tws for mentions of abuse,wounds and d3@th

Coccinelle?

It is dead.
This house that has seen me through almost my entire life.

It is known for its frivolity and ebullient spirits, its mirth, laughter and brightness
Was. I keep forgetting, although I pick my way through the destruction.
A child, when I first came here. A child who only wanted a home.

“We’ll take care of you,” whispered Marie as we sat together, bones protruding at every angle. We’d been malnourished from the last house. The people locked us up in rooms that had a distinct stench of human faeces, urine and sweat. Often, days went by until the little girl finally managed to persuade her mother to open the door and free us.

I’d shuffled closer to my brother, who’d said nothing. If my brother was quiet, it was serious. I could feel the pulse of his emotions, every ache in his heart. It was special, our bond. Mama used to say we were inseparable. Two boys so closely knitted together. One wild with an untameable spirit, one destined to never be anything except for his shadow.
Twenty minutes older, Julien was, and those twenty minutes had defined my entire life.

I didn’t believe Marie’s promise. But the woman did everything in her power to care for us as did the rest of her family. Like the chocolate - a rare treat that Marie’s husband, Henri would often pull out of his pocket with a twinkle in his eyes. Long, arduous games of chess with her eldest daughter who had keen eyes and a sweet smile.

“Checkmate,” Elodie said, moving her bishop.
Julien was stranded. Nowhere to go and nothing to turn to.
“Admit defeat. Julien, you are more proud than your father.”
They laughed simultaneously, but there was no mirth in it. Elodie sighed softly.
“I am sorry. I should not have said that.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” one side of Julien’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, making Elodie’s heartbeat a little faster.
“Coccinelle?” She asked, not quite believing this display of nonchalance.

Coccinelle meant no secrets. No lying through your teeth and every guard down. At least, that’s what Julien told me.

“Why ladybug? It is a strange word.”
Julien shrugged. “It is her favourite.”

I watched them, day after day, observing the slight flush in Elodie’s cheeks. How Julien’s gaze lingered on her face a little too long, and the prolonged touch of their fingertips every time their hands brushed.

***
“I think I love her,” Julien told me one summer.
We had just turned seventeen. Both tall, broad and strong, drifting apart slowly but surely.
This day felt different. Like nostalgia and hazy memories, our childhood friendship clung to the air as a reminder of what had been.
I turned away from the sunlight, letting the darkness hide my anguish.
I did not trust myself to speak for a couple moments.
“I know.”

***

I started spiralling from that moment onwards.
Un monstre. Un monstre, Un monstre, Un monstre.

But most wounds stitch themselves back up.
The threads that were meant to hold me together were stubbornness and patience.

**
When my brother had fled town, rolling in debt and embroiled in scandal, I paid off every last penny. Like the man I was meant to be, the man he would never come close to me.
I’d gone round soothing indigent villagers, comforting troubled Marie and broken Elodie.

Marie clutched at my hand. Marie, strength and kindness incarnate. Marie, who rescued birds with broken wings, Marie who nursed us through scarlet fever and almost died, Marie who treated us as if we were her own.
“Julien,” she said, sobbing. Her frail body was shaking.

Elodie lifted her head from the table, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign of grief.
“Why must we go on, Maman? When the villagers spit and gossip at us, all for one boy.

She spoke bitterly but I knew she was nursing a broken heart. Her room was next to mine and listened to tortured cries in her sleep. He haunted her at night, haunted all of us.
He’d left indelible marks on every inch of this house.

***

I gave her the one thing a boy like me can.
Friendship, offering her a hand to hold in the midst of his absence.

But the old cordiality began to pale in comparison to what was blooming.

The early days of us were fluttering, crisp and golden. Even April rain showers could not marr the beauty and the fragility of our love.

One precious year, of us and everything in between.

And then.
Him, like a hurricane on a gentle spring evening, when the hum of nature filled the air. A tidal wave in a calm ocean, thrashing with rage.

