✧ ✧ ✧

Yara's words echo in my head as I search the dresser in my room for something to bandage my hand with. Did you start trusting me?

No. Yes? I wish I could know the answer to that, but I don't. She wouldn't reveal her whole story to me, but mine is not a fairytale to tell either.

I also wish I could say I feel nothing, but I can't.

✧ ✧ ✧

Six years ago

Panic consumed me, tightening its leaden chain around my neck. I felt like drowning, suffocating. Dying. So many feelings, that's not normal, they say. That's not normal when you lose control over your emotions, and all you want is to hide.

You act selfish, Mir.

Not good enough. Never good enough.

It had happened before, but today it was worse. I was alone in the penthouse, my family had gone to dinner at mayor Lishan's mansion, and I had a math test to prepare for and a speech for the school president's campaign to write. Besides, I wasn't really welcome at Lishan's after Adélard and I had beaten the shit out of each other.

Today it was worse because I was failing everywhere. Because my heart thundered in my chest as though ready to quit. Because I wasn't the best in my father's eyes. I was worthless. And I was scared.

What's wrong with me? My legs were restlessly carrying me around my room, back and forth, back and forth. My body ached, begging for sleep, but my mind couldn't sleep. My fear refused to let me sleep.

Don't cry, Father's voice rasped in my memory.

Don't complain.

Don't ask for help, and never show any weaknesses.

I hated it. The pile of textbooks on my desk, the painting of a tiger in a golden frame my stepmother hung on my wall, the people who expect me to be my father. None of that was me.

Only two things in my world could calm me down. One of them was a lamp beside my bed--its shade lost its turquoise color years ago, its silvery pattern along the body tarnished, and its plug was broken so if you weren't careful with the cord, an electric shock could bite your fingers.

It was my mother's lamp. The only thing of hers my father had kept in the house. I would always remember how he used to come to my room when I was younger, sit by my side as I pretended to be asleep, stare at this lamp. I'd never had the courage to ask him about Mom, and he'd never talked. I would always remember that Father's face used to cloud over at those moments, his brow furrowing, his mouth thinning. He would look at me as if wondering whether it had all been worth it. Then he would turn the lamp off and leave.

I didn't know what I, myself, saw in that lamp. The possibility of how different my life would have been if Mother hadn't died giving birth to me? The proof that nothing could ever be different? Hope? Lost hope?

Some stories should stay untold, my grandpa used to say.

Yet, the lamp didn't help my nerves tonight.

I stopped in front of the painting, my breath stuck in my lungs, and stared at the tiger in the frame, the predator waiting for its prey under a bamboo tree. It looked ridiculous, out of place in my room, next to my mother's lamp. And what if I could never be good enough? What if the thought my father had silently been dwelling on was right? Mother died for me, but I do not deserve her sacrifice.

Don't cry.

The air rushed from my lungs as I gasped when my fist struck the wall, penetrating the painting. Pain surged through my arm, and I hissed at a smudge of blood appearing on my knuckles. The world shifted back into balance though, as throbbing subdued the emotions.

Aamon's head jerked up from the corner, where the dog was sleeping, curled up in the armchair, a confused whimper escaping his furry chest.

"I'm fine, boy." I'm not.

Don't complain.

Scorning myself, I walked into the bathroom, lingering by the sink for a second before pushing my hand under the cool water. I watched the water wash away my blood, my hand getting cold. Maybe a shower would help me tonight? Before I could change my mind, I ducked out of my pajamas and was about to step into the shower, but my eyes slid to the mirror.

There was another thing that used to hush me, or rather shove me back on rails, scaring the hell out of me so I wouldn't even dare to question rights and wrongs.

The scars on my back.

And now, catching a glimpse of them in the mirror, I froze. Something broke, my mind went blank. Slowly, I turned around and looked over my shoulder at the reflection of my tan skin. After the first time Father took his belt in his hands, I was afraid to even touch my back for a month. My skin felt like burning, like there was a line I'd crossed without knowing, and it had been branded into my body.

