Then, lightly, she mentioned that when I was old enough, I could look through our family books. The mention of the existence of such books caught me off guard. I had noticed her always carrying books with her while we were traveling; it had just never occurred to me that they held the secrets of our family background.
I greedily asked her if I could flip through one of them, but her angry look turned me silent immediately. Her eyes told meeverything I needed to know. Those books were forbidden for me,for now. Another promise she dangled in front of me, one I had no patience to wait for.
Since then, I have been eyeing her books, but she never leaves them unguarded. She knows that I have this unspoken desire to read them and am keen to learn about our heritage, which only makes me yearn for them even more. It’s almost as if the books know that I crave them.I must know.
Whenever I get near them, I feel a strong urge, as if I am drawn to them, an unseen force pulling me in. It is silly, I know. These are just books, plain old books, nothing magical about them. Yet, it takes everything in me not to bolt at my mother, push her aside, grab the first book I can get my hands on, and sprint away from her and everything she keeps from me. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the thought; I could never hurt my mother, especially not just to look in some family books. Perhaps the death of my sibling would distract her long enough for me to flip through them, I muse.
The thoughts come to me more and more as I mature. Each day, the impulse grows stronger. I feel ridiculous. The older I get, the more impatient I feel, almost as if every day could be my last, and these books hold the answer to my possible survival. When will Mother consider me old enough to have a glimpse at these books?
With each passing day, I have trouble keeping my thoughts heroic, even for a short time, the more violent ones coming naturally to me instead. I no longer only think about tripping my brother, with the high hope of him breaking his neck—a quick, simple, and clean death—no, my thoughts are becoming more gruesome and outrageous, even scaring myself. I no longer just dream about slaughtering my brother; I now actively think about it. How can I fabricate such ideas and notfeel slightly disturbed by myself? It is as if a sociopathic side has awakened in me, erasing any empathy I used to have for this individual with whom I once shared a womb. The same familial blood flows through both our veins, yet all I want is to drain him of his.
I wonder if his mind, too, is a vortex of madness like mine. If he, too, is haunted by such morbid and insane ideas, fantasizing about how he would endmylife. If he is, how could I make sure I’d be the one to survive? Because I will be the one to come out alive, even if it means carving my way through him with my teeth.
I am too afraid to tell my mother about this lurking darkness that seems to be growing inside me. I am simultaneously scared and hungry for knowledge about what it means, and I am unsure how long I can contain the dark impulses that come along with those desires—either of them. I become aware of how I observe my brother, looking for weaknesses within his routines. He is the stronger of us, the hunter. I would not stand a chance in one-on-one combat against him. I have the height and frame of a fragile porcelain doll. He is almost 2 meters tall, with a muscular, robust frame. If he put serious effort into it, I am sure he would be capable of snapping my bones with pure strength alone. Like I’m some twig he steps on.Knack.I imagine it for a mere second, the feeling of him breaking my bones, then shake off my thoughts.
Attacking my brother is undoubtedly not the answer. I shudder; why am I considering this like it’s a serious thing? I know the answer… because I want to hear his muscles tear and his bones break, just as whenIstep on a twig.
We rely on him to cut wood and hunt for food, which contributes to his muscular body and strong arms. He ensures we are safe, warm, and well-fed. I make sure we have cleanclothes and a bed to sleep in. All of this means I have some dependency on him. I have to keep my thoughts at bay until we finally arrive somewhere where we will stay for a while, a place where I am no longer dependent on his support for my own survival.
Mother is always looking for directions, trying to determine which areas and towns are still safe—or safe for us—and deciding where we will head each time. However, I have never understood her definition of secure. Every place we stay is crowded with nocturnal creatures that walk in broad daylight due to their magic. Others will only come about once the shadows and night have settled in. During the day, we only see these demons, and the moment other humans arrive, Mother will eye them up and instantly decide that we have to pack our stuff and get moving, as if our own kind is dangerous. It is odd, but neither of us ever truly questions her motives, aside from my occasional curiosity. Despite her strange choices, she knows best, and besides that, we have no other option than to tag along. We just go, much like our sudden departure today. In that sense, she still holds some of my trust.
Mother mumbles something about a city called Valorya, a city where we might be able to stay for a while—a place where we could settle.
“Isn’t Valorya above The Wailing Forest, Mother? Up North?” I ask, frowning.
