Thief of stars

The blood feels like a second skin. Blood that is not my own. It's everywhere: embedded under my fingernails, matted in my hair, staining my clothes... even in my mouth. I shouldn't be surprised, war is war, and the man that is the sole reason for it — the reason so many people have lost their lives — stares back at me with malice, his twisted lips pulled in a snarl. 
I feel my veins rumble at the sound of the cries, my own blood beginning to singe. And as my vision slowly fades into ink, I feel the world erupt into flames and light. 

~

"I'd learnt during life that nothing is ever as it seems, that things are always hidden right beyond our eyes reach. In till that day in the woods, I never understood what that really meant." — future Dawn.

~

"Don't answer the door to Mr. Jones, Dawn. You know he's a creep." 
I look up from my place by the fire, the world I was just being sucked into resting in my hands, the pages snug between my fingers. The flames dance in a synchronised fashion; two distant beloveds twirling in the dark night, their burning love crackling. My eyes meet my brothers for a brief second, and I find him standing by the moulding, wooden door of our cottage. 
"Where are you going?" I ask him.
"Out to do some work for Mr. Kane," he replies, shrugging on his worn-out coat. "In fact, don't answer the door for anyone... please. You know what they're like."
"Sure, sure," I say absentmindedly, lifting the book — the only book I own — back up to my face and squinting slightly to see the tiny words on the yellowed paper.
I hear him huff to himself loudly, and his rolling eyes even louder. 
"Night, Dawn."
"Night, David!" I yell as the heavy door closes with a colossal bang.
I sigh and lean back against the worn out armchair I'm sat on, my feet pulled up under my body and slowly going number and number as the seconds tick by. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it with much difficulty. I already know there isn't any food in the cupboards, no matter how many times I walk back over to check them in hopes some have suddenly magicked themselves in there. I turn back to the book, letting myself get absorbed into the fantasy world written in paper and held in leather. 
She drops to her knees, his blood slowly seeping in between her fingers as she clutches at his tunic tightly.
"I'm sorry," she cries. "They found the letters!"
"Shh," he coughs, blood trickling out from his lips. "It's not your fault, Marie."
"It was, though, Jack!" Marie shakes her head, her dark hair whipping around her head violently, midnight strands catching in the wind. "Gaston, h-he... he was the one. He killed your-"
I flinch. 
lightning strikes the sky; painting the inky darkness in a chaotic mess of spider webs. It stretches across the vast night, lighting up the shadowy streets of kiston. I snuggle deeper into the chair when the thunder soon rolls in, and find myself shivering in not just fear, but the bitter chillness that's creeping through the thin glass windows and penetrating the small room, too. Rain soon joins in. 
I find myself cursing the goddess, Erisca. The very same goddess the people in the village religiously believe in, in hopes that she will keep them safe from the creatures lurking in the forest. Plus, the iron circles hung over their doors and windows; mythed to ward off any danger, or negative energy plaguing someone's soul. 
I, myself, am no exemption from the latter. Anything that'll help me sleep safely at night and take one extra worry off my shoulders — David's, too. 
I place the book down on the small, wooden table before the fire and run a hand across my forehead, my eyes heavy with sleep. 
I'd been up early to head to the bakery — the only one in town, and the only job I'd managed to snag when I turned sixteen last year — and hadn't had much sleep due to the bitter coldness suffocating the cottage in its icy clutches last night. Therefore, I'm now stuck feeling as if my veins have been stuffed with lead, and my brain removed from my head and replaced with a bucketload of oxygen. Although I love the job, I hardly earn a dime, and usually only two bronze coins at the end of the week. Maybe four in the summer when the village's trades have been good, and the people have the money to spare. 
The winter months are the hardest, and the poorest. From the end of October and all the way through to March are mind numbingly tedious, and keep you on your starving toes. Crops have all shrivelled and died due to the cold, and the wagons of supplies that get delivered to the village are always priced astronomically. Besides, we're on the outskirts of the continent, miles beyond civilisation, and a place where the population is so tiny that if we all died from hunger, nobody would notice — or care. 
Lightning strikes a tree outside the window, sounding like giants battling. I release a breath, my heart pounding and blood rushing from my head as nerves build. I used to love storms. Love the sound of chaos and nature clashing in a tangle of fury and rage. But no more. No longer. Not since that night. The night that will be forever ingrained in my mind. Forever written in the blood and sorrow that had filled the air. 
You never quite realise when life's misery's going to creep up on you and strike. It just comes. Without warning. It pulls everything right out from under your feet, leaving you to navigate with the little tools it's left for you; hidden under the guise of something else.
The clock — one of two things that came with us from our old life — chimes in the corner of the room. I sigh. Sleep is something I've always struggled with, and tonight it seems the monster overshadowing my mind is waging a war against the sleep that so desperately wants to come. 