When I felt that burning no more, I finally looked. At the sight of it, tears streamed down my cheeks. Please be a dream, please be a dream. But my fingers traced along the pale path surrounded by sick pinkness, raised above the rest of the skin as if melted iron had been poured over me.

No dreams.

A reminder that I wasn't trying hard enough carved into my body. Forever to see, forever to hide from the others. Tonight, there were three scars, three paths, three reminders of being imperfect.

Don't cry.

Don't complain.

Don't ask for help, and never show any weaknesses.

I hadn't cried since that first scar. I never complained. I would never ask for help.

But why did it feel so wrong then! It couldn't be it, could it? What artists called life, thrilling and inspiring? What about long walks by a river, and stars shooting across the skies, and kisses on your lips left by someone who you could be weak with? There must be a way to have it, to be there, to dream!

My gaze flicked to a pocketknife neglected next to the basket with dirty laundry, Father's gift. What was he thinking, giving me a knife? Perhaps that it looked expensive, or imperious, or perfect. Wouldn't it be ironic then if I used that knife to ruin my father's perfect reputation? What would people say if Mr. Praejis's oldest son was found dead in a pool of his own blood?

For a second, just for a miserable second, the idea was so tempting. But Mr. Praejis was a lawyer who stood by the mayor himself, who could arrange a deal and make a pile of money land in the right bank account without a question or make a person disappear without a trace. That would mean if I gave up now, my life had been for nothing. And my father would simply start shaping my little brother into a monster I was supposed to resemble now.

I refuse to be an untold story. I refuse to accept the rules.

Even if meant to believe in my grandpa's stupid, impossible tales.

In magic.

There was a book, among all others, that I'd found in Grandpa's house after he'd died. Bound in leather, it had a silver poppy on the cover. I'd seen that book once in Grandpa's hands, but he hadn't let me read it when I'd asked him. He couldn't stop me now though.

I read it. I loved that book, though I also found it stupid. The old pages whispered about magical rituals as though they all were real. As though magic existed beyond the fairytales. And it was simple to get it--all you needed was a sigil, a mark of magic, a scar. Well, I had many scars, I could have another one.

"Stupid," I repeated, but the knife was already in my hands. "Stupid." But the image of that sigil emerged from my memories. "Can't be real." But I pressed the knife against my right side and pushed the tip of the blade under my skin, right beneath the ribs.

The knife parted my flesh with startling ease, blood oozing out. Pain lanced through my side, but my mind stopped screaming. I wasn't scared anymore, because I was terrified.

Never show any weaknesses.

I gritted my teeth, sucking in air, and drove the blade forward, completing the sign. It looked ugly, like a letter of some unfamiliar language you wrote after seeing just once. Still, not as ugly as my back.

The knife fell from my hand, and I stared at my reflection, shocked at what I had accomplished. Water was still running in the shower, Aamon was whining behind the door, sensing something off, and I only stared. It suddenly didn't feel real anymore. It didn't feel right or wrong, it felt--

Like death.

I clutched at my side, trying to stop the bleeding, but blood already trickled down my leg and onto the tiled floor. An unnatural amount of blood.

Panic grabbed me with new force. I hadn't thought of the consequences. My head was beginning to feel dizzy, my vision losing focus, the room around me swaying. Magic was dangerous because it was chaos, and chaos didn't forgive mistakes. Not the sigil scar granted powers, but death of the person with the scar. Die and revive. And I hadn't thought it through. How was I supposed to stop my own heart and then restart it? Even with somebody's help, even doctors couldn't guarantee such a thing, and without the heart part, it was just... blood.

Death.

You couldn't die from one cut, right? But you could die from blood loss.

Why won't it stop?!

