Pristine's Problem | ONC 2024

The Marvin Mansion was tightly leathered with grief and anguish. Mornings and evenings passed relentlessly, inquiries made right and left, but search for the truth remained a mission impossible. Detectives and cops made their way through the demented house like it was some public property. Echoes of gaiety and glee dampened as the trouncing despondency planted it's flag firmly.

Priscita Marvin did not know what she was supposed to cry for — her lost child or the murder she committed. But her plaintive mien kept weeping and wailing to all the probation dodged, highlighting her oblivion.

"She is not a killer!" Priscita wailed in agony as Izra extended her bony hands to form a comforting clutch. The Alteiners had arrived at their neighbours house only after the police had left the crime scene, to avoid some rude remarks like "You have no rights" and the like. 

The siblings peeped through the ligneous windows and clinker fences vigorously for the past two days as curiosity cornered their powers. It was the very first time — the town and them — had witnessed an actual investigation. The mundane way of solving crime cases awed their magical bloods.

Arabella stroked the weeping mother's shoulder helplessly. A silent motion of comfort was the only thing that was required. Sympathetic words were only shrubs and herbs in the large land of solace, less enough to suffice the misery the mother racked. Despite that, the harrowing truth lingered within the bereaved house, inked in transparency and sidled through the perturbed vehemence, veiling from the ignorant humans.

The remaining superhumans snuggled themselves in the sapphire stained linen couch, daubed in guises of empathy and struggled to hide their vivid nonchalance. Arthur even yawned wantonly, encountering the habitual glower from his gentle mother.

"She — she — ," Priscita stuttered, suffocating in plain air, "She isn't capable of even cutting vegetables!"

The superhumans scrunched their features to a blank emoiji, as bridled titters made it's way out. Avril's subdued smirk gaily spread through his remorseless face, as he was also confused about what to laugh for — whether Priscita's lamenting irony or the gullible murderer undercover.

This time, the sniggering horde received a double espresso of glares from the mother-daughter duo. Izra and Arabella, ensconced on either side of Priscita, flinged stones of scowls before the wailing mother could notice.

As Priscita's unsettled melancholy elevated in wafts, Alan's surmise paced heavily. After spending five years of manipulation, his nimble brain dexterously ruled out the suspicion on the accused. The comprehensive psychology spawned in his veins manifested a deep forage behind the compact mantle concealed within the bleak house.

He kept glancing through the pastel-walled living room, scrutinizing for any possible clues to succour his inkling.

"Stop worrying, Priscita," Izra's airy benign deflected the swamped pine.

"Pain and misery are merely tests to our credence. Passing them with bravery and courage is what faith expects from the afflicted. Its you who should remain steadfast in your beliefs and stop snivelling all day! Take some action to find what actually happened!"

Her augmenting advice remained aphonic to the distressed mother. Priscita chose to remain silent, as none of her compassionate visitors had answers to her daughter's whereabouts. Her bereavement faded through the fibres of ignorance, falling into the deep pit of sorcery.

***

"Why are you being so stupid, Alan?" Arabella reviled, her lean arms folded across her svelte torso.

Departure from the depressed resulted in even more scepticism, as conflict ensued it's invidious track in the Alteiners' abode.

"What is even stupid in this?" Alan infuriated plainly. His tender features grimaced, tired of arguing with people who were illiterate of his hunch.