“Betrayal,” he hissed in Elodie’s ear. He made no attempt at hiding the venomous hatred he felt towards me.
He brandished a knife, threatening me to come closer. Restraining Elodie by the waist, holding her hostage.

“Enjoy your happiness. May your days be fruitful, bright and abundant.”


He struck a match, and set fire to our house. I lunged for the door, only to find it locked. My brother had taken our only key. Bolted every window with a vengeance. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing I saw: a rolling pin. I smashed the window, glass shards shattered and decorated the floor. Elodie screamed, and stumbled. The soles of her feet were red, tender and swollen.

“I cannot make it through the window,” she whispered, “Not with my feet like this.”
“You must. I beg you, please. Please, Elodie.”
“It is not only that.”
She removed the hand pressed to her stomach, only to reveal a large, gaping wound. The tyrant had been threatening her with a knife. How had I not noticed my wife cry out? How could I be so uncaring, so selfish?

“ No, no, mon amour, it can't be, ” I took my wife into my arms, gently rocking her back and forth.
The flames built around us.“You have to leave.”
“No,” I shook my head, “not with you like this.”
“You will die.”
“There is no me without you, Elodie.”
“ I know. I know, but you must go. Please. Please. For me.”

I hope you will never know the strength and pain it takes to leave someone you love in a burning house.

***
I live in pain, and not only for Elodie.

For the brother, whom I’d so selfishly sacrificed, to pay for my cruelty.

You shouldn’t believe everything you read, dear reader.
I was the one who ran away from town.
He stayed behind, and married Elodie.
I started the fire, with the cowardly rage that was always hidden away.
Although, I have always loved Elodie. Longer than even him, perhaps.

And maybe, reader, I have lied to you. Maybe I have blurred the lines between truth and reality, so much so you begin to question who speaks to you.
Is he feral or is he broken?

Blood is blood, he said to me, when I tried to stop him from turning himself in at the station.
“We are family.”

And sometimes, family can mean terrible things.

+1,203 words for the above

you are my moonlight

❝ what makes you happy isn't meant to hurt you ❞

When you see your little darling girl, falling apart right in front of your eyes, you recall memories. The grown teenage girl with the dark brown lustrous waves, tumbling past her shoulders seems to be the little baby who held her arms out to you as she tottered unsteadily. She seems to be the four year old girl who would cling to her mother when she had to go to school, with the blue ribbon pigtails. She seems to shed the burden of the past years and tugs your hand, pulling you back to see the pretty dewdrops in a spider’s web. She seems to be the girl who started middle school with converse sneakers and a proud, beaming smile.

She is a baby, in your eyes.

You toss and turn at night from side to side, turmoil clattering your thoughts as they spiral out of control. Replaying sweet memories like they are tapes, of toothy smiles and old games.
i don't need you
You rewind the tapes again. They clash into each other, every moment merging to make some new colour. You cannot see what is real and what is not.
bambina, you cannot do this.
There was a girl. A girl who was falling apart, with hair that tumbled past her shoulders. Who used to hold her arms out to you as she tottered unsteadily. A four year old who clung tight to your arm with blue ribbons, weaved through her hair. Tugging your hand, pulling you back to see the pretty dewdrops of the spider's web. Cigarette smoke obscuring her face.
i gave you everything.

Something resurfaces from a dusty corner, crystal clear. When it gets bad, you let its light illuminate your face. A lullaby you sang to her to sleep with, a lifetime ago.

Stickers decorated the little room’s walls, showing Disney princesses that were faded, ripped and tattered. Belle’s face was half gone, Aurora had one hand and Snow White had no hair. There was a new lilac bean bag chair sitting in the corner, which seemed out of place in such a tired looking room.
But she loved her room and the stickers. You'd bought them at a garage sale, haggling for a lower price. The seller was clearly desperate.
They were falling apart, because back then it was too tight to even manage the slightest luxury. Even for her.
You offered her new ones when times got better, the fridge was full and in a flat instead of two rooms. She said she wanted to keep her old ones.

