Playing With Fire: The Recruitment

By Sheena Nathanael

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I grew up in a heritage home on the outskirts of London, England and had a fairly privileged childhood. However, there are some things that money can’t buy, and I learned that at the tender age of five. My birth mother walked out on our family, never to return again... or so I thought.
Twenty-five years later, I was a relatively successful art enthusiast, carrying on a branch of my father’s hobby-turned- business in Toronto. Coming from a wealthy, countryside home, I was determined to make it on my own in the big city. As such, I now live in a low-rise apartment building with a sweet, old lady for a landlord, whom I lovingly call “Nana.” Ken, my only friend and confidante, who also enthusiastically took on the title of being my personal yellow pages book, took me out to bars fairly frequently in hopes of increasing my social circle. One drunken night, I found myself lying in a hospital bed, but how could I have been in two places at once?! I was with a girl, inhumanly beautiful, in a strange place at the same time as the car crash. She wasn’t an ordinary human girl. In fact, she wasn’t human at all. There were others like her, camouflaging with the human species; hidden heroes, silent guardians. And I was about to be recruited as one of them. My life has changed forever!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheena Nathanael
• Release date: Aug 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370826452

Sheena Nathanael

As a kindergarten educator, my life is centered around make-believe characters, creative imagination, and storytelling. While my audience so far has been a tough, brutally honest crowd of five-year-olds, I now hope to reach out to the minds of young adults, to remind the youth of today how beautifully powerful it can be to take a break from reality and take flight into the fantasy world a good book! While I am still working on a sequel to this book tentatively titled, Playing with Fire: Dream On, I hope you enjoy The Recruitment. As Albert Einstein rightly said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. For while knowledge defines all we currently know and understand, Imagination points to all we might yet discover and create!” Feel free to contact me at : [e-mail] With all my love, Sheena Nathanael

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PLAYING WITH FIRE

THE RECRUITMENT

Sheena Nathanael

Copyright © 2017 Sheena Nathanael

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Prelude

416

The Accident

Gaia

The Revelation

Family

The Time Keeper

Training

Pandora’s Box

Luxuries

Like a Phoenix

She Was Never Dead

The Battle

Fiesta

The Return

The Note

Book Two

PRELUDE

I’ve spent many of my pre to early teen years rhapsodizing about superheroes, wondering whether there was more to life than the insipid cycle that is: eat, sleep, work, and repeat. I had dreams of wearing capes, fighting crimes, protecting the innocent, along with the vanity of being applauded, recognized, spot-lighted! The aspiration to amend the ordinary, to change stereotypes and to agitate the mundane became an inextricable part of my youth.

My most inherent talent was that I could spend hours on end wondering whether there was something bigger and better that I was supposed to be doing with my life. I’d escape reality in my comic books, and the days that followed the completion of the books were the most dangerous because their gripping tales had all the power necessary to excite me! My imagination was provoked even more when the characters in my books were strange and off-centred, and I was drawn deeper into the story.

Eventually, like every adult I know, I matured and packed away my foolish imagination into a box that got lost in the infinite space of my mind. I’d still wake up from dreams of adventure and whimsy but would shrug it off with my morning shot of espresso. Because the reality was that nothing out of a movie or a comic book was about to happen to me, or so I thought.

I read countless books about the philosophies that are most important to lead a fruitful life. I sat at seminars of revered life coaches and studied the laws of attraction, to feed both my interest and my amusement. By the end of it, I realized they all had one identical message: when you put what you are most passionate about into the universe, it’ll come for you, and it’ll come to you tenfold. I must’ve done something right because it did come for me, and boy when it did, it hit me hard and had me shaking!

Believe me; I tried to run from it. Even though it was everything I had wished for, I worked arduously to escape it. When your life starts changing - changing at a rapid, uncontrollable speed - it can get both, severely overwhelming and challenging. Your body and mind force you to either fight, flight or freeze. I tried all three, but it wasn’t long before I knew I needed to stop running from it. As frightening as it was, I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s. My life was the tempestuous and spectacular legend I reckoned it should be!

416

I stood behind the kitchen island of my tiny one-bedroom apartment, sipping a mug of freshly brewed coffee. Mrs. Jamieson, my upstairs neighbor, and landlord, could be heard loudly screaming at an electrician. The power of the low-rise apartment building had been going out often as of late, or so it seemed from her loud complaints. I spent most of my day at the office, so occasionally having no electricity didn’t bother me. The light bulb on the unfinished, red brick kitchen wall kept flickering now and then. I liked the wall; it gave my space the touch of character that I fancied, but I highly doubt it was intentional.

My style was minimalistic with regards to the interior design of my space. The open-concept kitchen opened into the living room area. Other than the red brick ‘feature wall’, my walls were a crisp white. The furniture, modern yet simple. You’d think my place ought to display more artwork and antiques, because I was in the business of selling fine artifacts. But, I was sufficiently content with my two-seat, white leather couch, a coffee table, and tall, swiveling bar chairs that transformed my kitchen island into a dining table, where I ate most of my meals. The only art that adorned my walls were pictures of my family who lived in England.

