Four shots.

I stare at the three bodies, my heart pounding in my ears. I hear nothing but its beat. A fast, rapid hammering, louder than the shots themselves, has taken over my world. Death isn't a stranger to me, and I've killed more than once myself. I've shot, and I've been shot, but I've never died.

Four bullets. Three bodies.

I close my eyes and force my breathing to slow down. It is difficult, near impossible, and my heart follows reluctantly and under protest. Duly noted, dear organ. I'm happy you're still with me, and I share your pain.

Closing my eyes does little for the image in my mind. Down below lie three bodies, two girls and a young man, all alive ten seconds ago. The man's our driver--our former driver. He shot the girls, and then himself. Why? Just because someone told him so?

… The doctor injects Russel with something, then checks the result using the camera on his phone. Arthur tells Russel to shoot the girls. The first bullet hits the girl on the left. The doctor flinches as he gets covered with brain tissue and blood and bits of bone...

We kill to survive. We kill animals, and then we eat them. It's what we are and who we are. We're omnivores, chewing on the world around us, breading and spreading. It's a natural thing, and everything that's not a plant does it. And after we killed to survive we kill for material gains, for power and position. It's just that humans have become very good at it.

We kill to protect the innocent. Which isn't the same as protecting an idea, or promoting a conviction, that's the next step. Us humans, we kill for flags and books and false prophets when we get the chance. It seems we like any excuse to take lives.

Some are forced by circumstances. Some simply kill for fun.

You know, sometimes I think I'm a borderline psychopath. I can almost understand those killing for the pleasure of it. It's such a small step up from killing for gains. Even then, fun is a reason, and it's only one step away from pure madness, the random killing without reason. The individual predator that suffers from a brain tumor, and lashes out before it dies itself. Diseased, then deceased. Maybe even then there's a reason, the killers are simply sick.

Mom says there's only one thing worse, and that's killing for the wrong reason, like a kind of conceptual disease that infects the mind. It might even spread if not stopped in time. But who can tell what's right and what's wrong?

I can't. I'm not good at moral questions, but I know that what I just witnessed is plain wrong.

Why?

Why did Russel kill? Why did Artur order him to? Why did the girls have to die?

Russel's eyes were red when he looked up at Morgan, asking for permission. That was after the doctor injected him… with what? Dust? Morgan told me the drug would sap someone's will, but I was under the impression it would be a slow-moving process, not some instant mind-control scheme. The girl from the gas station--what was her name---Blaise. She didn't act like a slave. And the Man-in-White brought his own junky, who wasn't a slave either. This is something different, and Arthur must have been very sure of himself to give Russel a loaded weapon. After all, Russel was working for Morgan.

Arthur took the sniper who worked for his mother, then turned the man into his own killing tool. The girls were just... part of a demonstration.

It all covers the what, just not the why.

… The second girl widens her eyes, a second before Russel targets her. She takes the bullet in the chest, her body flying backward. Her eyes are wide open. Russel pulls the trigger one more time, blowing away half her face before her body even hits the ground. My face...

He killed me. I saw myself getting shot, my face blown away. But it wasn't me. I'm still sitting here, breathing, waiting for the old woman behind me to emulate Russel, adding my brains to the remains of our lunch.

Why does this rock me to the core? Just because they looked like me? I've never met these girls. They're not me, even if they're wearing my face--not my face, Eleanore's! They're just bystanders, innocent victims that have nothing to do with me. That Arthur made these girls--he forced them, I just know it--in Eleanore's image has nothing to do with me. I have no doubt he would do the same to me, given the chance.

But why go through all that effort, only to kill the girls on a whim? To prove the drug worked? It did, but having Russel kill himself would have been enough of a demonstration. Maybe Arthur's simply mad and doesn't need a reason. Or maybe he's mad at someone... Eleanore and Arthur had a thing Morgan disapproved of, so he created substitutes he could hurt. Oh, he's mad, I have no doubt. But he has a reason to do what he does, which means he's not only mad but also very dangerous.

… Russel hesitates. Does he realize what he just did? Then the hand holding the gun moves up. He puts the barrel of the gun against the side of his own head. And as he pulls the trigger...

Three bodies.

"Why?" Morgan whispers.

I know why.

I keep my eyes closed. Death itself doesn't bother me, but I know that if I open my eyes right now I'll see myself--twice--laying there on the ground. I hear Arthur moving about, humming to himself. I sense his presence right next to me, and I flinch when his hand touches my face. He doesn't need the girls anymore, because--

"Because I have the real Eleanore," he says.

"I'm Ellen," I mutter, but no one ever seems to care.

"Oh, you are so much more…" Arthur's voice is calm and controlled as if remarking on a particularly good vintage of wine, the flowing lines of a classic sports car, the merits of a thoroughbred racing horse.

His thumb caresses my chin and I hiss. He withdraws his hand before I can bite off his fingers. I hate him.

When I open my eyes the bodies are still there. So is the barrel of the old lady's gun, once more resting against the back of my head. I clench my teeth. Stay in control, Ellen. He's so sure of himself, this Arthur bastard. He didn't even take my guns. Does he think those are toys? My hands itch to grab a weapon and let loose, but I can't. It doesn't matter how fast I am because the old woman's finger resting lightly on the trigger, no matter how bad her arthritis, will always be faster than me.

"Don't," the old lady says as if reading my mind.