~

The door bangs open. I jump, my head whipping around to watch as David staggers into the cottage. 
"What on earth happened to you?!" I cry, jumping up from the chair and racing towards him.
"Nothing," he groans, grabbing onto the aged table and hauling himself into one of the three chairs carelessly placed around it. 
"It doesn't look like nothing!" I snap.
"Would you drop it?" David growls, irritation leaking into his words. He runs a bruised hand through his hair.
I purse my lips, eyeing his purple, swollen face — specked with dried blood — and creased, wet clothes, stained with a redness that's not wine. 
"We don't have any bandages, they got used up the last time you went hunting and came back with a cut thigh. But let me go get some coins from under the floorboard and I can go get you some new ones."
"You can't," he says, coughing into his hand.
"Of course I can. There might have been a storm last night, but I'm sure I can step around the branches and rubble," I say, already walking towards the floorboard that slowly rests higher then the others, a perfect place for hiding valuable things — not that we have many, though — and where we keep the spare coins we make. I wedge my fingers into the small gap and start to pull it up, my frail arms straining. 
"Dawn, dont-"
It's too late.
The floorboard is already resting on the ground beside me, and my blood is rushing from my face. But not like last night in fear. No. No, this is in shock. In anger. And sadness. This is the feeling you get when you feel your heart drop and blood fall to your feet, as if gravity is suddenly trying to suck it out of your toes. 
The once small hole under the floorboard that had about five bronze coins and our prized only silver one is empty. The pain of early mornings and exhausted limbs in the evenings all for nothing. All gone. 
I look up at David, my face devoid of any emotion as I register what he's done. He's the only other person who knows about it, the hiding place. Not to mention i had put in my last weeks worth last night just before i had sat down to read. He had gone in there last night, too, but i thought it was to put in the little extra he had to spare, not to take it all out. 
"Where have all the coins gone?" I ask him, my voice deathly calm. I look at him over my shoulder, his face sickly pale, a vast contrast against the green and black bruises littering his skin. 
"Dawn..."
"Where are the coins, David?"
"Dawn, I can explain. I promise!" He exclaims, his breath short pants.
"I don't think, to any extent, that an explanation could make me forgive you right now," I whisper. "You took the coins."
"I know. I know! Gods, I know, Dawn!"
"Where is it then? Why are you beat and bloodied?"
His mouth drops open, as if he's about to speak, but he rapidly closes it again. He repeats the action a few more times, and I can see the clogs churning behind his glassy green eyes — trying to figure out the best way to tell me, I presume. 
"I- I got into some trouble," he finally says. "Last summer I took a loan, one where I'd have to pay it back over time."
"That's how you afforded the food and my new boots."
"Yes," he carries on. "But times began to run out and I went last night to find a way to fix the problem."
"Where did you go?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer. I stand from the floor, slotting the floorboard back into place and dusting my hands against the rags I have the audacity to call a dress. 
"The tavern," he sighs.
"You went to gamble?" I look at him like I've never seen him before. And in a way, I haven't. I've never seen this man sat before me before. Or maybe I have, and he's just always been hidden under the mask of my big brother. 
"Yes."
"Go on," I push, folding my arms across my chest and leaning against the rickety kitchen counter, which in theory is just a slab of wood nailed into the wall and about the length of my arm. 
"I won," he says. "But the men I won against weren't from around here. They spoke differently, with a funny accent. An-And they had this look about them that screamed trouble. Danger. I knew they were bad, Dawn. Are bad. But the men I got the loan from aren't nice — possibly even worse. And I can't do that to you. You deserve better."
I click my tongue, cocking my head to the side. "And?"
"And the men found me as I was walking back home and they weren't happy. Th-They took the earnings from the gamble and our money, too."
"And they beat you up, too, because they're sore losers?" 
"Precisely."
I sigh, a throbbing pain pinching between my eyebrows. The anger inside of me just keeps building and building. Growing and growing. It's hungry, and furious with David. How could he be so stupid? 
"How long do you have until you have to pay back the loan?" I ask him. 
He's silent. Quieter than a mouse hiding from its predator. But, I guess he is the mouse in this situation; afraid of me and my reaction. Afraid of the disappointment I'll feel towards him when he finally decides to utter a word. 
"By the twentieth," he finally peeps. 
"Of November?" I ask, but deep down I already know the dreaded answer — the one, in which, I really hope isn't true. 
"No," he winces. "Seventy bronze coins and ten silver are expected to be delivered to Mr. Smith by the twentieth of October."
All is silent. Even the wind has extinguished it's relentless howling. Perhaps Mother Nature is just as nosy to hear what my response is as a wealthy mother is, pestering a young lord for his hand in her daughter's marriage. 
But I don't reply, I can't. What am I supposed to say? We have no money. Nothing. And suddenly we have to find that much in four days? I might as well just accept fate and welcome it with open arms. 
"What's the consequences if you don't have it?" My heart has resumed pounding — not like it ever stopped, though. It just went quiet. Silent as it thrummed blood through my veins violently. But now it's loud. So, so loud. A rhythmic thud and pound drumming in my ears. 
"You."

