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Inktober - Dream
It's that time of year again. With each Inktober comes a new set of prompts, and a new series of writing drabbles. This one is my piece for "Dream." This was a character-building exercise.
Dream
She's wearing a floral-print dress, and that's how I know this is a dream. Lilee smiles at me, and I can spy the metal ball stabbed into her tongue peeking from behind her teeth. Thankfully, it is the only strange thing about her mouth. She's normal again.
She approaches me, but I'm too afraid to reach for her. This is the woman I've killed, the first of the many, many lives I've taken. She does not look angry at me, and that makes it harder to face her.
I know she is a creation of my weak mind, the trickles of hope I couldn't stand to snuff, but still, when she calls my name, I think time has reversed after all. The way her lips wrap around the harsh syllables of it, just like they used to, are recognizably home.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, because I am, because not a day has gone by in these last ten years that I have not wished things could have been different.
"I love you," she responds, and it's those simple words that make me break my promise to shed no more tears for her.
Aria watches Link whimper in his sleep, wondering if she should wake him. He mumbles, and she catches the reflection of his tears. Leaning closer, Aria makes out the words, "I love you too," and she wishes desperately, stupidly, that those words could be hers.
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Prompt Event - atten
A new month means a new prompt list for my writing group. This is my submission for "atten."
Atten
It is bitter. I resent the taste, and I can’t help but cringe as it slides down my throat. I could never handle my alcohol like my father did, and that’s another source of his unending disappointment. I have given him no shortage of failings to choose from. I bet he blames me for us losing the war. I bet he blames me for what happened back home, too. For not dying alongside the rest of our family. The barkeep sets another glass in front of me, and its piss-colored contents turn my stomach. I don’t remember ordering this, but I also don’t remember walking into this tavern. I bow to her and wrap my fingers around the glass. I think of my father. I think of the man who bought me my first drink, when I was still a boy, and who called me a slur for nearly spitting it out. I think of the control he had over me, the control he still has over me now two years in the grave. I try to think of one thing I ever did to make him proud. I cannot. So I bring the glass to my lips, and I down the retched liquid. It scorches my throat, and the taste of it makes me sick. I empty the glass in one long gulp, and when it threatens to come back up, I swallow it down again. I set the empty glass on the counter, and I see the barkeep regarding me with a disgusted expression. Embarrassed, I turn back to the glass, and in the foam dripping to the bottom, I see the face of my father. He does not seem proud of me. He never will be.
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Prompt Event - medieval, blinded, marsh witch
My submission for the prompts "medieval," "blinded," and "marsh witch." This is a small backstory bit about Lito, my blind medieval hero from a now-abandoned project.
Blind Medieval Witch
I knew she was just a girl from her fearless, clumsy gait. She stood before me, her breaths ragged and the bells on her belt jingling. I did not know her, but in that moment, she was the only chance I had at getting out of this swamp. “Girl,” I called to her.
She approached me, slowly at first, but then made to tackle me. I stepped out of the way of her attack, and I listened to the way she pouted. “What do you want?” Her voice was rough, as if she hadn’t used it in a long time. Tears clung to her words.
“I want out of this swamp.”
She was silent for several moments before she asked, “You’re not afraid of me?”
I considered her. Tentatively, I opened one eye and cringed at the light that filtered through my cataracts. The world was a distorted mess of shadows, and after blinking it into the closest thing I could call focus, I turned towards her.
It was difficult to make out where she ended and the swamp began. She was smaller than me, but every other part of her was blurred. Her silhouette offered me no answers to the questions her words had given me, so I ventured, “Should I be?”
“I look like a bog witch, don’t I?” she said stubbornly. “I could hex you half to death if I wanted.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, unamused with her joke. “I cannot see.” “Oh.” It was as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Had she thought I kept my eyes closed for fun?
She was quiet for a long while before she spoke again. “You’ll be useful, then. I like you.”
Her words did not make sense, and I did not have time for her dumb game. “Can you lead me out or not?”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “I can do more than that.”
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Prompt Event - funeral suit
Here’s my submission for the “funeral suit” prompt. This is a character exploration of Link, one of the protagonists of my novel WIP.
Funeral Suit
It is not a good day for a funeral.
