The only others we see have sealed their fates by becoming pets to the beasts. This holds a form of protection; pets are not to be touched by other darklings. Although not all dark ones uphold that law, and I have seen bloody fights break out over human pets. I assume it has to do with their blood, but I’ve never managed to find a Blood Witch willing to speak with me. All they do is taunt and pester me.
Besides some lost relics here and there, there is little magic left in the world, assuredly none strong enough to restore things to how they once were. No Light magic that still exists is capable of bringing down this much darkness. Magic is now used selfishly as a way to survive, as we do.
Mother sometimes speaks about those times, albeit rarely, but I know thatmagica albawas ample back then. It hurts her to talk about how it used to be—a beautiful and more peaceful world, not one where evil seems to be lurking around every corner and in every shadow, even during the day.
Although she has never experienced this version of the world herself, she has heard stories about her ancestors—about their more peaceful lives, but also about how they failed to keep future generations safe.
She is often plagued with nightmares and visions of the past when asleep, where she is the one responsible, where she failed us all. Part of her seems to believe she might truly be to blame for all the misery we go through today. Perhaps that is why she finds it so hard to speak about it out loud. Each time, her voice cracks, tears well in her eyes. I sometimes try to imagine it as a world ruled by light rather than darkness, but I find it hard to grasp how the dark was able to overturn the Light. How humankind and the White Witches, so accustomed to light and the peace it brought, never saw the darkness coming. I think of them as idiots for being so comfortable; it is because of them that we now suffer.
Whenever Mother speaks about it, she says that for so long, most people chose to believe that all darkness had been erased. They basked in the fictive sense of safety. Even though the elders in the towns and villages constantly warned the inhabitants to be careful in the woods, to look out for the shadows that dwelled there. To be wary if the Light even faintly faded, lost a bit of its spark.
But the people thought that with so much light and magic, the dark could never return. That the Light had devoured the darkness. But their mindset did the opposite; it allowed the Darkness to slowly crawl back into the world from which it had almost completely vanished. It regrouped, prepared, and unleashed itself once more. Not just to dim the Light but to entirely shatter it into pieces, like a mirror thrown on the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces, with no prospect of repair.
Mother has no idea this occupies my mind so much; neither does my sibling, my twin brother, Fynn. We might have shared a womb, but we are far removed from being a set of Wonder Twins who can sense each other's emotions in every way and finish each other's sentences. If anything, the only thing we seem to have going on is some inexplicable, unspoken energy around us all the time, which makes us neither particularly like nor dislike each other; it's more of a neutral feeling, difficult to comprehend. It probably has to do with our family bond. Mother told us that the women who give birth to twins have a compelling protective instinct toward them. However, the twins themselves do not have a strong bond with each other for unfathomable reasons.
Mother hardly wants to talk about it; speaking out was rare for her. I only know this because I used to complain about Fynn when I was younger. I’d see other children play together, and my childish jealousy wanted that too, even if it meant spending time with my brother. She felt the need to explain to me that it wasn’t his fault; he didn't feel the desire to spend time with me—he’d rather be alone. Fynn has been a solitary being from the moment he was born. Given my mother’s reluctance to speak about it all, she is exceptionally vague about our little family: what happened to my father—who died when we were still very young—our ancestors, and just our family’s history in general.
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 somethingcohesive. 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 happilyever 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. Buthow 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.