Being poor sucks. It sometimes feels like having one slice of cake and having to share it out between ten people. 
Then there's beyond poor. This place is in the belly of poverty, where people are searching for any piece of scrap, looking for any means of survival because all they have is dust in their pockets. 
I'm beyond poor. I've literally got dust in my pockets. 
We were doing alright financially. Yes, we weren't the richest. And yes it wasn't much, but it was something. We had saved for months and years, and every penny that didn't get wasted on tax, or food, or a new pair of boots for David because he ripped a pair in his while hunting was stashed away under those floorboards so we may have a chance at a better future. A better life. But it was taken. And that future that was slowly, slowly building under those creaky floorboards was ripped away by my brother, and then by those men. 
I lean down, grabbing David's bow and quiver of arrows and sling them over my shoulder. Swaying slightly from the weight against my frail shoulders. 
"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, looking at me from the worn out chair.
"Something you can't," I side eye him. His face is an ugly shade of black and blue, his left eye swollen shut. The rest of him is no better; his right ankle swollen, his ribs the same grotesque shades as his face, and his wrists have sore hand prints wrapped around them like vines. They probably held him down to get the money and then beat him. Although, he hasn't told me in detail what happened. Either to not worry me, or to save his own pride that is probably the most wounded out of all injuries. 
"I'll go hunting when I'm better, Dawn," he says, "put the bow and arrow down."
"If you hadn't been so busy stealing all of our money, then you'd know there is nothing in the house that's edible. I've checked. A million times."
"Then we'll go hungry till tomorrow."
"I've gone hungry the last two days, I don't think I'll survive till tomorrow. My stomach is turning inside out from trying to eat itself. Now shut up, and let me try and make sure we survive."
I don't give him much chance to reply and just grab my light red cloak — worn out and with a hole at the bottom from where I tripped last winter and it tarred, but warm and does the job right. The door doesn't shut all the way behind me, you usually have to yank it closed the rest of the way, but I don't bother shutting it the rest of the way. Let him feel cold. 
I walk down the small dirt road, and turn right, up into the trees and into a place that may be my only way at finding some kind of meal. I hate it, taking another creature's life, but there's not much I can do. My own survival counts on it, and my stomach demanding food does too. 
And winter is looming, the days harsher and the nights brutal. If I don't have food in me I'll die from hunger and the coldness that penetrates the lands. 
The steep climb up the small mud bank nearly does my legs in, and I grit my teeth at the pull and strain of my muscles. The trees are thick and tall, but nothing like the skeletal monsters that loom outside the cottage at night — a sight that always has my heart pasing faster. Birds tweet and sing amongst themselves and little critters scurry around the leaf blanketed ground. And with the sun slowly warming up my back, I think that maybe this can't be quite so bad. Only if I ignore the fact that I will be, hopefully, walking out of here with one of those critters. 
~
A stream runs through the middle of the earth, clear water flowing down south. I lean down and cup some in my hands, bringing it up to my lips. I've had no luck, and from the position of the sun in the sky I'd say it was about noon. Everything I've seen shuttles away, faster than I am and better at hiding in their habitat. I peer over at the side of the river, rustling coming from the bushes. 
I pause, holding my breath. 
It stops.
Everything is silent. 
Even the birds chirping in the background pause, probably waiting to watch me walk straight into my sudden death. 
But then it comes again. 
I look ahead, seeing a deer walk out from behind the bushes and into a small meadow beyond the suddenly darkened forest.
I stand from my crouched position, my breath still caught in my throat — almost as if a single breath will alert it of my presence. With steady steps, I walk forwards. I'm as quiet as possible, and as careful, too. The water comes up to my ankles, flooding through the small holes at the soles of my boots. It's freezing, and I almost feel as if my toes will drop off my feet and flow into the stream. But I force myself to bite down on any action that could cause a loud splash and force myself through it. 
The streams short, and my feet soon make contact with the mud on the other side. I step onto the bank and walk towards the tree line that's only three feet away, trying not to step on the leaves and branches that carelessly litter the ground. 
The bow and arrows suddenly feel too heavy for my body, as if the quivers have been stuffed with rocks and the arrows made out of solid stone. I shove away the feeling. It's probably just nerves. 
I step behind a tree that's close to the meadow, easy to see and shoot, but not so close that whatever I'm tracking will detect me. 
Carefully breathing out as quietly as possible, I pull an arrow free and knock it into the bow. I check around the tree first, and find it eating at the grass with no care in the world. No inclination that it is about to meet it's sudden death. I force down every and any emotion, and turn back around to lean my head back against the rough bark of the tree. I turn back around, this time the bow and arrow pointed and at the ready. 
And when I'm about to shoot, I stop. 
My breath catches in my throat. 
It's not there. 
I curse.
I bang my head back against the tree, groaning and my stomach rumbling in answer. 
"Shut up," I say to it. 
The wind rushes past me with a ferocious speed that nearly knocks me over, almost as if it's running from something. A wind that makes me take an unsteady step to the right. A sudden feeling drops into the apex of my stomach, an uneasiness that has my skin crawling. I don't move. I don't breathe. I don't even think. 
It's then that I notice the sudden quietness that has dropped over the forest. A shallow stillness that slithers into your veins and strikes before you can scream. I can't hear any sounds, nothing. It's almost as if someone dropped a blanket that's muffling any and all sound. Even the birds have stopped their chirping, the wind has ceased its murmuring, the leafs have stopped their rhythmic shifting against each other; an endless, beating dance that flows through life forever, and the stream has seemed to pause, holding its breath. Everything seems to have darkened, too. And the trees look more skeletal like, skinny and bony. Ashy grey and monstrous. 
I go to move, to run back across the stream, but a branch snapping keeps me stuck in place. A harsh, laboured breath pulses into my ears, sounding like stone scraping against stone. Shards of glass poured down the throat. 
I feel my heart drop to my arse. 
Holding my breath once again, I step back to the tree, hoping it will peel away and cocoon me within it. 
But it doesn't.
And I wait.
Biding my time, waiting to see if I'm to become someone, or something, else's meal. 
But nothing happens. 
No more sounds.
No more rushing wind pushing me further and further away from the left, from the west; where the meadow is.
I wait an extra moment, and when nothing happens, I quickly rush back towards the stream.
The trees dart past me, and the winds pushing at my back, urging me forwards, towards the water and towards home. 
I get one foot deep before I stop, the abruptness causing bones to groan. 
Towards my left lies something gold. Something sparkling in the little sun that manages to peek through the wispy branches. 
"No," I say. "ignore it."
But I can't.
Whatever it is is a beacon — a magnet — that's calling my name, pulling me towards it with a leash that's wrapped tight around my waist. 
'Don't go!' The rational side of my mind speaks.
I take a step towards it.
'Don't go!' It repeats. 
I take another.
And another.
And another. 
All sense of stranger danger, or wariness that once was plaguing my mind only five minute ago seems to have been dragged away when the wind knocked into me. And I can't stop walking towards the glimmering gold until I'm standing before it, and staring right into hazel eyes. 
~
My own reflection stares back at me. My messy dirty blonde hair knotted atop my head, and my skin pale; almost transparent with all the dirt stained on it. It's not me anymore that looks back. It's someone else. A girl that looks frail and exhausted. Hungry and fed up. 
The mirror is small, about the size of both my fists put together in the length and width, and it's adorned with intricate whorls carved in it; smooth and flawless. 
I lean down, cringing at my face close up, and pick it up. It's cold, and is surprisingly light, but I can't help but smile at the beauty of it. It has been ten years since I've seen anything quite as beautiful as this. 
I look around, as if to see if I can find anyone that might have dropped this. 
But why would they bring a mirror like this out into the wilderness when it looks as if it should belong to a lord or lady, or someone who comes from a lot of money, at least?
I find no one. 
But not like I expected to.
The only other people out here would be the village hunters or others who've come hunting for food. 
I bite my lip, waging a war with my conscience on what to do.
No one would know it was me, and no one has to find out. 
Plus, I could try and sell it in the town a couple hours away and get enough money for food and use the rest to put back into the savings under the floorboards. 
Deciding that no one will know, I stuff the mirror under my cloak, and turn away, quickly crossing the stream and heading back home not as empty handed as I thought I would be when I returned.

~

Although people loiter around the dusty streets of the village, it's all quiet. Still. Like I brought the suffocating blanket back with me and cursed the village with the eeriness. 
I clutch the mirror tightly; my fingers aching, ribs bruising from how tightly I hold it to my side. It's like I'm afraid someone can see through my cloak. And as irrational as it sounds, I am. I don't want to make the same mistake David did and get it stolen. 
The walk to the town will take me forever, and it will leave David panicking in till I return later tonight, but for the sake of our survival — and my starving stomach — he'll have to worry, and my poor, aching legs will have to suffer. 
It's colder here; the sun facing away from the village, casting it in shadows and darkness. Cold and endless heartbeats of silentness. 
Wind batters against my face, and my messy hair whips my skin, harshly. 
The soundless village begins to get too much, and the cho of quiet in my ears begins to give me a headache. But then it all stops, and a break through of shouts and yells pierces the air. 
It's like I've been pulled out of water, my head out of the airiness and again around normality. Reality. And the sounds. The sounds are by two men shouting in an alley, stuck between two buildings: the bakery I work at, and the only post office in a long while. 
I pause, curiosity biting at my heels and urging me closer, to listen and take a short break before the long journey ahead of me. It's probably a terrible idea, and I'd be screaming at whoever was about to do this to turn away, that it's one step away from a long walk to the flickering flame filled dungeons of hell. 
It's a dumb idea, but I've never once claimed to be smart. 
The alley is dark, the gloomy sky adding extra shadows to the already blackness nipping at the edges. 
Two men face each other, one dressed in a fashion that screams, 'I have money, and arrogance, and power!' Plus a cane, one of which has a gold handle that looks rather authentic. Probably not the best thing to be wearing and showing off when you're walking through a village on the verge of murdering each other for food. The other wears a worn out white tunic, crumpled trousers with shoes that look as if they've seen better days, and his hands are covered in coal, fingernails stained in the darkness of it. 
The man dressed in the peacock jacket and tailored trousers waves his hands around, angrily. If it wasn't so dark I'd be almost certain that his face would be red, and spit flying from his mouth with how vigorously his lips move in a harsh manner. 
The other man seems to be taking it all, however. His posture calm and collected, yet his shoulders are tense, almost as if he's preparing himself to dodge a whack of the cane the other man holds. 
I lean into the rough brick wall, the edginess to it biting into my bony shoulder. I strain my hearing to try and hear what's going on, but there's nothing. Nothing at all. As if their words are being snatched away from the wind and carried away. 
The man covered in coal turns to the side slightly, releasing a breath of frustration, and I pause. 
Brown hair.
Broad Roman nose.
And... and the same mole on his jaw.
Fred?