The sunlight reflects off the dusting of snow and makes the world too bright. Wind whistles between barren trees and delivers birdsong straight to my window. The rest of the world is at peace, and I curse the irony, the cruelty of that.
My suit does not fit me anymore. I last wore it for a high school theater production, and now, my shoulders feel like they will burst the seams. The sleeves are too tight and too short, and I wonder how Lilee would react to me squeezing myself into this coat. After she made fun of me, she would have offered to make alterations herself. But she’s not here, and so I must attend her funeral alone.
The loneliness consumes me from the inside. I grab my phone and think to call my father, the only family I now have left. He has made clear he will not attend the funeral of a monster, of the woman who killed two of his children, not even to support his eldest son. My fingers hover over the screen, itching to type his number, but I do not.
I know my dad, even if he does not know me. He will not come even if I ask. The only person who can support me now is lying in an urn, waiting to be scattered along the winds she can no longer feel.
Tossing my phone to my bed, I fasten the final button of my funeral suit and head out the door. I am Lilee’s only family, but still, I feel like an intruder attending the funeral of the woman I killed.
I have to go. If I don’t, no one else will, and my sister deserves better than that.
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Prompt Event - your summer in five words
A poem about having Seasonal Affective Disorder in the summer, and the loneliness that comes with that. From the prompt "your summer in five words."
Solitude in the Summer Sun
June is a song of smiling sun who promises beauty, beaches, fun. She says my name and takes my hand and chars the skin that never tans.
July is a party of youth and mirth. You'll come along if you know your worth. Her dancefloor's wrought with beer and sweat She's a night of discomfort I long to forget.
August is a long, hot, lazy night of fireflies speaking omens with flight. The fortunes talk of laughter sweet but these hollow days feel incomplete.
I fear the warmth that others' praise, this universal joy of summer days. I've learned to let summer pass me by while I sit by the window and let myself cry.
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Prompt Event - to the sea
My writing group is doing daily prompts this month. This is my submission for "to the sea."
To the Sea
It was the last place he had taken her.
Aria had always loved the beach, but her father had been too busy a man to accompany her on her many trips to the Atlantic. For once, however, he’d found the time. To celebrate the success of the merger, her father had taken a week off to spend with his family on the sandy shores Aria loved so much. She soaked up the sun, the salty air, and the memories made to last a lifetime.
As she waded through the sands now, she was careful not to drop the jar in her hands. Her dark tears stained the thin fabric of her skirt, imperceptible in the moonlight. When she reached the water’s edge, she sat down on the damp sand, screwed open the jar, and stared out at the horizon. “Here we are, Papa,” she murmured.
Her father had always been such a hard worker, and all to ensure she had a long and prosperous life. In a sense, he had succeeded, and though Aria hated her present circumstances, she couldn’t bring herself to hate the man who had trapped her in them. He didn’t know. He couldn’t have known.
She still loved him.
Taking him somewhere nice was the least she could do. This place held her most cherished memories from before her father died. Before she died.
Aria stood and upturned the jar, and she watched as wispy ashes filled the air and fluttered to the sea. Her father was gone now, and with him, any hope she had of clinging onto her old life.
As she watched him go, she couldn’t even form the words of a goodbye.
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Inktober - Bluff
The snippet inspired by Inktobers "Bluff."
Bluff
Imogen looked up when she saw someone approaching her in the garden, and she gasped when she saw her little brother. The battle axe he was holding was out of place in his tiny hands, and the grin he had on his face sickened her. She stood instantly, dropping the weeds she’d been pulling. “What are you doing?”
Logan raised the axe, too heavy for his small body. “I just killed a monster!” he announced triumphantly.
The axe was polished clean, without a trace of blood on it. It was one of their father’s favorites, one of the weapons he’d used in his first war. Imogen crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re too weak to fight any monsters.”
Logan’s grip on the axe tightened, and his lower lip protruded in a childish pout. “No I’m not,” he insisted. “I bet I can show you.” He pointed the axe at his sister, holding onto its handle with both hands.