There was a worn-out, wooden coat hanger, with most of the paint chipped off, by the blue front door, and a few potted plants on floating wall shelves. I wasn’t a gardening enthusiast, quite honestly I couldn’t even grow a weed if I had to. But the plants were in the apartment before I moved in, so Mrs. Jamieson said I could keep them. My bedroom comprised of nothing but a king-sized bed, a desk with a chair, and a walk-in closet that led to my bathroom. It was adequate for my chosen lifestyle.

The building only had a handful of apartments occupied. Aside from the recent electrical issues, the place was well maintained and relatively clean. The pastel-green hallways reminded me of the old hospitals in England sometimes, but other than that, I think the apartment was fairly decent for my buck, given that it was located right in the heart of the city.

I took on the unwise risk of apartment hunting online, despite several warnings from my concerned step-mother. After an exhausting search, I struck luck when I found this place in an ad on a dodgy website. I got in touch with Mrs. Jamieson from my parents’ home in England, where I was living at the time, via e-mail. She was an interesting old lady.

Dear Mr. Wildingham, I hope you are well. Thank you for your e-mail. I have taken the—

That was her very first attempt to respond to me.

Dear Mr. Wildingham, Hello again! I apologize for my previous e-mail. I may have hit send a bit too soon my dear, I am doing my best. My grandson taught me a lot about the internet, but you see, my memory is dreadful! I am getting the apartment ready for you. Much to my dismay, the girl who will soon be your neighbor has frequent visits from her male pals. Pals are a good thing my dear, but I’m fairly sure they are wasting their precious lives away, always up to no good with the drugs and the whiskey. She is punctual with the rent cheques, so it is best that I let her monkey business slide. Now dear, pray tell me—

In her second attempt to respond, I realized I was going to love the old lady.

Dear Mr. Wildingham, I seemed to have cut myself off again from the previous e-mail. I have to say, I do love the sound of the buttons the keyboard makes, they are far lighter than the old typewriter but not as fun I’m afraid. I went through several similar e-mails.

Mrs. Jamieson was skeptical of giving me her phone number because, as she mentioned in one of her thirty e-mails to me, I worry about a gentleman having my number dear, you are but a stranger to me. I didn’t mind it; I understood her weariness of strangers retaining her personal information. She was, after all, an old woman living by herself. It took over two months to discuss what could have been talked about over the phone in an hour, but we finally reached an agreement. Eventually, the day came when I had to pack up and meet my new landlord in person. The sweet old lady who had amused me with her tales of a day in the life of a nana.

She was already waiting for me in the apartment on the day I landed in Toronto, welcoming me with a coconut cake with buttercream frosting she had baked. She also bought me a few toiletry items like a toothbrush, soap bars, toilet paper, dish cleaning detergent, tampons - you know, in case the male species were to start having their period all of a sudden - a watering can, and breakfast essentials.

You really shouldn’t have taken the trouble! I said as I unloaded the items from a flimsy plastic bag onto the kitchen island.

Oh, it wasn’t me, these meek old legs aren’t a fan of outings anymore dear! It’s my grandson, Adam. He comes to visit me sometimes, so I had him pick up some necessities for you from the corner store. She pushed her blue-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

Well, it was kind of you to ask him to. Thank you very much! And for the cake too, of course, it’s just what I need after a long plane ride.

Oh, I already knew that son. But, you are very welcome. I’ll get going now, don’t forget to water the plants.

I won’t, Mrs. Jamieson. Take care now.

She was probably in her mid-seventies. A sagacious old lady, with silver hair and a warm smile. My favorite thing about her was that she began addressing me as her son from the day we met, and that made me feel like I belonged. Her kindness was cozy in all the unfamiliarity. She reminded me very much of my very own grandma.

I distinctly remember knocking on my neighbors’ doors trying to introduce myself, in the hopes that I’d find decent people whom I could befriend. Unfortunately, on my floor, there were only two other occupants: an elderly man with a ton of birds who lived two doors beside me, and a young girl who rented the apartment across from mine. She was wearing more mascara than clothes when she first opened the door to me. Perhaps she was the young tenant Mrs. Jamieson described as the one who was always up to no good with the drugs and the whiskey.

Her apartment carried the stench of stale air, and the sound of a scratched punk rock cd was blaring in the background.

Hi…I’m Eric, I said, and immediately regretted introducing myself.

I don’t have any to sell you, beat it! were her first and last words to me before shutting the door on my face. I didn’t see her leave the apartment very often. From her chosen lifestyle, I assumed she wasn’t a working professional, so I was very curious to know how she could afford the place. However, my curiosity was not fervent enough to get me to socialize with her again.

The low-rise was right in the heart of the city of Toronto. And having moved from a small town in England with barely any knowledge of the place, I was glad that I had an easy commute to work.

The city felt alive at all times of the day or night; always bustling with a young, urban crowd who seemed to look like they were on a mission to get somewhere urgently. Coming from the countryside, I was thrilled to be a part of the hustle and chaos that came with this big city. On days of inclement weather, I would usually take the subway train, but today was a good day for a walk.