~
What in Satan's holy grail is he doing here? With... with him.
Fred is a boy that has been a chaser his whole life. 
And, as a chaser does it's chasing, he sets his sights on a poor, poor soul and does what he does best.
I am that poor, poor soul, and he's been chasing me since he saw me take a dip in the lake last summer when the weather was swelteringly hot. 
The boy doesn't give up, and he's always hated the rich. For what reason I don't know, possibly from jealousy, though.
So, again, that leaves the question. Why is he in an alley with a man that looks as if he's just walked out from a royal palace with a princess's hand in marriage. And why is the man yelling at him in a way that makes him look like he's about to throttle Fred and then break both of his legs with his golden tipped cane. 
Although I have so many questions, I know I should leave now, especially before one of them spots me. God forbid Fred sees me. He'll take it as a sign that I'm stalking him... interested in him. He takes mix signals very seriously. I say one thing, and he'll think the total opposite. For example, "leave me alone," is taken as playing hard to get. When in reality, it means leave me the fuck alone before I punch your lights out and bury you at the bottom of the lake that started this whole mess. 
But, could I get leverage that would get him to leave me alone? He doesn't have to know it was me who saw him, I could say I overheard people. 
I chow down on my bottom lip. So many thoughts and so many internal questions that could lead me down a long, treacherous route of mental agony if I take one step off course. 
I take another look around the corner, curling my hand into a fist as I spot the workers' back entrance into the bakery. The old, wooden door is nearly falling off its rusted hinges, but it would hide me from their sight, and theirs from mine, but it would allow me to listen in and get the leverage I need, and so desperately want.
Going to the town will have to wait ten minutes, my freedom from the stalker is pushing to the forefront of my priorities. 
I tip toes round, careful to not disturb the silence that penetrates the place, even if the rich man seems to be quietly bellowing at Fred. 
I do the same thing I've been doing all day, and creep silently forwards. The old door seems further away than I originally thought, and all breath is caught tightly in my lungs. It would be my luck to get caught, and perhaps this makes me as stupid as David, and quite literally a hypocrite. He didn't spy, but he got himself beaten and was the cause of the loss of all our money. So I guess stupid just runs in the family. 
Fred and cane man — as he's now formally known as — carry on engaging in their conversation, one that looks as if its building and building as the seconds tick by, and I'm so desperately hoping I'm able to hear them when the climax hits. 
Cane man waves his cane off the ground, waving it in the air twice, and then slams it down onto the dirt ground. Fred doesn't show much of a reaction, not one at all, actually. It's like he's been taken from his body and the other man is just yelling at a blank wall. 
I peer my head closer to the crumbling wall blocking me from their sight, straining my ears to hear them, and thankfully, their quiet voices come to light. 
"Am I completely mistaken, but didn't you say you have it?" The cane man growls, his quiet, but at the same time loud, voice rumbling off the walls.
Fred's silent for a heart beat before replying, "it got away."
"It got away?" The other man coughs a laugh, one that doesn't sound all that full of humour. 
He stops. 
His laughter ceases, and the quietness that penetrates the air is spine shatteringly frightening. 
Soon, he responds. 
"Find it."
"Yes." Is all Fred says in return. 
The man barges past Fred, shoulders butting together roughly. He marches towards where I stand, and I quickly duck behind a bin barely big enough to conceal me from view. I hold my breath — again — and watch through the small space between the deteriorating wall and rotten, wood of the bin. I go to loosen the breath when it seems that he's going to walk straight past, never knowing I heard the tail end of his conversation with Fred — who doesn't really seem all like Fred — but he doesn't. He stops and looks over his left shoulder. The top half of his face is hidden behind the shadows of his top hat, but his mouth isn't. His top lip is pulled back in a look that resembles a snarl, but with no noise, and teeth that slightly wonky flash in the grey light. 
My hands suddenly turn clammy, and my heart starts racing in my chest. I knew this was a bad idea, and now I'm just like my idiot of a brother. I'm the idiot. 
He stares for a second. For two. And then turns, jaw clenched and hand wrapped tightly around the golden handle of his cane. Strange. Completely unexpected. I'm surprised he didn't sniff me out like a hunting dog. 
He walks away, slowly disappearing around the bend of the small alley.
I bring my attention back to Fred, but he's not there. Gone. Disparaged into dust, or turned transparent, who knows. 
I don't care anymore. His business is his business, and I didn't get anything out of that conversion anyways. It was a waste of time, something I'm soon not going to have much left of today. With the walk to the next town over being a long one, and with the unnecessary time i just spent here playing spy, I'd be lucky if i got there before night fall, and that' not including the fac I'd need to sleep somewhere, and the place to even trade the mirror in for money would be shut. 
And as much as i keep telling myself that this was all stupid, that i shouldn't even be interested when i dont want to, nor really do, care just feels like a teensy weeny lie. Especially when I spot the white powder and black goo on the floor just where Fred was once standing

~

It's slimy; thick and slippery, like tar. Cold, too. It hangs off from the thin stick I hold — poking at the substance — and spider webs through the air, half stuck to the ground, but trying desperately to rip the stick from my hand and smother it in its suffocating darkness. It doesn't hold a specific scent, not one you'd immediately notice, anyways. It's more of a dampness, one that's musty — almost like mould. 
I glare at it, lips pursed in concentration. 
Where did it come from? 
I drop the stick, fingers curling at my side. Can people suddenly disappear into thin air now and leave behind weird black goo? Or am I completely imagining this? Whatever it is, I find a chill of unease crawling down my spine like fingers of the dead. I shouldn't care where Fred has gone, he's not my problem, nor is he my priority, but I can't help but feel unease swell in my chest. I push it down. I'm not a terrible person, that's why I'm slightly 
concerned. There's no other way he could have gone but the way the rich, cane man went. The other end of the alley is bricked — although severely crumbling — tall, and as far as I know, there's no other doors he could have exited from. But who's to say there aren't? A good portion — if not all — of the alley is shrouded in darkness and ghostly shadows that feel as if they're staring back at you. 
I brace my hands against my thighs as I go to stand, my knees clicking, but I stop when something cold drops onto my cloak covered shoulder. I wrinkle my nose, fully prepared to see bird faeces, but instead, the goo drops down my arm. 
I stop mid way, my right hand reaching out to rest against the ground to steady myself. It happens again, this time landing an inch from my pinkie finger. 
It's coming from above, dripping from something attached between the two roofs of the buildings. 
I stand up, my head shooting to look to the sky. Nothing. Nothing but the shallow plank that connects the bakery to the post office. I step back, my foot connecting with the goo. 
I look down, muttering lowly, "gross."
I lift my boot up, the weird substance making the movement harder than it should be. It's like someone's dug a hole, placed my foot in there, and filled it back up again with every and all heavy natural resources to stop me from getting it back out again. 
I move my foot, placing it on the ground next to the goo and pushing down hard while also scrapping the shoe against the ground. The goo finally lets go, but leaves a large chunk behind. 
The plank above creaks.
And this time, when I look up, two endless, pure black eyes stare back at me.
With hunger. 