Tonight, she hummed an old tune under her breath. The clock had just struck midnight.
“Why aren't you asleep?”
She fidgeted with the duvet cover. “There's a monster under my bed.”
You sat down on the floral sheets
“Yeah. There is.”
She looked up with wide-eyed wonder. Inhaling sharply, she leant forward.
“He protects you from nightmares, and picks up the socks from the house. See?” You fished under the bed and pull out a dust-coated poor penguin, instead.
She giggled. “Can you sing me a song?”
You sang till your throat was hoarse. A timeless melody that hundreds of thousands of mothers have used to lull their children to sleep.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away

You crooned it to her gently, watching her eyelids close, listening to the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
You got up to tiptoe softly across the room, until a sleepy voice called out:
“Am I your sunshine, mamma?”
Shuddering, thinking of the second verse of the
lullaby, you shook your head. She stuck her bottom lip out and began to wobble.
You gathered her close to you, holding her small, warm body. Your own blood runs in her veins. You are half of this sweet, innocent little child.
“You are like the moon in my night sky,” you whispered into her ear, “you are everything to me, bambina.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. The monsters won't come either.”
But the bambina is already half-dozing again. Her head lolls to the side slowly.
“Good night mama.”
“Good night, my love.”

The same words are enough to startle you back to the present. A cloak of darkness has settled over the world. The same voice turns out the lights and leaves the room. You are alone.
i love you, mamma.
And yet, somewhere, Bambina's hums the tune of the lullaby. It is the cadence of her voice that coaxes you to sleep. So much tenderness, so much love.
it isn't your fault mamma.
You drift in and out of consciousness for a little while. Sunlight may be golden, but you've always preferred the moon’s steady glow. Because sunlight can sear through your skin, can blind you with it's brilliance. They call it the colour of happiness.
What makes you happy isn't meant to hurt you.
i love you, bambina
And the last thing you remember, is an old melody from a lifetime ago.

+852 words

once upon another time

❝ i am but fragments of my past life ❞

a note to the reader -
when it first began, i saw how reality's fabric began to fray. it has never been there, it is a shimmering illusion. our souls are delicate things, and chaos wrecked mine with the pain it bestowed on me.

may 2nd

death is not the end. i wake, in a sea of memories, with white wisps surrounding me. they hum and their laughter is the colour of the silver, tinged with darkness. ethereal, but pain reverberates through the musicality.
they let me stay there for a while, in a blanket of haziness that fogs over your head. the sound begins to drive me mad, although
i
don't know insanity yet.

and then the screaming starts. it is trapped underneath my ribs, in my skull, in the laughter. in the blurred faces of the wisps, that
are beginning to take form. the agony creeps under my skin, grief wails and clings to me with her razor sharp claws. i thought
i'd left her behind, in the last life.
but i am soft, so i stroke her poisonous forehead and whisper a prayer. the words come out cracked, every syllable feeling foreign on my tongue.

may 9th

he comes on the seventh day. cloaked in shadows from head to toe, his face invisible except for his eyes. not ruthless. not evil.
weighed down with sorrow, with so much grief it made it difficult to hate him.
“i am sorry,” it is punctuated with resignation. a mask of glacial indifference.
i ventured to look up before i was plunged thousands of feet below the ground.

may 21st

i dance from one reality to another, witnessing everything with a hollowness in me, that hasn't been there before.

may 26th

it hurts too much to write about.

may 29th

there's a kind of ache which weighs me down, leaves me shrieking inside. the first time it happened, i was so
confused. i awoke in an alleyway, shivering with a thin white dress serving as my only protection against the bone-chilling cold. a mist had settled over
that world. i could feel its breath on my neck, it's fingers creeping into my spine.

june 6th
some days are peaceful. quieter than others. i wake with a pillow underneath my aching head, drink coffee and watch the familiar yet unknown faces around me. there's lia, with straight hair and manicured nails. so different from the girl with thick black frames who punctuates every other word with sorry.
school is a hive of activity, a chaos that i somehow find comfort in.
i go when i want to feel normal.

