15 Years Ago, December, Age 18
Wintershereeatawayat your soul. The barren landscape and bitter cold whittle you down day by day until you’re just as empty and hopeless. During the day the sun barely helps combat the chill and on the really cold days, there’s frost on the walls of our rooms. At night, the boiler groans and creaks, making the metal radiators lining the walls rattle. It’s so cold, even the little rats creeping around the kitchen at night disappear, no doubt huddled together behind the radiator in the cafeteria for warmth.
Tonight is no exception.
It’s not an exception for other things too, though all I wish is to be left alone. In peace. But he’s summoned me, and as I sneak down the hall, taking slow, careful steps, I can’t help but wonder when this will end.
How it started sits vividly in my mind. The beginning of the death of my soul.
Sometimes I wonder if my fate was sealed the second I was born. If the planets aligned in just such a way that even Fate couldn’t stop the curse bestowed upon me. To carry something inside that just pulled sickness in my direction. Make it latch on with thick talons, and gnaw at me until all that I am now is flesh to be had. Fed from to appease the dark things that live in the minds of the wicked and cruel.
Marked.I feel marked.
When I reach the heavy door leading to the kitchen, I lean on the metal latch to open it but pause. My gut roils, and my heart skips. I glance around to be sure no one can see me, and push through before I can think further.
Before I can feel anything.
Emotions aren’t an option.
Thisisn’t an option.
The sound of canned laughter echoes from the back of the long galley-style kitchen, where he sits and drinks every night. How he manages to consume so much and not be rotting from the inside out, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s never had anything good inside him to begin with. When he sees me, he smiles and pulls out a stool.
“Join me,” Cook says, raising a bottle of vodka.
Like I have a choice.
I sit, sliding the bottle my way and fixing my eyes on the TV resting on the metal countertop. The blue glow of the TV flashes in the room, highlighting the pots and pans hanging overhead like a strobe light. Keeping my focus on the bottle ofvodka, I raise it to my mouth and take a long pull, then set it back down with a quiet clink.
The only way to get through this is drunk.
“You looked good today at practice,” Cook says. “You’re improving every day.”
I note the appreciative, proud tone. Like he’s somehow contributed to the years of hard training and harsh lessons that are slowly turning me into a weapon.
“Thanks,” I mumble, wishing this was over already. I’m tired. We trained hard today.
Cook shifts slightly on the stool so our knees brush and says, “Breaker did well too.”
“You’d be wise to keep his name out of your mouth,” I say with just enough of a threat behind each word that he is reminded of our deal.
“Ah, yes,” he says, a slick grin cutting across his plain face. “I forgot you don’t like me talking about your little brother.”
Barely thinking, I grip his throat and pull him up from the stool, leaning over him. “That’s enough,” I snarl.
He chokes out a laugh, and I’m bathed in the scent of cheap vodka and sour breath smelling of canned peas. “You’re so protective of the little mite. I think that’s because you like him.”
Rage blurs my vision. I hiss, squeezing his throat harder. “I’m nothing like you.”
He chokes out another laugh. “You’re just like me. At least I can admit it.”
“I should snap your fucking neck right now,” I snarl.
“But you won’t, because you can’t,” Cook says, choking on the last word. The truth of his statement makes me release him. He stumbles backward, chuckling as he rubs his neck. “Besides, you’re too chickenshit. Too worried about that boy.”
I fucking hate this man.
Grinding my teeth, I pick up the bottle and slam back another gulp, wincing at the burn in my throat. With a few more drinks, this itchy feeling under my skin will fade, and I can sink into glorious nothingness.