A long, fork tipped, black tongue slithers out of its mouth; dagger sharp teeth, the length of my pinkie finger, gleam under the foggy light. A sound, that's not really sound, falls from my lips. My hands shake, knees shatter, and bones rock under my skin. 
With hands the darkest of night, it grips the edge of the plank, and muscles turn taunt along the length of its arms. Within a matter of seconds, it launches its body off the wood and tumbles in a blur to the floor, landing without a noise, and I nearly cry out in fear at the mere look at its body. It looks as if it's walked out of a child's deepest, darkest nightmares and manifested itself into reality. 
With a lean body, one of the deepest shades of shadows, it prowls forwards; skin glittered with stars. My own frightened reflection stares back at me through its eyes. It saunters forwards, walking on all fours. It moves like a cat, lithe on its feet. Black goo tipped claws scrap against the ground. Claws I don't think anyone would want to be on the receiving end, yet here I am. I can feel every nerve in my body quaking, very muscle contracting — ready to react with the fight or flight response in me that's quickly rearing its head. It takes another step, claws dragging like nails against a chalkboard, and cocks its head to the side; a predator calculating its prey. 
I take another step back, and it takes one closer. Inching across the earth. Closer and closer.
No words, or sound, pass by my lips. It's like they've been logged in my throat, caught by a fist and ripped away. 
The creature rear back its head, jaws opening and tongue flicking out to lick the saliva coated fangs. I take that opportunity, and pivot on my foot, sprinting away. 
I don't get far. 
The same black goo that was on the floor spits out and tangles around my ankles, sending me crashing to the floor. It wasn't looking up to see the sky. No, it was gathering whatever this is and readying itself to shoot it at me. 
Like a spider capturing a fly, it knew I would take the bate and run. I had walked, well ran, straight into a trap. I yell as I fall. The cloak tangles around my legs, hair smacking me in the face from the landing. 
"Help!" I scream. But no one comes running, no one even comes to investigate my yell. 
All sound suctioned away. 
I flip over, legs crossed over the other, hands twisted at awkward angles, but I don't care. How can I when I'm literally about to die?
I whimper, watching as it crawls forward. Slowly. Menacingly. Tauntingly. I never imagined I would be killed by a demon creature. I always thought it would be due to living in poverty. I expected something far less dramatic, like: starvation, freezing to death; the cottage finally crumbling to nothing but splinters and squashing me in the process. 
But this? Something that's walked out of the religion many believe in. Believed to have terrorised people, killed humans in their sleep, slain lands and kingdoms. Domains gone, life stock wiped out, civilization burnt to ash. 
That's all going on that this is the same creature. This shouldn't even exist — that I never even thought existed. As far as i know, no doors to hell were opened recently.
It reaches out a hand, long fingers wrapping around my ankle. A bone white chill races through my entire body. It's so cold. Freezing. Like ice fire, burning through my flesh. I dig my fingers into the ground, the dirt road gathering under my nails. It's claws dig into my flesh, creating puncture wounds that immediately come to life, busting with pain. I scream, looking down. It's mouth, lined with very thin black lips, stretches into a smile. My heart drops. My soul breaks free from my chest and runs away — not wanting to witness the event that's about to take place. I don't even want to witness what's about to happen. 
The claws dig in. They stretch in deeper, like it's trying to dig out my bone. The goo, that covers a good fraction of its body, drips from it and onto my leg, slowly seeping into the wounds. Into my body. It burns. Acid mixed with lava. Hell and darkness wrapped in a tight bundle and shoved under my skin. 
I reach out a hand, reading blindingly for anything that will suddenly appear, something I can use to give myself any chance at survival. Amongst leaves that have been blown there, and a pile of kicked up earth, my finger wraps around something sharp, and pointy. I retch my arm up and down, slicing whatever it is down into the creature's hand. It lets go with a screech, ripping its hand back. I look up, seeing a shard of glass sticking through its inky skin. Blood the colour of steel leaks from the slash I made, trickling down to the ground. Steam rises from where it hits the ground, a high pitched sound tickling my ears. The blood... it just burnt through the earth and left a hole the size of an acorn in its wake. I gulp, trying to shuffle backwards. I can't. I really am a fly stuck in this spider's web. 
The head that will be subject to all future nightmares I have flies up, a snarl twisting at its mouth, eyes thinning into tiny slits. There's nothing I can do as it prowls towards me once again, anger and hunger humming in the heavy air. The glass is gone, and there's nothing left. It leans back on its haunches and seems to vibrate, the cat-like body shaking with anticipation. 
It strikes. Leaping through the air, arms and claws outstretched at the ready, and jaws already wide open, it shoots towards me like an arrow. Piercing, sharp and ready. 
"Stop!" I scream, although I know it won't. It's a hunter, it won't give up on its prey once its beady eyes have already set on it, and I'm already drowning in them. 
I throw my arms up over my face, my body falling to the ground in an attempt to make myself as small as possible. It's a useless act. What could my meatless, weak arms do against claws that were designed to shred through flesh? 
But the strike never comes. 
And when I open my arms, I'm not looking up at the towering, gold gates of heaven. 
The creature shrikes, crying out and hissing at me in a mixed synchronisation. The black as ink skin starts to vanish, fading into a charcoal grey, and soon a pale white, before diminishing. The creature disintegrates into ash. 
A faint white light blooms through the shadows, slowly dissolving — being eaten away by the dark. I look down, my lungs contracting from the breath I suddenly suck in. 
The pocket in my cloak is glowing. My skin is pulsing. My heart is thundering. And... and there's this strange light stirring under my flesh. 
The goo disappears, melting into liquid and sinking into the dirt road, and my wounds stitch together; the skin threading itself into one piece. No mark. No evidence. No sound. 
Gone, like magic. 
I exhale the breath I was holding, my whole body feeling airy. Shock. I'm in shock. I pull back my cloak with shaky hands and pull the mirror out, the glass illuminated in a white light that has my already pale hands paler. 
It can't be.
Magic doesn't exist, nor do demons. 
I push it all away, blinking my eyes rapidly. And when I open them, the light is gone and the mirror is just a normal, not glowing, mirror. It was my imagination, I decide. Shock does wonders — or not wonders, I suppose — to a frightened mind.

