I notice that when I look at that warm, dark liquid, it is almost impossible to see the bottom of the mug in my hands. Similarly, when I look down a well, I'm sure there's a fixed floor down there, but my eyes can't see without a flashlight or something.

I remember the dark, rainy nights when my little girl would run into my arms scared, fearing the empty darkness. I was there to hold her in my arms and tell her that nothing would harm her.

** Texas - 2005 **

Despair; three more letters that gave her the opposite meaning of hope. Three words give it a complete meaning; loss of hope, disbelief and despair.

A quote once said that "our eyes are the windows to the soul".  At that moment, I could see the true meaning of the word hopelessness in her dark, silent eyes. I would say that looking into them was more than finding a meaning in the dictionary, but the reality of a desperate soul that had lost hope...and was somehow trying to find a purpose....

Those eyes, so far removed from reality, turned to the worn wooden table. Every now and then, the agonizing noises of the old wood's misaligned legs caught their attention. The table moved disjointedly whenever someone leaned over the surface. Above the striped tablecloth, drinks and cards were scattered about, as well as an ashtray with leftovers and cigarettes. Around them sat a group of men.

One of them stroked his slightly gray beard, and smiled as he looked at the cards in his hands. The other in front of him had a serious expression, and the sound of the ring on his finger touching the table revealed the tension in the game. The third man was wearing a crumpled plaid shirt, with a few strands of hair scattered over his shoulder; he kept an indescribable gaze on the cards on the table.

The man with the gray beard withdrew a certain amount of money from his pocket, leaving it in a small pile of similar bills.

The money, perhaps if he could get a little more than he already had, he could finally get out of that place and escape as far away as possible. That was all he needed, but the question on his mind was precisely: what would he do next...?

She couldn't contain the doubt and fear that grew every time she thought about escaping. Outside the walls, the world is scarier. Besides, courage dissipated and was lost "that night", leaving only the company of despair...

A sigh came from his lips, as if it were possible to expel what he felt from his heart.

She took the wet cloth, squeezing it between her fingers. In circles, he began to slide it over the wooden counter in front of him, perfectly imagining his attempt to escape a few years ago.

A harsh voice roused her from her thoughts, bringing her back to harsh reality:

- Clara, table three... !!! - shouted Donald, the manager.

Mr. Donald ran the bar as lapsed as himself. In his mind, the two looked the same; those thin, wobbly legs like a table, plus the cracked ceiling beams like dense wrinkles, and finally the spidery tiles giving a dusty, scary, old look.

Donald reached out and deposited in his lightly marked hand some green notes and a gold paper with letters written on it in pen.

His large hand held the girl's arm firmly:

- If you get any complaints; I know whose fault it is....

In response, she nodded positively, heading towards the couple laughing at one of the tables near the window.

As she passed the group of men playing, she noticed the half-lidded eyes of the man in a plaid shirt. Leaving the money in the couple's hands, she looked at the man, who silently indicated his opponent on the other side of the table, the one who was incessantly stroking her beard, showing his affection for her.

Discreetly, Clara glanced quickly at the cards in his hands, though her eyes did not focus, like the glass of a window on a cold night, but deduced what seemed to be on his mind.

Returning to the counter, she left the board on top and moved her left eyebrow twice in signal. The plaid man brought his hand over her few light hairs and smoothed some of the normal strands.

The sound of coins and cards tossed like the wind, falling one after the other, revealing one's game. And the shrill, malicious shouting of the two opponents:

- You can't win them all, Drake!!! - complained the first one who was wearing a shiny ring.

- 'It's just luck, my dear friend' - he replied, smoothing his light hair again, 'Is this poker? - sarcastically confirmed.

- I give up, he raised the second, bringing a glass of beer to his lips.

- Since you have no further reason to continue, I can only go home.

The two who had lost left the establishment empty-handed, throwing words to the wind in disgust.

Drake walked past the counter, looking at the girl, and disappeared into the hallway that led to the manager's office and the back door.

She took a few steps toward the hallway.

Donald and Drake were talking about something impossible to hear at this distance, but the fact was that every time he won, Drake handed his accomplice and manager a sum of money. Yes, the two were in on a scheme where the others didn't know about, but unfortunately, it wasn't just them....

With his tasks finished, he left his keys on the counter, picked up his backpack, and walked down the hall toward the back door.

- No delays, Clara! - shouted the manager of her office.

Completely ignoring her boss's voice, she closed the door.