I felt my cell phone buzz in my pant pocket. It was Ken Walsh, my short, bald Irish friend. I ignored his call because I was on my way to see him. This fifty-year-old gentleman owned a bakery on the street level of the apartment building. I frequently picked up the deli sandwiches for lunch on my way to work. He was a very sociable person with a loud personality, which was quite a contrast to me, but we got along great. Being new to Toronto, Ken was my go-to guy for any information about the city, and he was always happy to help.

Hey ho! It’s the Englishman! he announced out loud when I walked into the deli.

Hey, Kenny! The usual ham and cheese again please! G’mornin Bonny.

Morning Eric, would you like to buy a slice of apple pie as well? I made it fresh this morning! Bonny said in a rather tempting tone. Ken’s wife, Bonny, helped him run the store. She often insisted that I join them for dinner at their home. I think they were sympathy invites after I told her that I was content with microwavable meals and cheap wine as a daily meal plan. She was a talented chef, so I seldom refused the offer to dine with them.

Absolutely! It looked delicious I replied without hesitation. Ken handed me a brown paper bag over the deli counter, and I paid him.

Say, Eric, what are you doing tonight? I was thinkin’ maybe we could hit a bar later? Ken asked. Because he was the only good company I had, I always responded positively to his requests.

Sure, yeah I could go out for a drink.

Great, I’ll pick you up. Have a good one kid!

See ya, thanks for the pie, Bonny!

***

The lobby of my office building was unnecessarily large, with marble flooring, ceiling-to-floor glass windows, and amateur abstract paintings. All for a space that held nothing but the receptionist and security desks. White-collared executives hurried in and out of the glass buildings, with their faces buried in their favorite gadgets.

I noticed the receptionist crouching behind the desk, with one hand on her forehead like she was shielding her eyes from the sun. I peeped over the desk and found Sondra finishing up her breakfast sandwich.

G’mornin Sondra I interrupted.

Hefgbfgllo Sir she chomped at me; her smile was giant and egg-filled. She wiped her hands on her blue pencil skirt and handed me a brown envelope that was lying on her desk among other stationary items and her breakfast sandwich. This came in for you earlier today.

Okay, Thanks for holding on to the parcel for me. How was your weekend?

She dry-swallowed hard, and her eyes popped open like she was about to choke. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to ask her questions while she scarfed down her crumbling breakfast. She didn’t seem phased though.

"My weekend was awesome! On Saturday, I got my nails done and oh-em-gee all my girlfriends are so jealous! Here, look!" She tilted her head to one side and proudly stretched her arm out to show me her nails, which were a rather distasteful shade of orange.

Gorgeous! I lied. See you later, Sondra. I’ve got to run! I waved and started walking away.

***

Although my father was originally a dentist by profession, he had a passion for collecting valuable, antique sculptures and paintings. Bidding for artifacts at various auction houses was a beloved hobby of his when he was younger. He would come home with old, cracked marble sculptures, or paintings that were faded and worn. They’d look like junk to me, but he looked at them like a child gazing at gifts on Christmas morning!

He would carefully restore them himself in the beginning, afraid to let anyone near his treasures. Eventually, he hired private, free-lance restoration workers because my father that knew he wasn’t as skilled as he would’ve liked to restore them himself. In due course, he retired from his dentistry profession earlier than he had formulated and decided to focus on selling some of the merchandise.

Little did he know that what he mockingly called a garage sale for the wealthy would turn into a small, yet copious family business. We now have one gallery in England, the one my father and older brother oversee, and a relatively new one in Toronto, delegated to me. I always knew I wanted to be an entrepreneur; I just didn’t know it would come to me this quickly. Naturally, I jumped at the prospect of handling my father’s business overseas.

Even though I went to a rather prestigious university to complete my education in business management, ultimately everything I knew I had learned first-hand from my father.

The elevator doors opened straight into the gallery space, which occupied the entire 52nd floor of the building.

Hi Eric, good morning. Your coffee is on the table in your office. Kasey, my secretary, and only employee greeted me cheerfully.

Thanks, Kasey, you’re the best! Any morning clients today?

Yes, Mrs. Donna Beau. She should be arriving shortly.

Oh wow, an early one today! Alright, thanks. Could you make a follow-up phone call to Ms. Lucy Hale? Ask her if she’s still interested in the sculpture, and let her know that we won’t be able to hold it for her for longer than a week please.

I’ll get right on it!

Kasey was an incredibly bubbly individual. She almost always had a positive attitude about everything that went on in her life, and sometimes mine too. She was confident and very smart. I remember liking the vibe I got from her right from the Skype interview we had when I was still in England. I’m her boss, but we still maintained a laid back, friendly relationship. She’s a good employee, better than any employee my father has ever had, and she has down syndrome, which made me have so much more respect for her.

With only the two of us working there, it was always a quiet, peaceful atmosphere; which is great because that’s how an art gallery should be, I reckon. Within the vast, open space of the room were two offices with glass walls, one for Kasey and one for me. Area-wise, they were mirror images of each other; I couldn’t say the same for the interior design, though. My office was pretty basic, just like my apartment. It had a computer table, leather chairs, a shelving unit and a painting of a dog that my nephew Talen made me as a farewell gift. Aside from the painting, the only other interesting