The rain patters off the roof; my small, cold room freezing from the sudden temperature drop. It filters through a gap in the moulded wood of the ceiling, and makes the floor soaked. I lay there, shivering under my blanket. Completely and utterly frozen to the bone. The only good thing that the cold does is keep the amity at bay. The uncertainty that what I witnessed earlier was actually real. I don't want to think about it, because the second I do I'll begin to hyperventilate.
I never did end up walking to the town, too shaken up from the events that took place. But, can you blame me? I'm pretty sure it's a basic human reaction to be in shock, and terrified, to be honest, from something that's unnatural and shouldn't even exist. 
My fingers shake as I lift them up to grip the edge of the blanket and pull it down, slowly sitting up. The rooms's dark, except for the light that filters through the hole above, and shadows dance around me. I stand, grabbing the small pillow I was just resting against, and push it up into the crack in the wood — stopping the rain... for now, at least. I lay back down, huffing from the uncomfortableness. The rain picks up a notch. Thunder rumbles through-out the skies. David... David is snoring louder than them both combined. 
"Shut up," I grumble. How he can sleep through heaven and hell colliding, I don't know. I roll onto my side, my ribs already groaning. Cramp. I'll have a cramp in the morning. 
I stare at the wooden wall in front of me, my eyes having adjusted to the dark. I stretch my hand out with a sigh, running my finger along the roughness of it. It reminds me of lizard skin. Not that I've actually seen, or felt, a lizard since David and I moved to this continent ten years ago. I'll never forget the day the tiny, light green thing scuttled into the garden room back in Ruloled — our birthplace. It had a long body, and short legs, and its head reminded me of an acorn in size. It had come in to escape the heat, as the day was sweltering, and the garden room was airy and cool, and I managed to pick it up, it's rough, hard skin immediately fascinating me. 
A piece of wood pricking my finger brings me from my thoughts with as much unwelcomeness as the cold of tonight does. I flinch back, bringing my finger to my face to inspect the short and thin splinter sticking out from my skin. 
"Bloody bastard," I curse. I stick my finger in my mouth, sucking to try and get the splinter out. The metallic taste of my blood penetrates my taste buds almost immediately. 
I bring it out, trying to see if the splinter is still inside the wound, but it's too dark. Too many shadows. And my eyes aren't that adjusted. In the corner of my eye I spot the mirror and reach to grab it, also standing to pull the pillow out long enough for me to use the moon as a light. I groan as the water filters through the gap ten fold. I sit down on the ground with both legs bunched up to my chest, the mirror squished between my chest and knees. I tilt it ever so slightly to catch the moon's reflection and watch as it appears brighter on the wall in front of me. Lifting my hand up, I examine the cut, not noticing the drops of blood now absorbing into the mirror. 

~

I run, my legs pumping faster than they ever have before. My heart races even faster, and a thick layer of sweat coats my skin. My footsteps thunder against the hard earth, but the ones behind me are louder, are heavier; more viscous. 
If I die here, now, then I'll know I died doing something that can bring them closer to the answers we all need. Die a hero for every living being that will suffer at the hands of the wizard. Maybe now they'll have a fighting chance to draft him, if only I can get to the river's edge and lob the scroll across the boundary line. His hounds chase me, creatures of night and death, nightmares and horror. They're fast and catching up, and my human body can't take my longer. 
I push past the brush, leaves and branches snapping back to hit my face, but I don't care. I don't care that my ribs are bruised and probably shattered in places. I don't care that my body is fatigued and starved. I don't care that I'm a bloody, tortured mess. I don't care. Adrenalin does wonders to a body that's broken. 
My feet stumble down the steep path, my ankles threatening to give out under me, but I can hear the rushing currents, and that's all that matters. The four legged creatures have the advantage with gravity working with them, my two weak legs can barely withstand the weight as it tries to drag me down. They close in, the six of them spreading out to try and herd me; two going off to the left, two to the right, and two hunting me down. 
I reach the waters edge.
I throw the scroll.
And I fall into the suffocating currents that promise a nicer death than one by the hands of the wizards beasts.

~

I wake with a gasp, my lungs burning. Although it was a dream, it felt too real for my comfort. Way too real. 
As my eyes reluctantly drift closed for the second time this evening, I swear I can hear the water's pulsing silence dragging me back down to the river bed. 

~

My body feels like a bag. A bag of bones. Everything aches, and my nose is runny. I hate winters. I hate the cold. And I hate being poor and feeling my body waste away. I'm surprised I even made it through the night with how starving I am. I know I can't continue on like this. Sooner or later I'll drop dead from fatigue and hunger. 
I push my bedroom door open, walking out into the small area that is the poor excuse of a kitchen and one falling apart chair. David sits on said chair, looking extremely sorry for himself. 
I sneeze, alerting him of my presence. I'm surprised he didn't notice me sooner from the grinding of the door, or many he did and chose not to pay attention. He looks up to me, dark rings around his eyes and making his already black eyes ten times darker. I look at him for a second and then look away, sighing as my stomach rumbles. 
Loudly. 
"That's your fault," I say.
He's quiet for a moment, and then responds. "I know, Dawn." 
I don't reply, but I don't leave the room either and instead sit down on the cold floor, wrapping myself in the spare blanket that we managed to bring with us when we moved here. 
Before long, he says: "I need to find a solution, and fast."
"To Mr. Smith?" 
"Yes," he sighs. I don't think I've ever seen him look so exhausted before. So... so lost. His eyes have a far away look in them, a glazed one that suggests he's not fully here. Half of his mind — or soul — is searching in another place. "We're slowly, but surely running out of time. And I know you're angry and upset with me, Dawn. Gods, I know. But I can't stand you hating me. I know I've let you down. I know I've fucked up. But I won't let him take you. I won't lose you too!"
I look up to him, really look at him, and there's a new awareness on his face, in his eyes, that's suddenly been sucked into him in a matter of seconds. A shock of what he's done and the consequences that could soon be coming if the price of what he's down is not paid. 
"I know," I say. And that's all. A part of me wants to scream at him, again. To yell that it's his fault that we're starving. It's his fault I could be taken to gods knows where, to be with gods knows who if Mr. Smith decides to do whatever he pleases. It's his fault that he fucked up and it's his fault that he could lose me, and I him. 
But I don't say any of this; I can't bring myself to. 
I know he acted out of desperation when he started the gambling, wanting to get us back in a position we were ten years ago. To not live in fear of death nipping at our toes. Or hunger roaring in our stomachs. Or to sleep on cold, damp mattresses that are half moth eaten. But his acts of hero have cost him. I just want to hear it from him explain why. Why did he even agree to use me as payment if he knew there was the chance he couldn't pay everything back. 
"Why?" I ask him. He looks to me again, taking his eyes away from the empty fire. "Why would you agree to give me to Mr. Smith if there was a possibility you wouldn't be able to pay him back?" 
"I didn't think it would get to this. I was cocky, and stupid and so, so selfish. But I was convinced I could invest into businesses in the town — that's why I went there for three days — and build our finances, put more away into hiding, get more so we could move out of this dump, Dawn. We were born into a family that was as rich as kings and queens and it was all stolen, all lost. I wanted to give you back that life. But I was rejected by them all," he pauses, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath — as if to brace himself for whatever he's about to say next. "So I turned to gambling. It became addicting, and competitive. And I found it hard to stop. I found that I... I didn't want to. So I didn't. I wouldn't put as many coins as I used to in our savings, and instead used it on gambling. But—but then it was a big night, and there was the opportunity to win enough money to get us out of here. I just had to contribute enough money to even enter. So I did, and I won. And... and you know what happened next." 
I bit my lip. I bit it not to stop myself from saying something that will upset him, but to stop myself from crying. To stop myself from saying something I'll regret later. Even if I do feel as if he deserves every nasty thing I have to say. 
He had good intentions, but got blinded by greed and lust for money. He was looking out for us, he wanted to save us from this life. An old, rich voice says by my ear, in a voice unheard by David, by the wind, by everything. A voice that's in my head, but not my own. A voice that says 'us,' but there isn't an us. I'm tired. And apparently hearing things. 
"Say something, please," he begs. Desperation shines in his eyes, shines brighter than my reflection in the ancient looking mirror I found. A part of me doesn't care, is too upset with him. The rational part is slowly losing the war with the other, and betrayal is the strongest emotion that presses heavily in my heart. 
"I don't know what to say," I tell him. My body is too exhausted, too hungry, too drained, too in shock from all the events of yesterday, and I can't bring myself to voice any of my inner thoughts. It's nothing he has probably thought of himself, or felt, I assume. 
"There must be something!" He presses. "Shout and scream again like you did yesterday! Do something that shows you are actually hearing what I'm telling you! React normally and hate me!" 
"No, I'm tired. You've exhausted me." 
He's quiet and so am I. The only sounds being the wind shaking the door and rattling the thin windows. 
He breaks the silence after a few moments, "I wish we had the money. I wish we weren't starving. I wish I was a better brother and hadn't failed you." 
"Me too."