july 23rd

vivianne is with me. she says she is my best friend. vivianne is tall, graceful in her loping stride. her eyes are brown, tawny and bright. she chews a
stick of gum, her purple jaw working vigorously at it.
everyone here has dyed their skin strange colours.

september 4th

someone's name is on my wrist. rohan. such hastily scribbled letters, handwriting that looks like someone's back home. i can't really remember his face, only his strong hands that mold clay into fine sculptures. rohan. my friend rohan, with the sweetest smile.
who was meant to be something more.

january 29th

destruction is rife, war soaks the earth with blood and death lays its hands upon everything.
is peace too much to demand? can you storm to the gods, and wring out your hands, grovel at their feet to beg?
to beg for it to be different.
for something a little kinder.

two
years later

the days started twisting around each other, merging into one. what is a day when you haven't seen your mother's smile in years? what
is a week when you can't remember the exact cadence of your lover's voice, what is a month when you measure time by how long you haven't held your sister?
i am but fragments of my past life.

unknown day.

i saw a toddler's burnt socks lying on the edge of the road.
something in me stirs, a feeling i had forgotten existed. i gathered the charred socks close to my chest. they are baby blue, with white flowers for decoration. daisies - my sister's favourite.

“how can you not like the daisies? they tell you if you're in true love.”

we used to make flower crowns in the meadow, when we snuck out late. those raucous nights filled with laughter, road-trips to a destination we hadn't decided on. wild and free, young and stupid.
there was so much i took for granted.

i folded the socks carefully into my bag with trembling fingers, trying not to cry.

i would just keep on driving, because i was free


+790 words

Threads of fate
(inspired by tsoa)
❝ Their hands met and the light of a thousand suns flooded the room ❞


The bard sat in the tavern, impatiently signalling to the landlord. It wasn’t a bad place. Long tables of rough-hewn wood stretched out across the room but the dim light wasn't enough to hide the wasted men in the back. The lanterns at the side brought forth an incandescent glow and a sense of cheerfulness to the run-down place. Raucous, musical noise saturated the air and a glass shattered against the wall.

Despite the clamorous sounds and the seeming nonchalance of the tavern customers, he was noticed. Hostile glares directed at him, people roughly shoving him as they went past - even the women.

Still, he supposed he did look a little strange. Entwined violet ink covered every inch of his almost translucent hands. Deep creases stitched into his forehead were decorated by a thin jagged scar from an unfortunate assassin encounter.

“What can I get you, sir?” The bard had finally managed to catch the middle-aged man’s attention. “The House Special - blue eared brandy? Or-”
“Just a tankard of ale. That’s all.”

The land-lord’s red-face glistened with sweat and in his eyes, the bard thought he’d caught a flicker of recognition.
“Say sir, aren’t you…”
“New here? Certainly. I’ve never journeyed to Selsain on my travels before.”
“Ah. I see. I’ll get that ale for you, sir.”

He exhaled, long and slow. It hurt to even breathe nowadays, at times his ribs were attacked by a sharp, striking pain.
But he had a purpose. A story to tell.

***
“You can’t ask me to pay.” Now it was the bard banging his fist on the table.
“The very idea! Everyone knows that we sing, or tell stories for our suppers. You break tradition by not making me pay.”

The whole tavern had gone eerily silent with the exception of some drunk humming under his breath. He’d caught everyone’s attention, just like he’d wanted to.

