I massage the sides of my head. That damn forest still clouds my mind, and that pungent smell of soap mixed with citrus starts to make me feel nauseous. Where does it come from? Nowhere is there laundry in sight.
The fresh breeze, first a soft and welcome caress, now makes my skin clammy. Everything feels wrong in this place.
Also, why choose houses that represent humans when there are none? A lure?
Erratically, I gasp for breath, and a panic attack starts to well up. I almost long for the forest and its rich, earthy, metallic scent. The smell of old, decaying blood is more familiar than this revolting sweetness. The novelty of it all wears off quickly; whereas I first welcomed the sight and new smells, I already feel loathing for it all. All of it feels alien, and I fight the urge to turnaround, flee, and run back to the familiarity of the forest and the comfort of its scent; something I know from the towns we’ve stayed in before.
I count to ten, then twenty, as I softly inhale deeply, trying to ground myself. I murmur the things I see surrounding me to calm my mind, a technique that has worked before. I stare at the Luminal Sanctum, its presence demanding all attention as it stands in the center, surrounded by houses. I start counting the spires and admiring their ornaments. Everything feels out of place. These buildings represent the Light and how towns looked before the war.
Slowly, my breathing steadies, the rising panic attack subduing. Neither Fynn nor my mother pays attention to me as I fight to regain control, slowly inhaling and exhaling. They are both too occupied with the town named Sadelaer, which reveals itself. A mirage. It feels like a taunt, a mockery of the greatness that was once the Light, the reign of White Witches and Humans—a fabrication of that which no longer exists, an end of an era.
I have always wondered how human cities and towns looked before the war. Here I am, with a vampire phantasm providing the glimpse I desperately sought. The irony does not escape me.
On top of it all, this is the first time in a long while that Mother addresses the situation my brother and I are apparently in. The situationsheput us in, with her need to keep us safe. I see Fynn looking at Mother and hear him ask why the two of us would be safe. He had picked up on her remark as well.
I feel nausea coming up, leaving a bitter and sour taste in my mouth, and I swallow down the bile that is traveling up my throat. I feel my stomach churn as I force it back down, making me feel queasy. My eyes dart between my mother and Fynn asI hold my breath, anticipating what she will say to him. I, too, want to learn more about it.
DIARY ENTRIES:
Why? I hate you.
They were born last night—twins, no surprise. A beautiful boy and a girl, both healthy. I feel an overwhelming love and desire to protect them at all costs. Keir couldn’t stop crying, and neither could I, although I’m sure we both cried for different reasons. I love this man.
A Harrowing Truth
FYNN
Chapter 3
As soon as I take an interest in what Mother just said, Harlot's face turns pale as snow. She looks nauseous, and frankly, it seems an overreaction to me. She has difficulty swallowing, and I watch her as she sits down. I ignore Harlot, like the attention-seeking brat she is, and turn to my mother.
Mother is always making sure she keeps us safe. That is the life goal of this woman, and of us, to be protected, from the old Gods know what.
Harlot irritates me more and more lately, constantly nagging about everything and always affecting me to the point where I want to smash her doll-like head in. The thought of doing so makes me smile a little; her skull cracked wide open, and my hands covered in her blood.
Of course, I did not do that, and Harlot has a point, although I will never admit that to her face. Being on the road, always looking over your shoulder, but not sure what you are looking for, is far from ideal, but complaining about it will not change our situation. Only Mother can resolve this, but as we are on the move again, she clearly has no intention of changingour path anytime soon. In that respect, I have no intention of fighting Mother, and even though Harlot softly protests Mother occasionally, neither does she. Constantly whining about our everlasting trekking will not result in less traveling.
Lately, Harlot is making me uneasy; maybe ‘uneasy’ is not the right word. She makes me feel uncomfortable and unnerved when she is around me. She has this perverted look in her eyes as if I am some animal she wants to devour, a prey. Harlot seems to think I do not notice it—that she is constantly eyeing me—but I do, and it creeps me out. It triggers something inside me, a harrowing feeling like I need to always be on my toes, waiting for her, ready to bash her brains in before she gets to attack me. But why would she even try to attack me? I am twice her size, both in length and weight. I can easily crush her tiny body with my bare hands if I tried.
I clench my fists unintentionally, thinking about how delicious it would feel to squash her head like a pumpkin. I sigh deeply. I need to find a way to keep those thoughts at bay, especially as I don’t feel as shocked anymore when the images linger in my head.
Still, I cannot shake off this feeling that she might be stupid enough to try something, and I will be forced to hurt her in return.
The sensation was worse in the forest, as if a damper had been removed, allowing my emotions to get the better of me. Unconsciously, I feel a smile creeping up on my face as I reflect on making her scream in agony. Why does the thought of that make me smile?
I also noticed myself staring at her in the forest, her delicate little frame, and how she fumbled with that darn knife that she keeps close by. The display was pathetic, her small fingers clinging to that knife as she sharpened twigs. The attempted kicks and lunges at piles of wood and stone that she built. It tookall my willpower not to burst out in laughter, even as every fiber in my body wanted to humiliate her and make her aware of how ridiculous she looked to me. The idea of adding her body to that stinking, bleeding river made it difficult to fall asleep. I don’t think Mother or Harlot realized that the river had actual blood flowing through it, that it wasn’t just colored water.
Thankfully, arriving at this façade of a town numbed some of my emotions. It feels as if my feelings are caged in, making navigating them less challenging.
Recently, my dreams have been haunted by the glorious imagery of murder and slaughter. I see myself victorious, drenched in blood and guts. But, as of late, when I look at the face of the person I have so effectively murdered, Harlot's empty, hollow, light gray eyes are always staring back at me. Her face is splattered with gore and blood drops. In the reflection of her eyes, I don’t see remorse looking back, but a face that celebrates victory, my face. Somehow, my dreams never clarify what I am commemorating, but it cannot just be my own sister's death, at my very own hands. Right?
I should be horrified, but instead, it eases my mind. The dreams are a way to live out my frustrated fantasies. A space where I can be free, let my desires roam without any consequences, and the best part is, I can repeat them every night, over and over.
I sigh, letting go of the contemplations, filling my lungs again with the fresh, strangely scented air surrounding us, and ask my mother firmly: "What do you mean this place will keep us both safe?"
I see my mother quickly glance at Harlot, who is looking at the tips of her worn leather boots, covered in dried-up mud, as if they are the most interesting thing she has seen in a while. She quietly squats to retie her shoelaces.
I raise my eyebrows as I glare at my mother. It becomes painfully evident that I have been left out of the equation, and I cannot wait to find out what they have kept from me all this time.