There's a blurriness in my head as I navigate my way through the old bakery, my time here nearly done for the day. The sweet aroma of bread fills the air and I find my stomach rumbling. I'd finally eaten something today, although a small piece, it's enough to keep my small stomach occupied. I snuck it off the side earlier, definitely stealing, and quite possibly jeopardizing my job if Miss May found out, but it was in need of survival. I felt myself going faint. I haven't had the chance to walk to the town, as Jon comes first and today just so happens to be when I get my small weeks worth of pay.
Miss May calls from the back, "Once you've put those out you can leave, you're not needed here until I call for you. Your two coins are on the counter behind the small display cabinet." 
I purse my lips, dread settling into my belly. Who knows when she'll next call. It could be days. 
Miss May is a tough lady with a round body and greying hair, a few missing teeth and a wrinkly face, many people find her frightening. I can't say I'm not the slightest bit afraid of her either, especially when she yells and her face scrunches up in anger. 
I can't blame her. 
A woman owning her own bakery is a vast achievement, and in order for her to keep it she must have had to insert authority somehow. I guess she turned to intimidating her customers and people that lurk by. It doesn't stop them from buying. Even with the very small amount of money the village has, Miss May's bread and occasional sweet treats — when the ingredients are rich and flowing through town — are always something everyone wants. 
"Alright, Thankyou!" I shout back, quickly placing the tray down under the glass cabinet and snatching my coins off the side. 
I leave without another word, wrapping my cloak tightly around my thin body. I stop at the local market and pay for a bag of apples and some jerky, my two coins being used as quickly as I got them. But hopefully I'll have more money the second I can sell that mirror. 
I make my way home, my body feeling extra sluggish. I almost don't want to walk to the neighbouring town, but I know I must. I have to. 
There's no 'ifs' or 'buts' about it. 
The cottage comes into view, vines and ivy creeping up the side of the wood like a net of spider webs, and overgrown bushes vastly getting out of control. It never once looked like this, but due to nature and the fact that David and I know nothing of keeping it all maintained, the cottage has slowly succumbed to the forces of Mother Nature and is snuggly tucked away between three towering oak trees and uncontrollable brush. 
I push the door open, shrugging off my cloak and boots as I step through the threshold. I pause almost immediately. It's warm. Too warm compared to the bitter wind and iciness of today. And then there's a pop and a crackle, like when I click my fingers, and the howl of air pushing through flames. My head snaps to the left, staring in awe — and anxiety — at the fire currently flickering with life in the slowly disintegrating fireplace — something that's probably older than my grandmother's grandmother. David sits in the only chair, staring at it with a wide smile, fingers ringed together, hands clasped tight. 
"Wh-What is this?" I ask him. He turns to me, eyes bright with an awareness that seems ghostly like happiness as he stares into my own cautious ones. 
"You'll never believe what happened!" He exclaims, leaping up from the chair, too fast for someone who's leg looks crippled and mangy. I don't have time to reply, or ask any more questions, because he's already firing all the answers at me. "Someone came by today, saying that all our family money that was stolen ten years ago in the fire has been found." 
Shock races through my bloodstream, colder than the weather outside. I open my mouth to tell him that he's being insane, it was stolen, taken while our house went up in flames and parents burned along with it, but he, again, beats me to it. 
"The letters legit, Dawn. The old bank details, slightly smaller figures, same wax stamp, everything. And Mr. Greggery signed it, too. You remember him, right? He was dad's banker, his old friend!" 
Where was dad's old friend when we were cast away because we were orphans and had nothing but the clothes on our backs? 
"The money's ours, Dawn!" 
I force a smile, feeling genuinely happy, but it's almost too good to be true. "I thought most of it got burnt in the fire? There shouldn't have been much the thieves could have stolen in the time they had," I say. 
"Obviously not. Whoever set the house on fire must have smuggled a good portion out. But none of that matters. We're leaving before mid afternoon. We're leaving this dump, Dawn. I promised you I would find a way to fix this mess, and this is our way!"