“What story will you tell?” a reedy little voice piped up.
The bard looked at the gaunt child.
“Any you want.”
“The Ballad Of The Broken-Hearted,” that came from one slender youth, sitting in the corner, taking in everything. His eyes were dark blue and starry, the kind to break a maiden’s heart.
“That’s an old, old story. Almost as old as time itself.”
“But no one’s heard that one, have they? No one knows it either,” The bartender this time, shaking drinks and sliding them across swiftly.
“I do.”
“So tell us,” said a chorus of voices.
The bard looked at the landlord, who shrugged and started tossing a gold coin in his hands.
So he began a tale he’d sworn to never tell.

once upon a time,
a girl who didn't know how to let go
and a boy made of memories
fell in love.

the goddess Night, blessed their love
although the sun God, after hearing the prophecy of the stars,
seared the spirit of the boy,

the girl bathed him in the basalm river, to
salvage his soul.
but every magic takes, after it helps you gain what was lost.

so the river took the heart of the boy.
the heart which breaks and bleeds and loves,
was ripped out from his chest.
and a curse was given.

the sun god taunted the girl
as the boy, made of cruelty and strange magic
forgot the melody their spirits sang.

time hid the girl,
to save her from the wrath of the gods,
it is said she still lives there,
only to be freed once the boy loves again.

***

If Artemis made red roses from the blood shed by Orion on the white ones, if she made him a constellation out of love, Night would do the same. She didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way her and the Sun had, with a love cursed by the ancients. When she saw the girl and the boy, finding hope in each other after a lifetime of pain she did everything in her power to help them.

But the stars had crossed their love. The threads of fate are unbreakable unless meddled with by the stars who sent forth a prophecy by their messenger, “The Reaper”, known for his ruthlessness and the blood he shed so easily. Another being, cursed by them.

The words were chanted overhead in the skies for three days and nights - uncommon, since usually prophecies were only murmured during the night. The stars wanted the Sun to hear of this boy, for him to sear his spirit.

And her righteous, merciless lover did so. Night shed tears of silver along with the girl, and turned the Sun away when he next came to visit her.

“You are no lover of mine,” she hissed, “Leave me. Do not return.”

The balsam river.
It was so easy to plant a whisper in a human’s mind.
take him there.

The girl gently lowered his body into the river, murmuring prayers to every god alive. Begging, weeping on the floor with no shame when it was for his sake.
And he returned, but not the same, because like the sun, the river had grown cruel over time.
He demanded something in return, a life for a life, a spirit for a spirit.
Every magic takes after it helps you gain what was lost, and that is what the river did. It took the heart of the boy into its keeping, who was now made of cruelty and strange magic.

He no longer knew the girl, and the sweet melody their spirits had sung.

To save her from the wrath of the stars, of the other gods, Time hid the girl for a time. Until Night came to him, fifty odd years later and told him it couldn’t be like this any longer.

“You can’t keep reincarnating her, Time. She will eventually fall apart, from the burden of it all. Her bones are already tired.”

Time looked at her. “Name a better way.”
The Goddess stared back at him, her eyes dark as a night without stars.
“I certainly will.”

***
Finding the boy was the hardest task. Night called for him, weaving her words with magic to lure him out of his hiding place and to find his once lost love. She sang, something she had only ever done for the sun.
“You have to help me,” she told the Moon, “I know you know where he is hiding.”
“I took an oath too, Night,” she whispered, “I can’t break it.”
Yet, one fateful night, her gentle face illuminated a coven tucked away and long forgotten.
“Thank you,” she told the Moon.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Night carried the sleeping boy in her arms, to a love whom he no longer remembered, whose heart he’d broken years ago.
Time was waiting for her - but all time does is wait, what a stupid thing to say. He had the girl with him. Her eyes glistened with tears that she wiped away discreetly at the sight of her lover.
“Give her a moment,” muttered Night to Time who was frowning.
“But-” she yanked him away before he could protest any further.

Their hands met, and the light of a thousand suns flooded the room.
In a moment, it was all over as Night softly spoke the words of an ancient spell.
Keep them safe, she told the constellations above, they aren’t quite like you.

***
The bard finished the story and his awestruck audience broke out into thunderous applause. The last to finish clapping was the boy in the corner, who seemed to radiate a kind of light impossible for a human being.
“Did they die?” asked the little girl who’d spoken at the very beginning.
But the boy answered first.
“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He got up and kneeled in front of the girl.
“It’s said they even visit the earth sometimes.”
When he got up, a girl hidden by the shadows stepped forward. She’d been sitting there too, next to the boy. She was breathtakingly beautiful, otherworldly with her auburn locks that tumbled past her shoulders, and sharp green eyes. The girl smiled at the child.
“Sometimes,” she seems to take a pendant out of thin air, “they leave them with gifts too.”
A pristine rose pendant. Intricately carved, every minute detail perfect.
The boy turned to the bard.
“Casimian Eller, you may have broken an oath. But you renewed our spirits, with the truth of your words. For that, we thank you.”