Morgan just sits there, watching Arthur take the seat next to me.

"An incidental discovery, more of a side effect of something I have been working on," he says. "You see, I managed to do what you could not, Mother. I made history, in spite of your best efforts to take it away, and now I can write my own future. Tell me, when was the last time you saw Gwen? Really saw her?"

Morgan clears her throat but doesn't speak.

Arthur spreads his hands, examining each of his fingers. "Do you know if she is still alive? Does it hurt? How does it feel to betray someone you love, again? Trading one girl for another? First me, then Gwen, and now Eleanore. Did it take time to accept the inevitable, or were you looking forward to it?"

"I had no choice," Morgan says.

This time her eyes meet mine, and I can see the guilt. Whatever I had for lunch is gone, swallowed by the black hole that appeared in my stomach.

Arthur laughs. "You know very little about my mother, Eleanore. Now do you?"

"It's Ellen. Ellen. Ellen," I tell him.

"Yes…" Arthur nods, "but that will change."

He reaches out and touches my hair. I shiver. If not for the old woman and her gun I would have punched him in the face right now.

"I am sorry, Ellen," Morgan says, "but I have little choice. Arthur took Gwen, and I want her back. I just want her back."

Arthur bends a little forward. "I never took her away. She is still with you, every day. Oh, you know!" He laughs. "You tried to make me forget the love of my life, but it is you who keeps forgetting the ones you once loved. And now Eleanore is back and will take her rightful place at my side. There's poetic justice in that."

"I've never met your Eleanore," I tell him, "but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't cooperate, and neither will I."

Morgan shifts uneasily in her seat. "So that is what this little demonstration was for. You may have no choice, Ellen. He wants you, and he wants his revenge. He's planning to give you the same drug as he gave Russel."

"To shoot people?" I ask.

Arthur shrugs. "If it comes to that, but I think there will be no need. I have won. Once you remember who you are I will gradually lower the dose until your eyes and mind are clear again. I tested the procedure on Gwendolyn, and it worked well. As you may not have noticed," he adds, grinning at his mother.

Morgan's eyes are on fire. "You tried to turn your little sister into a slave?"

Arthur raises his hands. "Nothing like that, mother. I would never do such a thing to her. I just tested the limits on suggestivity. She now believes you cursed her."

"How did you drug her?" I ask. It's a silly question, but I want to know.

Arthur just smiles, and then it dawns on me. "Oh. The milkshakes."

"Strawberry, and the seasonal coconut or pineapple flavor. Horrid, sugary things, those milkshakes. But it is not about revenge, Eleanore. It is about justice. All I want is justice."

I shake my head, slowly, as not to trigger the gun lady behind me, building a mental map of all the people in the room. Every single one a hostile except for Morgan, and she's a maybe. She lied too much.

"What justice?" I ask, buying time.

"Why don't you tell her everything, Mother? I will add the parts you leave out."

Morgan shakes her head. "Why would I? You are planning to wipe her memory anyway, and replace it with one of your sick fantasies. It would not make any difference to her."

Arthur laughs. "Oh yes, it would not matter to her, but it will matter to you. To bare your soul and to admit your faults. And to know that Eleanore will know your tale and recognize it for what it is, a gathering of lies, every time you see her."

"This Ellen is not the person you once knew."

"She will understand. I will tell her the truth."

"No, you will give her your version of the truth."

He laughs. "There is a difference?"

Mother and son stare at one another before Morgan gives in. Her tone is flat when she says, "Years ago Eleanore came to our home. Arthur was smitten with her, but when she rejected his advances he kidnapped and drugged her."

"I never drugged her. We were in love and ran away," Arthur interjects, "but you could not leave us alone."

"I had no choice."

"You could have simply left us alone," he repeats.

"I… It could not be. There is no way I can make you understand. We freed Eleanore and tried to help you. When we did so, we found… I did not want to believe it at first." Her voice breaks as her gaze wanders to the two dead girls downstairs. Whatever Morgan found when she recovered Eleanore, it must have been bad. "There were many. It was the same thing the second time," she adds.

Arthur points a finger at her. "You broke into my lab, destroyed my experiments. And then you used my own research to poison my mind."

Morgan gives him a shallow laugh. "I used your drugs on you. I was trying to save you. I knew I would not be able to cure your insanity, but perhaps it could be contained. Or so I believed. I was wrong."

"I am not mad. And you told everyone I died. Talk about madness," he huffs.

"Yes, that was a mistake. You should have died. Instead, we kept you safe."

"For how long, Mother? Tell Eleanore for how long."

Morgan hesitates.

Arthur grimaces. "Forty-three years. For forty-three years I was dead to the world. Gone. My father, my stupid half-brother, the half-sister I never knew. They all believed me dead." He points at me. "I was dead until I saw you again."

If Arthur has been locked up for half a century this Eleanore must be in her sixties or seventies by now. Which can't be right, because Arthur himself doesn't look that old. Morgan, his mother, looks even younger. Modern medicine can do miracles, and magic even more so, and the Ellyll are supposed to have a premium on magic, but still...

"Forty-three years?" I ask.

Arthur ignores me. "You, Mother, you tried to make people forget me. You tried to make me forget, and you almost succeeded. I thought you loved me." His tears are real.

"I did, and I do. You are still my son, after all," Morgan says.

He coughs and smiles through the tears, and says, "Not anymore."