We have never dared cross the forest and have only roamed the Southern towns and smaller cities until now. It piques my curiosity instantly, especially as even the supernatural beings avoid that forest. There’s something not right with it, corrupt even.
“Hmm, yes, darling, yes, it is.”
Her mumbling is an apparent indication that she is somewhere else in her mind, but I’m not willing to let it go so easily.
“Isn’t everything there mostly vampire-infested, Mother? I mean, aren’t the cities there inhabited by vampires, like, only them? Since it’s… vampire territory?” I furrow my brow at her.
Why does she want us to move there? At least the towns here are a mixture of creatures and occasional humans; above the forest, it is mainly dominated by vampires. No human being in their right mind would go there willingly, magic or not. All we will find are slaves. How are we supposed to settle if there are no free humans?
“Yes, love, yes, it is,” she confirms with a finality in her voice as she continues to pack our stuff.
Then she turns around and leaves me alone with my unanswered questions, a custom I am having difficulty getting used to.
“Great,” I murmur.
Who doesn’t want to give themselves up for bait? Have themselves sucked dry without standing a chance? There will be no single human being out there for us to meet. My enthusiasm fades after she speaks the words. Once more, a life of solitude awaits us, and I resent her for it. I am not made to wander this life alone; I long for companionship.
None of the dark beings ever comes near us. They will snarl and hiss at us, but always move around us as ifweare poisonous. As if touching us by accident will kill them. Mother ignores them and acts as if the creatures do not circle us like vultures, looking for weak spots to exploit. Fynn also appears unbothered, as he will often leave by himself to hunt or do whatever he does. He always returns unscathed, sometimes trailed by one or two of the demons. I rarely dare to leave by myself, and I run the moment I see one of them, often resultingin a chase, one I always win. Not because I am faster, but because, they give up when they realize I will not be their dinner, because they can’t even bite me.
I’ve only spoken to some of them a few times, when they appeared less intimidating. Whenever Mother sees me willingly interacting with one of them, she rushes to send them elsewhere, anywhere but near me.
Something about them intrigues me, and that scares the living shit out of me. I wish I were more daring, giving in to my buried adventurous nature. A nature of my own, one Mother scolds me for often, out of protectiveness, warning me that if I ever give into it, a path of trouble will unfold for me—a path of hurt. So, I keep to myself, mostly, entombing that part of me, until I am allowed to let it out and thrive.
As I stand by the door with my duffle bag filled, I hear Mother and Fynn talking in hushed voices. She’s hurrying him as well, eager to get on the road. She wants to leave.Now. I should have known we would be on the move the moment a large group of humans appeared out of nowhere and decided to stay here, despite the fact that they know they will be eaten alive. Their group is shrinking by the day without any form of protection, and their feeble offerings are not doing a thing. I plead with Mother, asking if they are the reason for our leaving. Asking her if we can just wait it out. None of them will remain within a few weeks, leaving only corpses behind, but she won’t listen, saying we don’t have the luxury of waiting a few weeks. It makes me want to scream at her. To demand the truth from her. Yet I never do, wouldn’t dare to yell at my mother, so I sulk in silence.
The sacrificed girl is no longer among the living; her ruined body hangs limp against the tree, slices of flesh cover her purple bruises. No more fresh blood trails from her coldcorpse as her feet sway in a pool of her own red bodily fluids. Red flowers, fresh and dried, surround her. Roses, carnations, peonies, lilies, and others I do not recognize. Between the flowers are baskets filled with crushed raspberries and blackberries. Broken pomegranates and blood oranges. They are all a symbolic representation of what the girl has given to the old Gods.Blood. As if that makes us better than the night creatures, when they, too, survive on blood.
I had always wondered where they got their hands on those products, until one time, Mother brought Fynn and me with her to a small market organized by humans. Little stalls with fresh fruits and flowers neatly organized into those you’d eat and those you’d buy for the offerings. I begged Mother to buy me some of the offering fruits. She did, and I ate them all at home. It was the first time I wondered if that is how blood tastes: sweet, with a hint of sour.
Mother and Fynn stand beside me when a large black crow lands on the dead girl's shoulder and starts picking at her eyeball, which begins to leak. There are others, feasting on her blood and the fruits, cawing in delight. The crows and ravens are never out of food, brazenly taking the offerings meant for the old Gods—a sight I’m accustomed to, too.
“Let's get going,” Mother sighs as she stares at the corpse hanging from the tree.
