Chapter 1 #3
I only know that our family line is plagued by inevitable death that dangles above our heads, because she once let it slip from her lips when I complained about us always moving around, never settling.
I notice that she slips up more easily if she wants to soothe my mind.
In my eagerness, my young mind abused that side of her too quickly and greedily.
So, she stopped speaking about the past altogether, leaving me with threads of bits and pieces that I am unable to tie together into something cohesive.
Hence, to my mother's frustration, I seek knowledge wherever I can. I won’t be a puppet on a string. I refuse.
That day, when she had unwillingly shared the vital information about our foreboding future, she seemed to snap at me from exhaustion, because she, too, was worn out from constantly running.
She had spoken with a tiredness and sadness in her voice that I had not heard before.
"Both of you WILL live. You hear me. I will defeat this curse even if it is the last thing I do in this bloody life. You will not succumb to it as long as I am around, you hear me!"
Then, seeing the horror on my face, she realized she’d said too much. She pulled me in close, hugged me, and apologized.
"I am so sorry, my sweet child. It is just the tiredness speaking. I, too, would love nothing more than to settle down. It's not possible yet, but I promise you it will soon be. I love you so much, my dear Harlot."
She’d kissed me on my head, but when I tipped my head up to look at her, she was swiftly scouting for Fynn, and I felt the relief ripple from her body. Her tight hold on me loosened a bit when she realized he had not heard a thing.
“Please, Harlot, not a word to your brother, all right? Promise me, darling.”
I nodded.
She’d forced a minuscule, saccharine smile then, causing the corners of her lips to lift slightly, softening her face as she stared deeply into my troubled gray eyes.
Storm clouds, my mother would tell me, that’s what my eyes reminded her of, while I stared back into her dark gray ones.
I could tell she was doing her best to look cheerful and carefree, as if at any moment, we would finally find a place where we could have our happily ever after, that the words she’d just blurted out meant nothing.
The years of running and fleeing would eventually be behind us.
But I also knew she was lying to me, and it surprised me how effortlessly she’d done it. It scared me. And when the time came for her to apologize for breaking my trust, I’m not sure if her apology would mean anything to me.
From that moment, I knew either my brother or I was destined to die; I just haven’t figured out whether we will be killed by one of the dark creatures roaming this earth, or with the help of destiny itself, a curse, as she had said.
Either way, it is inevitable. Since then, my mind has grown heavier with my thoughts of the curse she mentioned. A puzzle I am eager to solve.
Ever since, the thoughts are always there, always present, full of death. Sometimes heroic, I imagine I would sacrifice myself by committing suicide so my mother would no longer have to live with this burden, whatever that burden is.
But the older I get, the more often my thoughts are dark and grim, selfish.
Unlike when I was younger, they were sporadic.
During that time, I could still brush them off as intrusive, but nowadays I fantasize about all the ways I could kill my brother.
Lift her burden that way. Why should he live and not I?
First, I had simple ideas about it; I would suffocate him in his sleep or make him trip while we walk past a canyon or clough; I could poison his food or drink, or simply creep behind him and slit his throat when he least expects it.
But eventually, the more straightforward methods no longer seem to bring the turmoil inside of me satisfaction.
My mind starts to take more ghastly turns, and I continuously surprise myself with the creative ideas that come to mind on how to drain my brother of life.
Especially considering that I have never killed even an animal myself, let alone a human being.
But how hard could it be? Human skin is easily damaged; a sharp knife can split it in seconds.
Unlike most animals, we have no innate defense mechanism.
My mind sprouts ideas left and right like I am a trained killer, a psychopath.
I would first wake up from these nightmares, my clothes soaked in sweat, but now I sleep soundly with these thoughts.
These horrible dreams have become soothing realities of my brother’s death, of me slaughtering him, gutting him, like a mere animal.
I have never spoken a word to my brother about this, not about what my mother had blurted out, nor my evasive and intrusive thoughts. We barely speak anyway, and I have no intention of waking sleeping dogs. I’d much rather have my brother shrouded in uncertainty, in the dark—it feels safer.
I have never brought it up with my mother again, either; she appears to have forgotten all about it or at least pretends she has. I love my mother, but after how easily she lied to me, I have stopped completely trusting her.
I remember once asking her about my ancestors and whether any information is available about our family.
It was my final attempt to reach out and allow her to redeem herself and restore my trust. She had caressed my cheek and said she liked my curious nature, but that I should be careful, as curious creatures are the first ones to get hurt.
Then, lightly, she mentioned that when I was old enough, I could look through our family books.
The mention of the existence of such books caught me off guard.
I had noticed her always carrying books with her while we were traveling; it had just never occurred to me that they held the secrets of our family background.
I greedily asked her if I could flip through one of them, but her angry look turned me silent immediately. Her eyes told me everything I needed to know. Those books were forbidden for me, for now. Another promise she dangled in front of me, one I had no patience to wait for.
Since then, I have been eyeing her books, but she never leaves them unguarded. She knows that I have this unspoken desire to read them and am keen to learn about our heritage, which only makes me yearn for them even more. It’s almost as if the books know that I crave them. I must know.
Whenever I get near them, I feel a strong urge, as if I am drawn to them, an unseen force pulling me in.
It is silly, I know. These are just books, plain old books, nothing magical about them.
Yet, it takes everything in me not to bolt at my mother, push her aside, grab the first book I can get my hands on, and sprint away from her and everything she keeps from me.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the thought; I could never hurt my mother, especially not just to look in some family books.
Perhaps the death of my sibling would distract her long enough for me to flip through them, I muse.
The thoughts come to me more and more as I mature.
Each day, the impulse grows stronger. I feel ridiculous.
The older I get, the more impatient I feel, almost as if every day could be my last, and these books hold the answer to my possible survival.
When will Mother consider me old enough to have a glimpse at these books?
With each passing day, I have trouble keeping my thoughts heroic, even for a short time, the more violent ones coming naturally to me instead.
I no longer only think about tripping my brother, with the high hope of him breaking his neck—a quick, simple, and clean death—no, my thoughts are becoming more gruesome and outrageous, even scaring myself.
I no longer just dream about slaughtering my brother; I now actively think about it.
How can I fabricate such ideas and not feel slightly disturbed by myself?
It is as if a sociopathic side has awakened in me, erasing any empathy I used to have for this individual with whom I once shared a womb.
The same familial blood flows through both our veins, yet all I want is to drain him of his.
I wonder if his mind, too, is a vortex of madness like mine.
If he, too, is haunted by such morbid and insane ideas, fantasizing about how he would end my life.
If he is, how could I make sure I’d be the one to survive?
Because I will be the one to come out alive, even if it means carving my way through him with my teeth.
I am too afraid to tell my mother about this lurking darkness that seems to be growing inside me.
I am simultaneously scared and hungry for knowledge about what it means, and I am unsure how long I can contain the dark impulses that come along with those desires—either of them.
I become aware of how I observe my brother, looking for weaknesses within his routines.
He is the stronger of us, the hunter. I would not stand a chance in one-on-one combat against him.
I have the height and frame of a fragile porcelain doll.
He is almost 2 meters tall, with a muscular, robust frame.
If he put serious effort into it, I am sure he would be capable of snapping my bones with pure strength alone.
Like I’m some twig he steps on. Knack. I imagine it for a mere second, the feeling of him breaking my bones, then shake off my thoughts.
Attacking my brother is undoubtedly not the answer. I shudder; why am I considering this like it’s a serious thing? I know the answer… because I want to hear his muscles tear and his bones break, just as when I step on a twig.