The boy bowed low, and the bard gave him a grateful smile.
The next second they were gone. But the reverence for the celestial beings hushed the room.
Everyone began murmuring amongst themselves, some rubbing their eyes as if waking from a tremendous stupor. The bartender yawned, and went back to his work.
“I can't remember the story,” said a woman to her husband, “do you?”
He shook his head, frowning.

But the little girl beamed up at the bard, still clutching the rose pendant.
“I remember,” she whispered, “I won't forget, Mr Eller.”
The bard stooped down low, till he was level with the child.
“You won't, my dear. They chose you, for a reason. And something tells me that this pendant will play a big part in a future bard’s story.”
She gasped.
“Really?”
“Isabelle? There you are.”
A dark-haired man lifted the girl with ease onto his shoulders. He nodded at Casimir.
“We must be going. Say goodbye to the bard, now.”
“Goodbye, Mr Ellery.”

The bard sat at the tavern a few moments longer, brooding and sighing over what was to come. Of the heart that Isabelle would break, and everything she'd face.
They all have to be so brave, in a world like this one.

+1,635 words

Nice!!

a jar of misery - pandora's box

❝ i only wanted something to be mine ❞


for centuries, you have heard my story told by a bard's tongue or a poet's pen.

it is my turn to tell you the truth.

zeus cast me from him, treated me as a pawn. i was molded from clay, by hephaestus's deft fingers. a beautiful woman, blessed by aprodhite. and then, with the mere breath of a god, i was brought to life.

nothing is my own, even my existence was a curse upon humanity, a “blessing” to a traitor's brother.

you must forgive me for what i did.

i only wanted something to be mine.

***

light flooded across the room, nymphs musical chatter filled my ears and i lay there, half-awake, half-asleep. i almost felt content, until i remembered everything i had lost by becoming epimethus's wife.

everything i was forced to sacrifice.

what could've been mine, had it not been for zeus.

i should've had silver cutlery and a gold palace, riotous parties that my siblings threw.

the house was eerily quiet. the only sounds from within were my footsteps pattering across the floor.

epimetheus had left early this morning after our fight last night.

“why are you like this?” i screamed at him, barely containing my fury.

he ducked as an object came flying at him, hands raised in surrender.
“you know why, pandora,” his voice is so soothing. like soft summer rain, a sweet rose in full bloom. his calm infuriates me further.

“why don't you ever give me anything? you keep me locked in this cage, a gold cage is still a prison, epimethus. you won't let me open the one thing that has been given to me, the only thing i have ever asked you for.”

for a moment, anger flickered across my husband's face. it was only there for a split second, a flash in his eyes and the tightening for his mouth.
“we are not allowed to open the jar. i only want to protect you.”

“i don't need protecting! you think i am not strong enough?” i hiss, words laced with poison, “you think i am as weak, as gentle as you? am i only beauty, a statue to gaze upon? tell me, husband.”

i had grabbed his face forcefully, spilling over with rage.

“i want something more. someone more. i should never have married you.”
epimethus was a pillar of strength. he was fortitude. sweet tranquility in the face of a storm.
“i know.”
silence had never been more deafening.
“it's like waiting to be mortal, waiting for you to love me.”

his eyes filled with tears. my epimethus, whom i had never seen cry.