Imogen sized up the small boy. She could tell he was bluffing, that this was all a game to him, but she didn’t like the idea of him having such a dangerous weapon. What their father would do to them if he found out he’d stolen one of his prized weapons…
Before Imogen could talk Logan down, he was charging at her, clumsily carrying the axe and raising it with all his might. Imogen barely had time to duck and roll away from him.
“Logan!” she cried. “You’re going to hurt someone with that! What’s wrong with you?”
Logan only grinned. “That’s the point of a battle, Immi,” he replied.
He came at her again, but Imogen tripped him with ease. The boy tumbled to the ground, and the axe fell next to him. She plucked the weapon from where it had fallen and smacked her brother over the head with its blunt side. “Dummy,” she said. “You’re so obsessed with following your father’s footsteps that you don’t even know what that would mean.” She turned away, intent on returning the axe to its place in their father’s room before the soldier noticed. “Wait until you’re older to fight, Logan. You’re far too stupid, now.”
Logan watched her go, pouting, tears springing to his eyes. His sister was wrong, and stupid, and even if she’d won this battle, he would show her someday. He would grow up to be just like their father—she’d see.
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Inktober - Empty
This is my piece inspired by Intober’s prompt “Empty.”
Empty
I had given up so much of my life for this.
A treasure said to grant immortality to whomever found it, buried at the bottom of the sea—it was worth all the sacrifice in the world. I had dedicated countless years to studying the ancient texts, decoding the location of this great treasure, knowing someday it would be mine. And now, finally, here it was.
I wish my ex-wife could see me now. How guilty she would feel for discouraging me all those years, for her lack of belief in my "obsession." This treasure was more important than she would ever be, and I hoped, wherever she was, she was absolutely miserable.
In my newfound immortality, I could find a thousand wives, all more beautiful than she, while she would die, alone, unaccomplished.
Just thinking of all the things I would do for the rest of infinity filled me with glee. The chest was in my hands, and all I had to do was open it for my treasure. I could hardly stand the anticipation.
I threw off the locks and pried open the damp wood to find—
It was empty.
The treasure, my treasure, was gone. I had wasted my whole life pursuing nothing but a fairy tale.
I thought of all the things I would never do, the lives I would never get to live. I mourned the future I'd thought I'd had, the endless possibility. And I thought of my ex-wife, who had been so concerned about living in the moment that I'd left her behind.
I looked into the empty chest, teary-eyed and panting, and I wished the ocean had swallowed me whole.
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Inktober - Forget
This is my piece inspired by Inktober's "Forget."
Forget
Zula was watching us, waiting for the answer to a question that had nothing to do with anything, when we remembered. We lost our balance and fell into a nearby chair, breaths coming in ragged, uneven intervals. Concern flashed through Zula's big, bright eyes, and she called our name, the name she'd given us, but she sounded so, so far away.
She would die without the knowledge we had, the magic we had once commanded, the ritual we had just remembered.
Remembering was supposed to be a victory. Since we and Zula had met, we had remembered so many things about ourself, and we had celebrated these wins. But this memory—this made us sick. How could we possibly tell Zula that she would die unless she killed hundreds, thousands of people for a black magic darker than we could have ever imagined?
...Would she still try?
We couldn't tell her. We couldn't take that chance, not when so many innocent lives were at stake.
But Zula was our only friend. We couldn't lose her, either.
We didn't know how we had ever forgotten our magic, this horrific power we had to transform souls into new life, but we wished we had never remembered.
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Inkotber - Costumes
Here's another Inktober piece. This one is actually inspired by one from the Kintober list, "Costumes," even if it is not sexual in nature.
Costumes
She did not know why she was going along with this.
True, she'd seen Link's skills with makeup, skills that surely came in handy in his theater career, but not even he would be able to paint the life back into her face with his silly cosmetics. She had been dead for sixty years; the blush he applied to her cheeks would only highlight that.
"Hold still." He took her chin in his hand, and she was suddenly aware of how much she'd been fidgeting. She didn't like being fussed over like this. Still, she obeyed his commands, puckered her lips and sucked in her breath, so that she would be his perfect canvas. He would see how pointless this all was soon enough.
When he was finished with her, he wheeled away to admire his work for only a moment. She wouldn't be able to see herself; her reflection had died with her, and cameras acted as if she weren't there at all. The only judge of his work was the crowd waiting for them out there.
