The house welcomed her with its usual decay. Brick walls had shed whole sections like dead skin, exposing the skeleton of blackened beams beneath.
She paused at the threshold and took a breath of stale air.
"Back again."
The moment she stepped inside, she saw her mother sprawled on that faded yellow couchâthe last piece of furniture that remembered better days. Her short red hair was a matted mess. The tiny woman looked even smaller now, curled in on herself. Those huge turquoise eyes that had been crying earlier now stared at nothing. A dark line of dried blood marked her templeâanother seizure. A dying camellia drooped in her hair where flowers used to bloom.
She picked her way through the wreckage of smashed chinaâthe only nice thing her mother had ever owned. Porcelain crunched under her feet.
"You going?" she asked, her voice flat and empty, as if crossing that threshold had severed whatever emotional threads still connected her to anything.
Her mother was startled like she'd just noticed someone was there. Her lips worked soundlessly before the words came:
"She's a sinner, that's how it has to be, we can'tâwe can't..." her head bobbed with each word, trying to convince herself.
"A sinner," the girl said without feeling, watching her mother. "She's your daughter. Remember what she was like when she was little?"
"She was always odd, they're right, how did I miss it... Such shame on our family..."
"What family? Haven't you noticed we don't have one anymore?" her eyes drifted to the syringe beside the couch.
"That's not true!" her mother tried to sit up but gravity seemed to drag her back down. "You have your brother, you need to look after him..."
The girl just sighed and turned to the flask on the windowsill. Inside, a soft glow pulsedâthe cheap, practical way to tell time down here. The special fungus mimicked sunrise and sunset, eating itself and regrowing in an endless cycle, its bioluminescence tracking the hours above.
"Not going to watch them torture and kill her?" her voice stayed steady, like she wasn't talking about her own sister.
"Who?" childlike confusion mixed with real fear on the woman's face. "We should make your favorite cake, you look so sad... I'll start in a minute, just need to rest..." that sweet, simple smile she knew so well flickered back to life.
The girl's mouth twitched. For a second, the mask slipped. She looked down and carefully navigated the broken pieces toward the back of the couch.
"I put up with it for so long, but not this time... I won't just take it."
The emotionless mask broke completely. Despite her best efforts, tears spilled down her face. She sucked in air until her nose clogged, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Acceptance is the path to our Lord, what are you even saying..." her mother jabbered, wrapping the words in empty ritual.
But she wasnât listening anyway. With shaking hands she set down the rose and picked up a small hammer from the workbenchârough planks nailed together, tools arranged in perfect order. Everything in its place, like the man of the house might walk in any second and get back to work.
"You know, mom, I met a prince today. Kind of weird, but he liked me."
She set the hammer back down and picked up the rose. Slowly, methodically, she began plucking out the thorns one by one.
"'Take me home,' I called out to him." Like a kitten trapped in a well where no light reaches. A smile ghosted across her lips even as tears kept streaming down her face.
"And our brother's where he belongs now, with that gift of his for sculptingâup in the Middle City."
She moved closer to her mother, studying her hands.
"Your nails... We haven't done them in forever."
Gently, she pulled the wilted camellia from her mother's hair, dropped it on the floor, and ground it slowly under her heel. Then with tender, careful movements, she began weaving the rose into her mother's hair, arranging each twist.
Stolen novel; please report.
"We had it rough, didn't we?" she asked, watching her mother rub her temple against the headache.
"We had it rough," her mother answered, breathing deep and closing her eyes as memories flooded back.
She pulled out the coin, weighing it in her hand, ready to flipâthen stopped. "Not a coin toss," the thought flashed through her mind. She put it back in her pocket. Her hand moved to the workbench she'd never stepped away from.
"I'm sorry, mom. I couldn't make it. And yes, I love you. I'm sorry I pulled away after that day."
"I always knew you loâ¦
The blow landed slightly off-target, glancing the temple instead of hitting square, but it was enough. The hammer dropped onto the couch without a sound in the silence that had swallowed this once-loud, happy home. Just the girl standing there with her arms hanging loose, shoulders down, butâsurprisinglyâher back ramrod straight despite the pain it cost her. She stood frozen, didn't ball her fists, didn't make a sound, as if she could feel that last thread snapping in her dead soul.