Staggering, I swung the bathroom door open, my eyes darting around the room, looking for my cell phone. My hand, slick and wet, slipped off the doorknob, and I fell against the wall, knocking the armchair aside, leaving a crimson trail in my wake. I felt cold. Aamon whined, hopping off to the floor, spooked. I just need my cell phone, I thought. But who would I call? I couldn't call an ambulance, then my father would eat me alive if I survived.

Blood was everywhere.

I can't die. Not like this, not right now, not after the years of being who others wanted me to be, and not before I found who the real me was. What the real me wanted.

Please be a dream, please be a dream.

White spots exploded before my eyes, the sensation of vertigo overpowering. I pushed myself off the wall and reached for the bedside table, just to hold on to, just to keep standing. But blood covered everything I touched. A curse. As if witnessing from above, I realized my body was collapsing onto the floor. I made the last, desperate attempt to get hold of something solid, but my hand brushed past Mom's lamp and tugged at its cord instead.

Electric tremor raced through my muscles. I screamed. At least I'd get to be with my mother now, right? And the white spots faded to darkness.

✧ ✧ ✧

...Wake up, the darkness spoke.

I didn't move. I was sinking, descending into soft blackness, it wrapped around my limbs and drew me further away, deeper, quieter. My mind didn't rebel anymore, my body didn't ache, and all the things that had worried me just moments ago grew nonsensical.

Wake up, my love, the voice urged. I was only a step away, only a breath apart from the place where I could rest, where I could finally sleep forever whatever that meant, and this voice refused to let me go. Let. Me. Go!

I know you're hurting, but this is not your time. Her voice was merely a whisper in my ears, distant and sad like a melody of a long-forgotten song. You remembered the rhymes of that song no more, but you could never fail to recall the feeling it stirred in your heart.

It couldn't be my mother's voice, could it? I had never heard it, never even dared to imagine it because you didn't want to imagine something you would never have, not without regret. Still, her words were caring and worried as if I was the one who'd got lost, not her. Please don't be a dream.

You have to open your eyes, my love, she said. You have to breathe.

For a moment, I almost believed I could see her--a shadow among shadows, light among stars. All I needed was to extend my hand, take a step, and follow.

But she would not let me.

Why, Mom?

It's not your time. You have so much to fight for, my precious boy, so many to live for. This is not what I wanted for you, but you're strong. If anyone can handle this power, it's you.

Mom, wait!

You're always enough, my love, never let anyone make you think otherwise. Wake up now. Breathe...

✧ ✧ ✧

I opened my eyes with a start, my lungs singeing, my body shaking. Water was still running in the bathroom, but my room was dark, the pieces of Mom's broken lamp scattered around. I was lying on the floor, naked, covered with nothing but my own blood. Aamon got locked in the bathroom, I must have slammed the door shut when had fallen. He barked and whined and scratched at the door but couldn't reach me.

That dog was always afraid of water, but now he wasn't scared of water, he was... scared for me. How could I know? Aamon's heart, fast and agitated and hot in his veins. I sensed it beating in my own chest, in my mind, answering to me.

Magic.

It worked?

Sitting up, I traced my fingers over my ribs, but there was no cut there, no fresh blood. Only a thin shape of the sigil scar, such a fine line, as though done by a precise hand of an expert years ago.

This is not what I wanted for you, but you're strong.

Was it a dream? Or was she real? Yet, it wasn't my mother's voice that still lingered in my ears. It wasn't even my own heartbeat, though I felt it, strong and confident as never before. It was a new feeling--power. A connection, a missing piece between an emotion and a thought. If I mentally reached out for it, if I shook it or squeezed it, it would follow my lead. And if I ordered my dog's heart to slow down or even stop--

The whining abruptly ceased.

"Aamon?"

Nothing.

"Aamon!" What have I just done? But when I pushed myself up onto my knees and cracked the door open, Aamon's eyes, bright as two moons at night, met mine, his tail waggling merrily. Not scared, not dead.

Neither of us.

But I was dead, and then I was not.

And now I am death itself.

✦ ✦ ✦