Chapter Fifty

2008

“She murdered him. Everyone knows it.”

“Shhh! Don’t talk about it so loud here, Charlotte - “

“But it’s true. Even the teachers said it was her fault!”

“R-Really?”

“Of course, Daisy! It’s information everyone is aware of!”

“But…”

“There’s not heistation, Esther. The fact Rosa is here and B-Brock isn’t says it all!”

Rosa had heard enough. She couldn’t listen to one more word of the conversation in the small equipment room in the gym of the orphanage where she’d lived her entire life. There was a limit to eavesdropping.

She walked away, feeling her chest tightened. Her hands curled into fists, Rosa went to do the one thing she knew would help her.

As she made her way to the kitchen, the kids she passed by stared at her with open disgust, as though she was worth nothing. No one in the orphanage stood her, but it wasn’t surprising - after all, Charlotte made sure for her to be an outcast.

Charlotte, who was supposed to be her friend.

Charlotte, who loved Brock even when she knew Brock loved Rosa.

Charlotte, who was deathly jealous of Rosa for the love she got from him.

And even though Rosa knew it was her absolute fault that Brock had died, she couldn’t take it anymore. She knew it was her fault. She didn’t need to be constantly reminded of her terrible mistake, that huge, stupid mistake.

When she reached the kitchen, she cleared her head of thoughts. She took out the butcher’s knife from the drawer Mr. Linden kept it for cooking, and after she made sure no one was around, she lifted the knife, and landed it on her right hand.

Blood splashed in all directions, but Rosa, despite her pain, showed no emotion. She was good at keeping it all inside. She had no reason to scream in pain now, because it was the dozenth time she was doing this. She tore her veins, and every time, somehow, she was easily healed.

It enraged her further, and she cut her hand over and over again, but the pain in her heart didn’t disappear. It only grew more.

In the end, she found herself lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding, tears coming out of he eyes. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry, yet she was crying anyway.

“Brock,” she murmured, folding her legs to her chest. “I’m sorry…”

But Brock wasn’t there to hear her murmured apologies.

Rosa was used to have no one care about her pain. She was used to live in the shadows. She was born for it, she believed. She was born to never be heard.

And while the tears streamed down her face and Mr. Linden screamed in terror when he saw her bleeding body on the kitchen floor, she closed her eyes and prayed for all of it to be over already.

And after she was taken to the infirmary for the hundredth time, she made a decision. “I want to be called Angela from now on, Elizette,” she told the manager, who looked at her with eyes full of sympathy. “I don’t want to hear that name anymore.”

And Elizette smiled and nodded, as if she understood. But Ros - no, now Angela knew she was faking it. No one could really understand what she’d gone through.

No one would ever understand what it was like, losing someone you love when you had the means to save them.

1956

“Control yourself!” England scolded for the millionth time in that sunny morning in New York.

Brock felt his anger bubbling, and Donovan, the Spirit of Darkness inside him, laughed evilly. Control’s shit, Brockie, Donovan snickered. And both of us know it.

Oh, shut up already, Brock snapped back. You know why I need control. Everyone knows why I need control. You and I are too dangerous.

You’re such a party-pooper, Donovan muttered.

“I can’t control myself, England,” Brock said, feeling more exhausted than ever. “And I don’t get why you brought me to this year specifically to learn control over the stupid dark powers I have.”

England sighed, frustrated. “And here we start the teenager-phase. I know you’re seventeen and all, Brock, and that you’re a very attractive dude, and that girl chase you and your life is tough, and that all you want is to see your childhood sweetheart, Rosa, and blah, blah, blah,” he rolled his eyes. “But I didn’t sign up for raising a seventeen-year-old. So please do both of us a favor and control yourself already.”

Brock didn’t like how england treated him as though he wasn’t a human with a Spirit inside him, like England himself. In fact, Broc didn’t like England, period. Even though England brought him from the fifth century to the 20th, or even though he saved him from that accident - it mattered nothing when he now had a bad, powerful Spirit inside him called Donovan who simply wanted to ruin the world.

Brock had never wanted to ruin any world. He liked living, especially with Rosa…

How I miss her golden eyes, he thought dreamily, and that wild, ginger hair…

Not once or twice did Brock dream of Rosa at nights, about how she must look today. In his head, he saw a girl who looked like a model, with Rosa’s hair, and Rosa’s eyes, and Rosa’s golden skin, not to mention the spray of freckles. In his imagination, he saw how the woman stripped before him, and giving him everything he’d wanted for so long…

“When you’re finished with your dirty daydream, let me know,” England scolded once more. “Now - back to action.”

Brock’s dream was popped - very sadly so - and he took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, feeling Donovan inside him and focused. He felt how slowly but surely power flew down his blood, his body, right from the heart and the head, and he heard Donovan laughing madly in his head.

England had warned Brock that it was possible that in the future he would go mad like Donovan. Brock preferred not to think about it.

And when Brock felt the powers in his veins, he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and tried to shoot a stream of dark wind toward England. The dark wind was “the most powerful weapon in the world” according to Donovan, and it allowed him to control people and their reactions and was supposedly “fun”. Brock hated the dark wind, which made him control things he didn’t want to control.

After he failed miserably this time again and got his head bitten off by England, Brock only wanted to go back to that accident, where he should’ve died.

Anything was better than Donovan.

2012

Maxwell saw how Brock - Evander now - was becoming less and less sane with each month and each year that passed, and now came the moment when he saw Evander completely losing it.

Maxwell saw how Donovan slowly but surely took control over him, causing innocent, sweet Brock to lose himself inside the darkness, be sucked into it, and now… Now he stopped being the good man Maxwell got to know.

And when Evander attacked, Maxwell knew he could do nothing. Because according to Vermillion, this was his fate, his Destiny - and Vermillion’s, too, because she was going to be killed Evander’s attack in the east.

And at that moment, Maxwell knew who he despised most in the world.

He despised the Spirit of Destiny herself.