormy, lonely night. Surely, she wasn’t an ordinary citizen of her state — or at least she thinks so. Her ancestors bequeathed a beautiful mansion, that made her who she was: a wealthy woman. And that makes her different from everybody else — she thinks. The mansion was given for her family to live. Except there was no family, it was only her and her alone. She indulges in a luxury that only few can afford. She is living alone there for 45 years. She’s 60 years old. She have been alone since her 15th birthday.
The townspeople regard her as the “the lonely, rich woman.” Her younger self would have been angered by this, and flattered. But not anymore. Now that she’s old, people see her as the “lonely, rich, old woman.”
But she doesn’t care. She is a lonely, rich, old, uncaring woman.
“I don’t care!” The 15 year old Frida exclaimed.
“Well, you should, Frida! Child, I could not bear any more disobedience. You should go with them. We are not your family, they are your family. You don’t belong to us. We’ve reared you for 15 years, you have been a joy to raise. But now that your real family has come for you, Frida, accept them. They are your own blood.”
“No, father! I don’t want to be poor like them. I’m not meant to be poor, I deserve to be rich.”
“Child, please.” Mr. Hamilton said.
“You don’t love me?” Frida asked.
Mr. Hamilton sighed. He has no idea what to do to get Frida back to her own family. Frida was the daughter of one of their servants who fell sick and died soon after she gave birth. Fifteen years later, the father found out that a daughter of his was in the Hamilton household. As much as Mr. Hamilton wanted to keep Frida with them, he could not; as the family have a strict rule. Once Mr. Hamilton’s kin found out that he has been keeping a child that is not his, and has given her the title of being Hamilton, half of their possession would be banished away from them.
Frida has also been a problematic child. She was in a constant quarrel with the Hamilton’s only real daughter. Frida has always been a jealous child. She’s aware that she really is a jealous child.
“You don’t want me here. You have been planning to dispose me all along. I knew it.” Frida said in a low but clearly, loathing voice.
15 year old Frida ran to her chambers with tears dripping upon her face. She looked out the window, it was dark. A night with no moon and stars — nothingness. And she felt that the sun would no longer touch her face, not tomorrow, not ever. The spirits that have been living inside her for so long, have soared and a curse, as it seemed, had drained all the colors of life in her eyes. She saw leaves nodding at her, like it approved of the transformation of her soul. An evil plan was on her head, the voices were stubborn enough to not stop.
There was a knock. A loud knock. It brought back old Frida to the present moment. It still was stormy. She wondered who could have been stupid enough to be outside on such weather.
“Ms. Frida Hamilton?” A manly voice spoke.
Frida walked and reached for the door.
“Yes? Who are you?”
“Well, I am a man, Ms. Hamilton. But I have no name. They call me Mr. Unknown.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. How could a man have no name. And if they call you Mr. Unknown, then it could be said that it is your name, therefore, you actually have a name.” Frida said in her old, raspy voice.
“You are a smart woman, madam. So I will no longer lie to you. I am not a man, therefore I have no name.”
“Whatever. What brought you here?” Frida asked.
“My mission is to collect humans who also have no names.” Mr. Unknown said.
“I have a name. And it is Frida Hamilton.” She declared.
“Madam, you know yourself. And you know what you did. I know what you did.”
The man entered the house. He was looking around. He once again faced old Frida.
“I know exactly who are you. You are not Frida Hamilton.”
“Then who am I?” Frida asked. She clenched her fist and looked away from the gaze of the stranger.
“A murderer.”
The windows were closed in the old Hamilton mansion, but the thunder’s crashing roar were loud enough to scare every child, it was as if the lids of heaven were lifted apart. And although Frida was no longer a child, it scared her. It reminded her of the night she killed every being in the Hamilton’s mansion.
“I have a name and it is Frida Hamilton. You could not tell me otherwise.”
“That is not your name. You are not Frida Hamilton. You have no name. You are like me, a no-name. Unknown. But you had your chance 45 years ago.”
“That is not true.”
Frida lied.
“Get away from here! I, Frida Hamilton, compels you.”
Frida lied.
Frida lied, on the couch, in a torpid state.
Juvenile Journ 