Work Text
You.
You were supposed to be there when the fated day of my “adoption” arrived.
You were supposed to wait for me, sitting on my bed, standing in the kitchens or waiting by the door, wherever you wanted, but you were supposed to be there.
You were supposed to stare at me, whether with sad or concerned eyes I know not, and never will I know since you were not there.
The fated day of my “adoption” never happened but yours did.
I woke up, dressed myself and turned to where you should be with shuddering breath. I found the bedroom empty. The kitchens, empty. The hallway, empty. My heart, empty.
The only signs you used to be here were the deeper creases on the left side of your pillow (I used to tease you that you liked
sleeping on this side to see Emma) and the photographs I took of you, hidden in my drawers. I knew you left. I didn’t believe it — didn’t want to believe — but I knew you left.
And all I could do was drown in the darkness of my mind.
You told
me I have a strategic mind. I’m a tactician, you told
me, who likes to learn, who devises plans and who analyses everything. I am a tactician, it seems, since I’ve been planning for the longest time to extract you and Emma from Grace Field House. But being a tactician doesn’t mean my strategies always work.
You weren’t supposed to leave.
You didn’t leave, in a way. You stayed
for eleven beautiful years.
Day
1: Irritation. I’d lie to myself if I said I didn’t understand why you didn’t fight to escape your fate. If not you, it would be Emma, Gilda, Don, everyone in the House, even me, who would take your place. You smiled and waved at everyone as if you’ll all see us again. Your last smile wasn’t supposed to be in this context.
Day
2: Guilt. If I had anticipated Isabella’s moves. If I had been strong enough to break down doors and warn you all. If I hadn’t slipped up.
Day
3: Despair. It was supposed to be me. You had no right. You refused to step down from the role that was supposed to be mine.
You call me tactician, but you’re the best between us two. You’re clever enough to conceive plans just like me, but you have the flexibility, ingeniousness and the benevolence to listen to Emma and to improve them. I could tell you my strategies and you’d never judge their rigidity and their ruthlessness. With you it’s always different.
With you it was always different.
In the end I am the one who lives. Of course. I, the son of a woman harvesting us like crops, the traitor who should’ve been abandoned, the one who lets go first, live. In times like these, you and Emma confront me and we talk about what’s wrong until we solve the issue. And the issue’s always me, because I’m a twisted mess with sharp angles, long shadows and deep abysses.
Why does this have to be the way it is? Why grow old only to die so young, on the edge of puberty, fed by lies of a beautiful world and merry times? Aren’t we supposed to, as humans, to help our peers instead of feeding them
to demons? Aren’t we supposed to seek friendship and relationships that would last more than eleven little years?
On one side: an open field near a forest, watching the clouds pass by in a tree’s shade, peaceful days surrounded by carefree and blissful children and nights reading books basking in a candle’s dim lighting. On the other side: monsters roaming outside, humans subjected to tests every day to develop their brain, false families coming to adopt them and plush bunnies sewn by Isabella only to be discarded once the children are gone.
I told myself that if I came into this world to die, then I’ll make sure others will live. Death has never been a problem or something to fear ; it’s always been my
destination. It wasn’t supposed to be yours.
Life has never been much worth pondering upon ; it’s always been a bittersweet dream. You weren’t supposed to wake up so soon, be plunged in this nightmare and shipped away.
I’m supposed to be many things I’m
not. Humane is one of them.
With Emma, you’re
the most humane person I’ve
met. Humane, I said, not psychic, because you didn’t catch the plea dying in my throat as I begged you not to leave us.
You were supposed to live.
But you didn’t.