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“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,” Kess murmured softly to herself as she surveyed the small town of Kistermon beneath her high window.  She settled her head in her hands and propped her elbows on her windowsill, which was covered in hundreds of little raindrops, all of which had landed so carefully so as not to touch one another as though someone had planned the positions.  The droplets of water polka-dotted the stone surface as it had done with the rest of the town.  Each individual raindrop, wherever it was after it landed, sparkled in a beautiful, coppery hue that contrasted sharply with the long, pitch black shadows drawn by the rising sun.  The rays of sunlight seemed to be reaching out in long whiskers of white to touch each little bit of rain.  The girl could have sworn it was already warming up, even if the sun had just barely risen.

Kess sighed for the umpteenth time that morning and squeezed her eyes shut, praying fervently, before opening her right one to look at the enormously tall city gate.  She didn’t bother blinking open the other eye, for it was covered by a black eye patch and still swelling at a tremendous rate, though still intact and useable.  Momentarily, the girl had forgotten that her eye was bruised along with the rest of her body and the fresh cut grazing her right cheek was also ignored.  Something had moved outside her window.  Her visible eye had lit up, sparkling like the fresh rain, and scanned the perimeter of the town.  The thin trail that lead out from the gate had no people slowly lumbering in, and the fence that enclosed the small city was the border that separated the areas of no people and people.  Her hope plummeted, almost as fast as one would fall should they decide to throw themselves from her window, and all she could think of doing was to stare down at the city with a such a forlorn expression.  “Raindrops on roses and crisp copper kettles,” she repeated to herself.

When nothing happened, as she had expected, she turned from her window and picked up a long, slender white candle.  The box of matches, which had been beside the candlestick like it always was, was taken too.  The number fourteen had been carefully carved into the highest portion of the wax; it was no more than a centimeter tall, but it had been marked in so neatly that it suggested the utmost concentration.  It was cut in deep, as though it had been done many times before, and Kess re-did the motion one more time before lighting it.  She shook out the flame and stared deep into the candle.  The wax melted quickly, but thankfully it was tilted away from her since she was staring into the little fire with such intensity that she couldn’t notice anything other than the dancing red and orange.

“Kess, do you know what this is?”
“The candle that you light for me every year, Mommy.”
“Yes, it is.  It’s a wish-candle, Kess, it grants you a wish every time you blow it out.  Kess, you’re five now, you can make your own wish this year.  Each time, before using it, scratch in the reason as an offering and light your candle.  The second the reason is burnt, blow it out and make your wish.” The woman with long, wavy black hair handed her the lit candle, the number five already burnt halfway through.
I wish Mommy will always love me, the little girl thought, remembering the past few days’ anger and threats, oblivious to the fact that her wish didn’t need making: it was already true.

Two years later on that date, her mother disappeared and hadn’t returned.

Kess blinked, two fat, glistening tears sliding down in rapid succession down her right cheek, her eye patch moist with the other tears.  She blew hard and wished just as hard: I wish everything will turn out right in the end.

She carefully set the candle back into its holder and leaned out the window again, staring hopefully into the distance.  Maybe today, the seventh anniversary of her mother’s departure, would be the right day for her return.  Seven was a good number, her mother had always told her so.

And yet, her hope was lower than ever.  Perhaps it was the combination of a lonely, but nevertheless beautiful, morning all to herself with no one to enjoy it with, another hope-filled but crushingly disappointing day, and the fact that her wish-candle hadn’t been granting her wishes anymore.  They had stopped the year she turned ten, when she wished for her mother to return.  The next year, the same wish.  Then for her twelfth, thirteenth birthdays too.  So perhaps, Kess reasoned with herself, making such a vague wish would work this time around.

Her attention returned to the small town splayed out before her.  A majority of the buildings were dilapidated; the ones that remained intact looked just as frail as her home: cracked walls and ceilings, icy cold stone floors and windows, and shaky foundations.  The wind even terrorized the inhabitants that the house was about to be blown over.  Somehow, most of the buildings had held through the years and that was ever a constantly appreciated part of luck everyone was grateful for.  However, Kess was especially grateful since her room, no matter how tiny it may be (three strides made by a girl five-foot-tall long, four wide), but because it was the highest floor in the entire town.  Imagine, living in a house that towered at five floors!  But sometimes, as lucky as Kess thought herself to be, she wondered how life was outside the bedroom door.  Kess Winsler, who was now a five-foot-tall fourteen-year-old girl on the brink of womanhood, had not set foot out of her house, or her room for that matter, in the past seven years of her mother’s absence.  Even before, she had never been out the house much, the only explanation given being “The world is dangerous.”  Supposedly, the disappearance of her mother had strengthened that statement and she had obediently stayed home the entire time.

Kess always found it ironic that the only thing her parents had ever agreed on was the fact that the world was unsafe, one, because it was only proven true by her mother’s supposed kidnapping, and two, her parents had always seemed like the most dangerous think to each other.  The two never had stopped fighting and squabbling, even if it was playful, but most of the time almost life-threatening.  There were a few times when there was the small in-between portion, where the arguments weren’t so heavy but the two were still angry.  Such a time was Kess’s birth and naming.

Her name, which sounded odd to even herself, was no normal Kistermon name.  Her father, Lester, had wanted to name her something absolutely normal: Jessica.  Her spontaneous mother had chosen a strange name for her daughter the moment she opened her eyes: Kettle.  As the old story, the one she had begged her mother to retell hundreds of times, went, their parents had a small, grabby fight over her naming.

“Kettle?” Lester sputtered, unable to believe such a ridiculous name for his newborn daughter. “Why such an eccentric name?”
His wife gave an irritated huff. “It’s better than plain Jessica, and besides, she has the most beautiful coppery kettle eyes!” With that, she snatched the birth certificate from the frightened midwife and scrawled a K before Lester seized it.  The letters e, s, and s had barely been written down when she tore the paper back to herself.  And tore the paper she had done, for now the whole certificate was in half, one side blank, the other reading Kess.
A moment of seething passed with the two glaring so venomously at each other before they both simultaneously announced, “Our daughter is named Kess Winsler, Midwife.  We trust that you shall fill out the birth certificate for us.”
“Kess is a lovely name,” the midwife stuttered weakly towards the two new parents stalking out of the clinic.

As for the other fights, those were ones that she wanted to forget forever.  A painful recollection was about to replay itself when the door behind her clicked open.

“Kess?” her father asked.

She spun around instantly and shouted, “Daddy!” but the endearment trailed off, a sudden diminuendo that left the last syllable nearly silent.  His eyes were bloodshot and the reek of alcohol poured out from him.  “Oh no…” she whispered to herself.

“Are you waiting for her?” he asked, suddenly realizing her reason for being up so early.  The look of pure fury colored his face an ugly red and he place his hand on the wall for support as the anger shook his form.

“I-”  a sharp slap cut her off.

“DON’T YOU DARE INVENT EXCUSES FOR ME,” he bellowed as she toppled over from the blow.  He breathed heavily until he saw the quiet tears streaming out from her dull coppery eyes.

“Oh no,” he too breathed out the phrase. “Kess…” he walked to her slowly and hugged her, crying too as she flinched at his touch.  “I’m so sorry, sweetie… Happy birthday…”

As soon as she heard the apology, she reacted the same way she did every time: She hugged back, whispering, “It’s okay, Daddy, thanks.”

Thok.

Her father went limp and something warm and wet dripped down her back.