She still wasn't sure how he had talked her into joining him onstage, but there was no backing out of it now. And as she stepped into the spotlight with her partner for the evening, and as the crowd's gazes fell over her, they cheered.
They cheered.
They didn't flinch away from her, or yell at her, or spit at her. They didn't point their guns or swords at her, empty promises. They cheered.
It had been so long since she'd felt like a human, felt admired by others, felt anything but hatred, that she couldn't help the tear that rolled down her cheek, ruby red.
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Inktober - Flame
This is my piece inspired by Inktober's fifth prompt, "Flame."
Flame
The fire in her eyes was fiercer than anything I'd ever seen the Agnira conjure, and for the first time in our lives, I feared my best friend. She clutched the dagger I'd given her, ready for bloodshed, ready for revenge.
The bastards were scattered about camp. I recognized their faces, too like my own, and I waited for her to see the resemblance. She didn't. Thank the gods, she didn't.
Blinded by rage, she forwent our plans to charge at one of them, dagger bared. Before I could stop her, and before they could react, her blade was plunged into their throat. Others looked to us, scrambling, readying their fire.
"Ignatius?"
I wasn't foolish enough to think they wouldn't have recognized me, but that dead name clutched at my throat, suffocating. My best friend turned to me, waiting for the explanation I did not know how to give.
When their flames reached for her, mine were stronger, and I threw them with the force of someone with nothing to lose. They jumped away from my unparalleled power, the power they had once worshipped. Their fallen king had returned home.
My best friend stood beside me, her face twisted in confusion, in grief, in betrayal, and I wished to be anywhere but here. I'd known this was coming, but the pain was overwhelming.
I deserved her hatred. I had killed her family, after all. And I would not rest until she killed the last of mine.
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Inktober - Bat
Here's the piece inspired by Inktober's third prompt, "Bat," which is only a few hours late.
Bat
The creature stumbled into her room in the dead of night and smacked its tiny body against her walls, her bookshelves, knocking over stuffed animals and photo albums in its path to terrorize her space. Meadow sat up instantly and clutched her knees to her chest as she watched the confused creature illuminated by moonlight. It was black and furry with thin, ugly wings and huge, terrifying eyes. To her, it was a wretched thing of nightmares.
Her mother came when she heard the screaming, and when she saw the poor animal flapping against the window, she smiled warmly. She opened the window a little more, ushered the creature back into the night, and once it was gone, she sat on her daughter's bed. "Sometimes," she told her, speaking in that faraway, whimsical voice of hers, "fairies disguise themselves as bats to better blend in with our world. You've been blessed tonight, Meadow."
Now, twenty years later, as Meadow stood in the land of the fae, and as her fairy escort swore under their breath about the problems she was causing them, she regretted not smothering that damn bat before her mother ever had a chance to set it free.
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Blindly Stolen
Here is a snippet of the short story "Blindly Stolen," about a thief who breaks into a castle and finds more than what she'd expected.
Blindly Stolen
Spiera threw into her sack anything that looked like it would fetch a pretty penny: a silver-and-ruby necklace, a huge pair of sapphire earrings, a decorational crystal plate of some sort. She found a rapier made of gold and diamonds and, after briefly pondering its effectiveness in battle, she tossed it into the sack too, careful not to shatter anything delicate. When she had enough to carry, she closed off her bag and carefully slung it over her shoulder, then started out the way she’d come.
Except there was someone standing in the threshold of the room. She cursed herself for not noticing him sooner. He was a short man, and the arms crossed over his chest did little to make him appear intimidating. He was in his nightclothes, and his expression was even, contemplative, not at all inconvenienced.
He was in her way.
Spiera grabbed for her bow and an arrow, but the man sighed. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he mumbled. “Whatever pathetic debt you’re stealing to pay off will increase a hundredfold if you murder the crown prince.”
She hesitated, raising a brow. So this was the prince of the castle. She would have expected someone leaner, stronger, not a stout little man with bags under his eyes. No matter. He wouldn’t be the first person of royal blood she’d killed.