***

you'd think that was enough to stop me opening the jar. but you see, i was hurt.
i still am.
being abandoned by the person who is supposed to love you unconditionally can wound you in unimaginable ways.

so forgive me again, for the eager footsteps and scrabbling fingers.
for the way i tore open the cupboard door with so much haste that the hinges screeched in protest, how i grabbed the jar with a greed that lead to so much misery.

the key is in my hand.

epimethus's voice echoed in my ears - i only want to protect you.
my father's booming voice overpowered his, filling my skull instead and bounced off each wall - you must not open it.

i turned the key in the lock. with a sharp twist it gave away and the padlock clattered to the ground. i opened the lid.
then the world ended.

banshee screams, a torrent of suffering.

the sick odour of death pervaded the air.

grief wailed, settling itself upon the shoulders of humanity with a shriek.

famine tore across the earth.

illness claimed lives of many and i slammed down the lid of the jar.

breaking the wings of hope, a fragile little bird, that my distraught self didn't see.

“pandora?” epimethus crossed the floorboards swiftly to kneel next to me.

he saw my sobbing frame and the chaos. the jar, lying on it's side.

epimethus is no fool.

at that moment, despite the anger and the sadness anyone else would've felt, he chose to hold the cause of it all. he cradled me in his arms as i cried into his chest, murmuring comfort into my ear. assuaging the guilt i felt, holding my hand.

because i unleased ruination on the world that day and broke hope's wings.
i shouldn't have asked you to forgive me.

Coccinelle

❝ his undoing and mine ❞


It is dead.
This house that has seen me through almost my entire life.

It is known for its frivolity and ebullient spirits, its mirth, laughter and brightness.
Was. I keep forgetting, although I pick my way through the destruction.
A child, when I first came here. A child who only wanted a home.


“I’ll take care of you,” whispered Marie as we sat together, bones protruding at every angle. We’d been malnourished from the last house. The people locked us up in rooms that had a distinct stench of human faeces, urine and sweat. Often, days went by until the little girl finally managed to persuade her mother to open the door and free us.

I’d shuffled closer to my brother, who’d said nothing. If my brother was quiet, it was serious. I could feel the pulse of his emotions, every ache in his heart. It was special, our bond. Mama used to say we were inseparable. Two boys so closely knitted together. One wild with an untameable spirit, one destined to never be anything except for his shadow.
Twenty minutes older, Julien was, and those twenty minutes had defined my entire life.


I didn’t believe Marie’s promise. But the woman did everything in her power to care for us as did the rest of her family. Like the chocolate - a rare treat that Marie’s husband, Henri would often pull out of his pocket, twinkling at us.

They had a daughter too. A miracle, a chess-playing miracle, after three tiny white crosses in the graveyard.
I cannot cleave the longing that is engraved on my very bones at the thought of her.
And she knew it.
She always did.


“Checkmate,” Elodie said, moving her bishop.
Julien was stranded. Nowhere to go and nothing to turn to.
“Admit defeat. Julien, you are more proud than your father.”
They laughed simultaneously, but there was no mirth in it. Elodie sighed softly.
“I am sorry. I should not have said that.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” one side of Julien’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, making Elodie’s heart beat a little faster.
“Coccinelle?” She asked, not quite believing this display of nonchalance.


Coccinelle meant no secrets. No lying through your teeth and every guard down. At least, that’s what Julien told me.


“Why ladybug? It is a strange word.”
Julien shrugged. “It is her favourite.”


I watched them, day after day, observing the slight flush in Elodie’s cheeks. How Julien’s gaze lingered on her face a little too long, and the prolonged touch of their fingertips every time their hands brushed.


***

“I think I love her,” Julien told me one summer.
We had just turned seventeen. Both tall, broad and strong, drifting apart slowly but surely.
This day felt different. Like nostalgia and hazy memories, our childhood friendship clung to the air as a reminder of what had been.
I turned away from the sunlight, letting the darkness hide my anguish.
I did not trust myself to speak for a couple of moments.
“I know.”


***

I started spiralling from that moment onwards.
Un monstre. Un monstre, Un monstre, Un monstre.

But most wounds stitch themselves back up.
I'm not sure where the threads that were meant to hold me together went.

