Funny. She’s exactly who I used to be—willing to fight everyone that punished me, willing to spit on anyone who wronged me. But eventually, you stop fighting for yourself. And instead, you become the one that swings the blade.
Oh, but you could, little fawn,I croon down the bond.Don’t forget that monsters are created.
“Nothing could turn me into the pitiful creature you’ve turned yourself into,” she sneers.
“Do you think I was born this way? A monster?”
She glares at me, her nostrils flaring and cheeks flushing pink.
I was made into what I am, carefully crafted and sculpted by others who wielded hammers and swords. Although I’ve shoved every experience that’s helped make me who I am into a box, sometimes I pull them out. To remember I wasn’t always this way. I send a memory down the bond, fighting a shudder as I’m forced to remember it, too.
Small hands grasping for purchase on a concrete wall, fingernails clawing at the door, tiny fists banging on its unyielding surface. Chubby cheeks crusted with dirt and tear tracks, a throat grown raw from screaming. Impenetrable darkness surrounds me and steals my vision. My other senses were always stronger than my brother’s. A blessing and a curse.
In this moment, a curse.
The vibrations along the floor as the undead creature lumbers toward me tells me I’m locked in a room with something massive. A bear, likely. Or what used to be a bear. The huff of its breath along the back of my neck sends me skittering to the other side of the locked room, and it lets loose a bellow that curdles my insides.
What would Asmo do? What does Father want?
I curl into a ball, knowing this is the incorrect answer. But I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can’t I can’t I can’t.
My heart beats in my chest like a wild thing, pumping blood through my veins as Father’s instructions play on a loop in my head.
Give into the fear. Become its master, Marik.
I inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I breathe through gritted teeth and force myself to my feet, stumbling to the center of the room and dropping to the floor as my knees give out. If this monster doesn’t kill me, my heart might.
I scream before I can change my mind and force myself to lie on the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the bear to come. Tears slip down my cheeks as its footsteps grow closer, as the stench of its rotting teeth grows stronger, as I remember what it feels like for those teeth to sink into me. Over and over again.
Even in the dark, I can see the bear’s outline. Its jaw opens and sinks into my chest.
I pull myself from the memory before Elle can see what comes next. Maybe it’s a mistake to shield her from it. Maybe I should let her see exactly how a monster is made.
I don’t have to look closely to feel what she’s feeling. The emotions are so strong they’re practically screaming at me down the bond. The icy crawl of horror. The soft glimmer of pity.
“How old were you?” she whispers.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, Marik. Of course it matters.”
“Six.” I lean back in my chair, summoning the bottle of wine. I don’t bother pouring it into my glass. I swig from the bottle.
Elle shakes her head. The candlelight shines on her glassy eyes.
“You feel sad for me,” I say. “Why?”
She studies me. My heartbeat quickens in my chest and my palms tingle. For fuck’s sake, Marik.
“Nobody deserves that.”
I roll my eyes and take another swig from the bottle. “It made me stronger.” I resist the urge to laugh at the irony of this conversation, so similar to one that I had with my dear wife.
“Was it one of the Cursed?” she asks. I nod in confirmation. “Who…”
“Who do you think?” My voice feels too rough, too thick with emotion. The unfamiliarity of it makes me uncomfortable. Her eyes turn soft again and I speak before she can voice the answer. “Anyone can turn into a monster. Even you,” I warn. Because I used to be just like her—full of rage—until one day I gave up and became something other. Something worse.
Her smile is full of pity, and I regret the decision to share this memory with her. This isn’t what I wanted. I didn’t expect her to feel this way toward me. I didn’t want pity. It was a warning. And maybe, a small part of me wanted to show her that I wasn’t always this way.