He remained where he was standing, blocking the exit, but he made no effort to approach her. “How did you get in here?” he asked. Spiera doubted he could hide any weapons in his pajamas, and she was armed. Was he bluffing, hoping she would step down because of his status? Or was he insane?
She took aim. “Move out of my way.”
He didn’t budge. “You know,” he went on, “the guards you killed were like my family. One of them was adopting a child in these next few months. What am I to tell his partner now?”
She lowered her bow, confused. What was he getting at? Was he trying to guilt her? The longer he stalled, the worse her chances were of getting away before anyone else came to stop her. She took a step towards him, an arrow pointed between his eyes. When she met his gaze, however, she noticed he wasn’t looking at her. He was facing her, and his eyes were gazing in her direction, but it was as if he was looking at something else entirely. Spiera lowered her bow again. She paused, then stuck out her tongue, and when he didn’t respond, she held up a single finger in a vulgar gesture.
“If you put back what you stole, I can arrange to have the executioner be quick with you,” the prince continued lazily, as if growing bored with this conversation. “None of it means anything to me, but my family likes their heirlooms, and I’d hate to see them unhappy.”
He wasn’t reacting to her gestures. The man was blind.
Spiera smirked. This was too easy.
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Black Hole
An abstract poem about art block, or whatever you interpret it to mean.
Black Hole
Rubies twinkle weightlessly through abandoned cosmos, glittering gracefully where beauty has never known. Wild moons tremble and shatter a sleek silver sky. Another mine is ravaged; nothing more can be grown.
A goddess sheaths her galaxy among broken shards. Wrath inks the asteroids, fractures comets at their hems; a starry canvas crumbles, the life she bore decayed. Sighing, she paints another planet with joyless gems.
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Desperate Measures
This is the first scene of “Desperate Measures,” a short story about a family divided and the love of two brothers.
Desperate Measures
The graveyard shift never did get easier, and after a long night packing a noble carriage set to make a cross-country journey in the morning, Cai wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep the entire day away. The sun was already rising over the tall buildings of his city, and as he walked through the alleys to the apartment he shared with his brother and future sister-in-law, he wondered if he had enough energy to even make it home.
When he turned down his street, he noticed a few watchmen stationed outside his door, their muskets strapped to their backs pointing skyward. Cai’s mind raced through the possible reasons the authorities would be at his apartment: something must have happened to Remus, or to Winnie, and his exhaustion was quickly replaced with adrenaline. If his family needed to be taken to the hospital, he would forget how tired he was and carry them there himself.
The watchman who first noticed him regarded him with a pang of sympathy as he raced towards him. “Caius?” he asked, and when Cai nodded, he continued. “There has been an incident.”
Cai wondered if the watchman could hear his heart pounding as well as he could hear it ringing in his ears. “What’s happened?” he demanded, voice rising in fear. “Where’s my brother?”
“He asked me to give this to you,” the watchman replied, not so subtly sidestepping Cai’s questions. He pulled a rolled paper from his pocket and handed it to him. It wasn’t even tied off, as if it had already been ripped open, or it had been written in a hurry. “We will be done here soon,” the watchman continued.
Cai looked between the man and the letter, too many unasked questions spelled across his face. He unrolled the paper in his hands. The penmanship was sloppy, so much so that he doubted his meticulous brother could have written it at all. The ink bled in several places, signs that this letter was written too hastily.
Swallowing the lump threatening to suffocate him, Cai began to read.
Cai. By the time you read this, I’ll probably be settled into a prison cell. I am so sorry for what has happened tonight. I understand if you never forgive me. Blodwyn is dead. It was an accident, but it is unmistakably my fault. She had a swift end, and that is the only solace I can find in her passing. Before Father died, he left me in charge of taking care of you. You were just an infant when it happened, and I doubt you remember anything of our parents, but Father wanted me to protect you where he could not. He trusted me with that. I have failed him, and in doing so, I have failed you. I can no longer be there with you. I can only offer a parting gift. I understand it does not begin to make up for what I’ve taken from you. Our parents left us an inheritance. I have used most of it in our upbringing, but there is still some left. I have hidden it within the kitchen wall, behind the cupboard closest to the ice box. Use it however you need to. Please, do not come looking for me. I deserve to be in a cell, and I do not think I am capable of facing you now. I love you. I’m sorry I never got the chance to tell you that in person. Never stop being the kind-hearted, strong, and optimistic person you’ve always been. Remus
Cai hadn’t realized how badly his hands were shaking until his brother’s letter fell from his grasp. He picked it up off the ground and shoved it into a pocket, then looked back at the watchmen beginning to shuffle away from his apartment. His mind burned with the questions they could not answer.