***
When my brother had fled town, rolling in debt and embroiled in scandal, I paid off every last penny. Like the man I was meant to be, the man he would never come close to being.
I’d gone around soothing indigent villagers, comforting troubled Marie and broken Elodie.

Marie clutched at my hand. Marie, strength and kindness incarnate. Marie, who rescued birds with broken wings, Marie who nursed us through scarlet fever and almost died, Marie who treated us as if we were her own.
“Julien,” she said, sobbing. Her frail body was shaking.
Elodie lifted her head from the table, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign of grief.
“Why must we go on, Maman? When the villagers spit and gossip at us, all for one boy.

She spoke bitterly but I knew she was nursing a broken heart. Her room was next to mine and I listened to tortured cries in her sleep. He haunted her at night, haunted all of us.
He’d left indelible marks on every inch of this house.


***

I gave her the one thing a boy like me can.
Friendship, offering her a hand to hold amid his absence.

But the old cordiality began to pale in comparison to what was blooming.

The early days of us were fluttering, crisp and golden. Even April rain showers could not marr the beauty and the fragility of our love.

One precious year, of us and everything in between.

And then.

*
Him, like a hurricane on a gentle spring evening, when the hum of nature filled the air. A tidal wave in a calm ocean, thrashing with rage.

“Betrayal,” he hissed in Elodie’s ear. He made no attempt at hiding the venomous hatred he felt towards me.
He brandished a knife, threatening me to come closer. Restraining Elodie by the waist, holding her hostage.
“Enjoy your happiness. May your days be fruitful, bright and abundant.”

He struck a match and set fire to our house. I lunged for the door, only to find it locked. My brother had taken our only key.
Bolted every window with a vengeance.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing I saw: a rolling pin. I smashed the window, glass shards shattered and decorated the floor. Elodie screamed, and stumbled. The soles of her feet were red, tender and swollen.

“I cannot make it through the window,” she whispered, “Not with my feet like this.”
“You must. I beg you, please. Please, Elodie.”
“It is not only that.”
She removed the hand pressed to her stomach, only to reveal a large, gaping wound. The tyrant had been threatening her with a knife. How had I not noticed my wife cry out? How could I be so uncaring, so selfish?

Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps. I could see her lips beginning to turn white.

“No, no, mon amour, it can't be, ” I took my wife into my arms, gently rocking her back and forth.
The flames built around us.“You have to leave.”
“No,” I shook my head, “not with you like this.”
“You will die.”
“There is no me without you, Elodie.”
“I know. I know, but you must go. Please. Please. For me.”

I hope you will never know the anguish it takes to leave someone you love in a burning house.


***
I live in pain, and not only for Elodie.

You shouldn’t believe everything you read, dear reader.
I was the one who ran away from town.
He stayed behind and married Elodie.
I started the fire, with the cowardly rage that was always hidden away.
Although, I have always loved Elodie. Longer than even him, perhaps.


And maybe, reader, I have lied to you. Maybe I have blurred the lines between truth and reality, so much so you begin to question who speaks to you.
Is he feral or is he broken?

***

I forgive you, he said to me when I tried to stop him from turning himself in at the station.
Coccinelle? I whispered, like a small, frightened child.

The waves of memory hit us both sharp and stinging.

A ladybug alighting on Elodie’s finger, the musicality of her laugh. The way he and her swayed together, at the evening dances in the village hall. Their fingers, always so tightly interlaced. How the old lady at Misa Cara had read their calloused palms and told them they defied the stars.

One girl, his undoing and mine.

I knew she was flitting across his mind as well.
Two brothers, once so closely knit together.

“Maman never told us this,” I said weakly, “I am afraid.”
What a coward, what a coward, what a coward.

“Blood is blood,” he replied.
“We are family.”

And sometimes, family can mean terrible things.

+1345 words

Author's Note: (not included in word count)
Thank you so much to everyone who helped me with this. Thank you especially to Sienna who critiqued this for me, May and my irl friend “A” for their thoughts + opinions on this piece. Every bit of encouragement has been invaluable to me <3