"I won't just take it," erupted from her lips like divine law.
Her face went slack. No more emotional threads tangling her nerves. Only her narrowed eyes fixed on the wall mirrorâhomemade and clumsy like the workbench. Her runaway father's handiwork.
The reflection showed dead eyes and a lifeless face. Obsidian hair hung in straight sheets to her waist, framing pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. Her nose had been elegant once. Now it kinked where the bone had knit wrong. The upper lip with its sharp cupid's bow clashed with the fuller lower lip, split by a scar.
"Voices go quiet when you're resolved," she rolled her shoulder, feeling pain spider-web through damaged muscle, "or they retreat into shadow." She looked back at the mirror like she was seeing something new.
Her eyes... Two pieces of shattered turquoise glass stared back at her. The irises were shot through with hairline red fractures, like glass that's been hammered but hasn't quite given way. A web of fine scars covered the skin around her left eyeâugly reddish-brown marks she'd been so ashamed of, so desperate to deny. But now, meeting her own reflection, she felt nothing. It didn't matter anymore.
She stripped and went to the sagging wardrobe, pulling out a white shirt covered in colorful scribblesâkid's artwork, her sister's gift. The mirror showed a body worn down to bones. Ribs pushed against skin, waist small enough to grasp in both hands. Hip bones jutted out at sharp angles, creating hollows on either side.
She pulled on the shirt and plain pants, threw her cloak over top, and faced the mirror again.
"Beautiful... What a pointless word."
Her elbow smashed into the mirror's center, sending cracks spidering out from the impact point. Shards rained down in a musical cascade. In the broken pieces, her eye multiplied into dozens of reflectionsâeach one staring back with the same dead indifference. The fabric at her elbow tore but the glass didn't cut skin.
Smashed the mirrorâcan't see myself,
In fragments I'm just empty eyes.
Beautiful? I despise that word itself.
The blade grows dullâthe dead need no disguise.
I laugh through tearsâI wear the mask.
I've killed it all, there's nothing left to ask.
She turned to her mother, studied the lifeline on her right wristâthat sickly swamp-green pulse, barely there. She moved close and made a quick, clean cut with the old dagger. Fast, precise, emotionless. Her mother shouldn't hurt before dyingâshe'd hurt enough while living. Blood soaked into the yellow fabric, spreading dark.
Hood up, the girl left to meet her sister. Her sisterâalive, for now.
----------------------------------------
"Well hello there, gorgeous! Fancy seeing you here!" the oily voice came from her left.
Stringy muscles, gorilla arms, hunched shoulders. Tall, yet somehow built crooked. His buzz light brown cut only made his gaunt face look worse.
He caught her look and froze for a beat before recovering.
"Christ, those eyes! You're really bringing it today. And you know how much I love that..." his smile never wavered. A predator sizing up prey.
"You gonna play nice or do we get to have our usual fun?" he sidled up close, draping an arm over her shoulder.
Her expression gave away nothing. She just scanned the areaâempty street, abandoned buildings, not a soul around.
"Is it your sister that's got you so down? Yeah, she was a good kid. Still, I'm glad she didn't kill me back then. Sentimental..." he pulled back, studying her with an appraising look.
She hunched automatically, shoving her hands under her tunic to cover herself. Same blank stare.
"Oh come on, don't give me that look! Creepy as hell..." he did an exaggerated shiver. "I'm doing you a favor here. Better than those boys, right? You didn't seem to enjoy that much," his grin stretched wider, showing teeth. One finger reached for her jutting collarbone.
"Plus I've got a great memory for the important stuff," he tapped his temple. "Remember telling that guy how you like it when they squeeze your neck real tight..."
His hands rose toward her throat but stopped halfway. A dagger hilt stuck out from his thyroid cartilage, just below the Adam's apple.
"A little rusty. Good enough for you."
She yanked the blade free and stepped back. He dropped to his knees, then toppled sideways, his dying look all surprise and regret.
She glanced at her blood-splattered tunic and kept walking without pause. Heading where she'd always meant to go. Getting arrested for bloody clothes didn't worry herânot in this godforsaken pit where death was just another Tuesday.