Remus and Winnie had been engaged. No one loved her more than Remus did, not even Cai, and it didn’t make any sense that he would… No, Cai couldn’t even finish the thought.
In just a single night, his brother and sister, the only family he’d known, had been stripped from him, and all he’d been left with was a letter that posed more questions than answers and an inheritance that would never make up for the ones he loved. His heart ached to think Winnie was dead, that Remus was locked away, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
No. Cai didn’t care what his brother had written. He was going to march into that prison and get the explanation he deserved.
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Kisses Untold
This is the updated first scene of Kisses Untold, an old short story I recently reworked.
Kisses Untold
My little sister is missing.
It is seven-thirty in the morning on a Sunday, and the night owl my sister is would never be up at this hour on a weekend. I cannot shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.
Her bedroom door is wide open, and she is nowhere to be seen. Her fuchsia walls are made louder by the colorful posters lining them, and between a couple boy band posters is an art project she’d made in middle school that reads Bethany in glittering letters. Clothes are strewn about the room, a staple of any teenager’s living space, but today, things seem even messier. A couple stuffed animals have been thrown from the bed, and her laptop teeters dangerously close to the edge of her sheets, ready to fall. Bethany must have gotten up in a hurry. A bad feeling settles somewhere in my throat.
The bathroom door at the end of the hall is open, ruling out that possibility. I call her name, but if she replies, without my hearing aids, I cannot hear her.
I continue towards the kitchen, double-checking whether Bethany has sent me any texts, and no sooner do I walk into the family room am I smacked by a blur of blonde. Bethany seizes fistfuls of my shirt, and as she presses against me, I feel her trembling. She is trying to say something, I think, but I cannot hear what she mumbles into my chest. Frustrated, she looks up, eyes pale and teary. Swollen tears trail down her cheeks, and there is a terror in her expression. She speaks too quickly for me to read her lips, so finally, she grabs my hands and points them behind her.
I look past her, to my twin brother glaring at us. He is breathing heavily, rabid, and just as I am about to ask him what’s wrong, my eye catches on his hand. He firmly grasps his hunting knife, and only then do I notice the hateful look in his eyes.
Instinctively I move between my siblings. “Harrison.” The firmness of my voice pulls his attention to me. I search his expression, his anger, his disgust, trying to find some explanation. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Harrison scoffs. “Don’t play dumb with me, Hunter.” He is yelling; his rage is spelt out in his body language, even if my ears can make out none of his syllables.
Bethany cowers behind me, hands around my waist, terrified for her life. I am reminded of when she was a small child hiding from the animals at the zoo or a barking dog, not her own brother.
Harrison rolls his eyes. “You’re a disgrace,” he says, pointing his knife at me. “Both of you. I can’t believe my own family would shame my mother like this.”
He continues, but he speaks too quickly for me to keep up. I don't even know what he is accusing us of, and I am sure I do not want to find out. I have to diffuse the situation, but I don’t know where to even begin. “Harry, calm down,” I try. Then, even though it is far too early, I ask, “Have you been drinking?”
That is the wrong question. His nostrils flare, and in the next moment he lunges at me, knife bared, stopping just before my throat to get my heart pumping. “Have you?” he accuses. He pushes me aside to gain on Bethany, and he points his blade at her face. “What all have you done, then, eh? How far from God’s graces have you fallen?”
Talking to Harrison won’t get me any answers, so I turn to my sister instead. “Beth,” I say, gently pressing her shoulder until she’s facing me. “What is he on about?” I ask, though I fear I already have an idea.
Bethany glances towards Harrison before turning back to the floor. She mumbles something.
Frustrated—she knows I cannot understand her when she’s not looking at me—I raise her chin and ask again: “What is Harrison talking about?”