The alley behind the bar stretched ahead of her. A few meters away, parked on the sidewalk, the blue pickup truck was waiting for him.

For a few moments, he hesitated to follow it, creating some alternatives in his mind. But they all dissipated, leaving her with only one path.

She pulled the cap of her sweatshirt over her head and walked slowly to the vehicle.

She removed her backpack and entered the car in silence.

The greenish notes slid over the calloused hands of the checkered man beside her, and his teeth yellowed as he savored his victory that night.

Clara removed the hood of his sweatshirt, leaning her face lightly against the glass, listening to him count and recount the money.

Jack Drake maintained a sloppy appearance, crumpled clothes, worn shoes, and a lifeless smile. He was fascinated by games of chance, and cards.

Perhaps you imagine that he is a charlatan trying to "get along" at certain opportunities, and has no interesting history. If you thought so, I can tell you that behind that yellow smile and slovenly appearance is a man whose real name has already been recognized. However, this is not the time to talk about Jack Drake. 

Those greenish eyes lit up like flames in a fire:

- This is much more than I earned last week, Leona will be proud....

With reluctance from his companion, Jack packed up his notes, and headed down the road to the house.

*

On the deserted road, surrounded by bushes, only the lights of headlights illuminated ahead. During the unattractive scenery, Clara felt his gaze on that deep silence, which most of the time caused.

- Guess how much we earned? - said Jack.

She remained silent with her gaze lost out the window.

- Two hundred dollars," she answered, taking the money out of her pocket again, "we did a great job - you should be happy...

The girl gave him a look. But deep down he knew she was part of all this:

- You know I hate this - although she said what was stuck in her throat, she knew he wouldn't hear her - I want to go to school, like other girls my age, have friends...

- That's enough! - He raised his voice firmly, keeping his eyes on the road - We've talked about this, and we're going to work like you always did...

- I hate this life! - He answered in the same tone.

- I said enough! - This time those huge greenish, threatening eyes were directed at her for a few moments - if you continue with this conversation, you will go back to work on the plantation, and you will never leave the gate... Do you hear me?

His blood boiled in his veins, and hatred burned in his heart, like a bomb about to explode. But Clara needed to calm down and return to her silent responses.

Passing through the huge wooden gate, he parked the truck in front of the old house.

Its appearance was not so far from the bar, perhaps worse, more like a haunted house, and around it, dry, leafless trees adding to its creepy appearance. Well, a real house in the Drakes' conception.

Clara got out of the car, visualizing only portions of the path covered by the underbrush. She climbed the porch steps, and went inside. Behind her, Jack was humming an old song, and the two were greeted by a woman in a long dress that exuded wealth, despite the reality of the place:

- Hello, my love - the words came from her reddened and slightly tilted lips - Leona missed you.

Unlike Jack, Leona maintained a different appearance, splurging on the few resources she could get. She enjoyed expensive wines, gold rings and stone necklaces. You can imagine who paid the expenses.

Leona moved less easily, so she used an oak cane, and the iron tip made a weary noise when it touched the ground. However, it was not only her mobility, but her lips gave the impression of being paralyzed with every word she uttered, resulting in a distinctive, heavy accent. Above all, what caused her curiosity was her peculiar way of speaking when she addressed herself in the third person. This led to questioning and careful observation of her words.

With her backpack still on her back, the girl reached for one of the few red apples inside an ornate and worn plate on the table in the middle of the kitchen.

Her eyes stopped on the strange couple who ignored her with kisses, causing a feeling of nausea and expressions on their faces.

She walked up the stairs, making noises.

In her room, she dropped her backpack on the floor next to the door, looked down the hall and down the stairs. Then she closed the door and went to the small dresser next to one of the beds.

Opening the last drawer, he reached down and pulled out the bills he was holding.

His fingers slid over them:

- There is still a long way to go - he said to himself in a whisper.

Letting out a sigh, he looked disappointedly at the door.

- What do I do? - Her fingers lightly touched the bare neck, bringing to mind the longing for Him.

...

The world can be scary when you think you don't have a destination and who is waiting for you. The feeling of fear and darkness is haunted by the fact that we scream as loud as we can and are not heard.

As I remembered my little girl, I realized that she had confidence; that if she ran into my arms, I would welcome her with love and safety. But what about those who are born orphans?

Who will welcome them into your arms when they are afraid and alone?

So I would like to continue this story by saying that despite how frightening the darkness and its emptiness is; despite how lonely the orphans and everyone in this world are; there is a Father where they can seek comfort and hide in loving arms on a stormy night....

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)