She blushes, and a smile accompanies it, innocent. “Sorry,” she mutters. She shifts awkwardly, then admits, “Harrison read my journal.”
She does not elaborate. Bethany’s gaze falls again to the floor. I can feel Harrison’s eyes on me, expectant and accusatory. I clear my throat. “And?”
“And he read it,” she says, attention snapped back to me. There is hurt and betrayal in her gaze, neither stronger than her fear. “You don’t read your sister’s journal. That’s such an invasion of privacy. He has no respect for me—”
“Beth,” I say, pulling her focus back.
Tears form at the corners of her eyes again, and as she goes to speak, a sob rumbles through her, stealing her voice. I pull her to me and rub her back, casting a glance at my brother to beg for this moment. To my surprise, he yields, though he is not happy about it.
When Bethany can speak again, she pulls away and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her pajama shirt. “It was private,” she insists. “I don’t even know how he found it. I don’t want to think my own brother would go snooping through my room, but…” She is too afraid to look at him, but she steals glances his way as her hands ball to fists at her side. “I wrote about us, Hunter,” she says, finally, and I cannot help the dread that washes over my face. “No,” she says, “listen. You have to understand. It wasn’t supposed to be read by anyone, so I was… I didn’t mean… But now he thinks—”
She is cut off; her eyes widen as they land on Harrison. I turn to catch the end of whatever he’d been saying.
“... is disgusting. He is your brother. You’re seventeen and he’s twenty-five. And my God, he’s your brother.” I watch the way his mouth holds his last word, and he signs it at me, a reminder, a threat.
Harrison shakes his head, hard, and his grip around his knife tightens. “I will not stand by and watch this.” I can hear the edge of his words, and I can only imagine how ear-splitting his voice is for Bethany or what our neighbors think.
I try to ignore Harrison, and I focus on Bethany instead. “What did you write?” I ask, but I don’t want to know.
“Read it for yourself!” Harrison’s voice is loud, thunderous, taunting. He hurls a book at my back, and I wince as its sharp edge makes contact with my shoulder. I pick it off the floor and look it over.
I recognize this sparkly purple cover. Mum had asked my opinion of it as a birthday gift for Bethany when she was a preteen. I had no idea she still had it, let alone wrote in it.
I look to Bethany, as if to ask permission, but she refuses to meet my eye. She does not snatch the book from me either. I glance at her as I open it, leaf through the pages, and finally, I take her silence as acceptance.
My sister’s swooping penmanship fills each page. The first entry is dated several years ago, and the following entries are scarce, one every few months. There is nothing out of the ordinary, just the rambles, doodles, and musings of any teenage girl. She writes about her friends, her teachers, her favorite artists, whatever has captured her interest for the day.
These entries spell out my sister’s thoughts, and this invasion of her privacy feels dirty and wrong. I want to give this back to her, to pretend this interaction has never happened, but my eye catches on an entry dated only a few weeks ago.
Every part of me longs to put this book down, to shield myself from whatever has incited my brother’s rage, but I can’t. I need to know what she’s written. I need to know what Harrison knows. So I read every word, struggling to understand.
Her sentences paint detailed pictures that linger in my thoughts, threats or taunts, I cannot tell. I read and reread the entire entry, and then finally, I look at my sister.
She is still looking at the floor, shifting awkwardly, fingers nervously forming half-attempts at signed language. Her face is red, and tears stream freely down her cheeks. Harrison watches me, waiting for some explanation, any reason he should not kill me where I stand. I can almost understand his rage.
I look back at the glittery book, at my sister’s penmanship, and I wonder how I let any of this happen.
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Chrysalis
This is a poem I wrote a little over a year ago that I just finalized this month. It's a bit autobiographical, as most of my poems are, and focuses on the collapse of a future I thought was secured.
Chrysalis
Clumsy butterfly wings crashed against the walls of my insides, summoned by a smile, a blush, the carousel of his laughter. Our future spelt, among stars, an endless expanse of our love.
Now, notifications stream, flashing his name across my screen, sprawling spiders where before anticipating cocoons lurked. He brings more good news, surely, news that should have included me.
His success, suffocating, overshadows my stagnation. I must lend him my support as he celebrates without me. I must still show him my love as I erase myself from him.
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