~

Tall ceilings. Diamanté chandeliers. Two grand stairways up to the second floor. Marble flooring, mirrors, vases, maids. My eyes unfocus and refocus as I stare at it all, the same feeling from earlier at the bakery returning. Money. This all screams money, which I thought was lost, but has been found. It's already decorated — already designed to replicate what our old home looked like. I feel my heart pound, a fist clutching it and trying to pull it up my throat. 
It's warm, and I can't see a single fire in sight. 
Luckily. 
I was relieved when we occasionally had one in the cottage, because the fear of fire was easy to forget when you had death watching over your shoulder like a cold shadow. But in a house that looks exactly like the house i grew up in — but is not, as that one is in cinders — i am not sure how i will cope. Or at any given moment when I'm forced to be confronted by fire now that I wasn't threatened with the possibility of dropping dead though the winter. I could block it out then, but being here, in this place that is home but really isn't, is digging up memories that I thought had long been buried away. 
I walk past the foyer, down a corridor that splits out into a fork, one door way going left and the other right. I move blindly, the feeling of the mirror snug to my side under my clock a surprisingly cool and welcome feeling. It was one of the only things I managed to bring from the cottage. The only thing. David didn't want any reminders of that life and prohibited me from taking anything. He doesn't know about the mirror, obviously, so he thinks I abided by that rule. Even the old blanket that I've had since I was a little girl, and the only thing I managed to snatch away with me the night we had to flee ten years ago, was left there. Knowing i'll never get to see it, or feel it, again hurts, and as strange as it sounds, I almost feel like mourning it. 
I soon find that the left leads to the kitchens, a vast room that smells of rich spices and a tinge of something sweet. Three maids bustle around the room, and I quickly step backwards and around the corner before they can spot me. I'd rather not have any awkward conversations right now, or have food shoved down my throat. I move towards the right and come across a sitting room, a fireplace in the corner that crackles with flames. I flinch, but try to ignore every and all ugly emotions that threaten to rear their heads. However, two people sitting in pale floral, and expensive looking, armchairs catch my attention, and I drown out the fire's wicked whispers as I watch them with curiosity. 
David and Mr. Greggery. 
David and Mr. Greggery drinking whisky.
And laughing. 
David is acting completely normal. Acting as if nothing in our past ever happened. That our parents didn't die and dads supposed best friend didn't turn his back on two young kids. That we weren't left to fend for our lives and live a life of poverty. 
David and Mr. Greggery act as if none of that happened, and are suddenly the best of friends. Conversing over whiskey and interacting as if this is just any other day, and not ten years since we last saw the man. Mr. Greggery turns his head, spotting me by the door. A smile slithers onto his lips, and I feel my shoulders tense.
"Ah, Dawn. It's you! Come here, let me look at you!" His voice is the same, he's the same to some extent, not including the wrinkles now marking his skin and the crows feet by his eyes. It's him, but it's not. 
I roll my bottom lip into my mouth, not moving a muscle. The smile on his face never drops, but he does clench his hand in a come here movement. I look at David, and he nods a hard look on his face. His eyes are stony, glazed over from the whiskey he's been drinking. I roll my wrist and take a step forward, and another and another after that, until I'm standing in front of the ageing man with my heart jumping a few beats in fear, but what do I have to fear from him? An electric shock goes through my skin as he reaches for my wrist, and I jump backwards from the feeling. He laughs, a sound that echoes throughout the room. 
"You won't even give me a hug after all this time?" He asks.
"I'm sorry, I don't like being touched," I say. 
"Not even a hug for your dear old uncle?" 
Where was my dear old uncle when I was nearly dying from hunger and starvation? is what i want to say. 
"Dawn!" David snaps, his voice low and dripping with warning. I look at him and he sends me a look that I've never seen before. "Don't be rude."
"No, it's fine, David. I'll respect her boundaries."
David shoots me a look of disappointment, and I bow my head as I step away, walking back to the door with slow steps. 
"Now," Mr. Greggery says. "Why don't we talk about the investments?"
I stop, freeing in place like I've been turned into an ice block. I turn back around, asking, "What investments?" 
They both turn to me, Mr. Greggery replies before David can even open his mouth. "Nothing, this is no place for a girl. Why don't you go get settled into your old bedroom, or help the maids, huh?" 
"What investments, David?" I ask slowly, my jaw clenched. 
He sighs, "Nothing, Dawn. I promise. Go to your old bedroom." 
I glare and spin back around, my hands balled tight into fists. Just as I step out of the room, I turn back quickly to say, "That room isn't my old bedroom. That room burned when our house was set alight. Stop trying to make this place into something that it can, and will, never be." 
I turn back away, my heart in my throat. I get four steps into the hallway before I hear David say to Mr. Greggery, "I'm so sorry about her, sir. I have no idea what's gotten into her."
Mr. Greggery responds, "No, no. Don't worry about it, David, I completely understand. She probably just doesn't remember me, it has been ten years."
"That doesn't give her the right to be rude, she's just acting spoiled. I'll have words with her later, I promise."
I don't hear the rest as I march away, hurt simmering and churning in my blood.

~

The sound of a wooden door slowly shutting closed brings me from my slumber. I blink awake, turning over slowly to see a tanned skin maid walking across my room and pulling the heavy curtains open, vicious morning sunlight streaming into the room and blinding my sore eyes. She turns the silver handle and opens the window, cool air streaming into the stuffy room. 
Dust dances in the light. 
She turns to me, her old face wrinkled and greying hair wispy around her face. She gives me a small smile, but she doesn't acknowledge me any further, or say anything, and nor do I. However, when she starts tugging the duvet off my legs, I finally utter words. 
"Hey!" I say, my voice hoarse. I grab at the edges of the cover, my skin prickled with sudden goosebumps. 
"Mr. Hudson said to wake you," she finally says. "You are to meet with the young ladies of other wealthy families for brunch. And a ball is being thrown tonight in honour of your return, you must be up and ready for both events."
Of course David sent for me to be up at this god awful time. 
"I can dress myself," I tell her, hugging the duvet around my waist. 
"That won't be necessary. Mr. Hudson has specifically chosen what you must wear today to meet with the other wealthy daughters." 
"Other wealthy daughters? Is he making me make friends?" 
"Quite possibly, miss."
I glare at the duvet. In the matter of twenty four hours he's changed drastically. He's acting as if we were never cast away from this life, that he's been doing this since forever. He's different. 
But... but maybe he's not. Maybe this is who David really is and the poverty cast a gloomy shadow over him to hide these characteristics. He had to look after me when we were poor, because, well... we were poor. But now that we have money, and he doesn't have to search and grovel and be at the very bottom of the human power chain, he can take a step back and play the tyrant. He can order people around as he wishes and have them do his bidding while he makes business deals and drinks whiskey with men twice his age, pretending to be best friends. Perhaps I can play along, make these friends and act as if this is our normal life. That having maids and living in a huge, fancy home is normal — even if I do feel as if I'm walking around on eggshells, waiting for the rug to be ripped out from beneath me.  
I push the duvet back, slipping my feet out from underneath it and sliding my feet down onto the freezing, wooden floor. "Let's get this day over with, shall we?" 
"Yes, miss."

~

She makes me hold onto the bed post as she pulls the strings of the corset. The dress David picked out for me makes me want to crawl in a hole and die. I don't think I've ever seen anything so atrocious in my life. Pale green in colour with light lilac flowers decorating it in a floral pattern. My knuckles are turning a yellowy white from the grip I have on the wood, and I swear my ribs are about to snap off in half. 
"Almost done, miss," the maid says.
I peer over my shoulder to her, my hair draping over my face. "Whoever invented these god awful things deserve to be shot," I say. 
She chuckles, tying the strings into a bow at the back. She grabs the skirt from the bed and makes me step into it, ignoring my near silent complaints. 
Five minutes later and I find myself staring into a mirror, my lips pursed at the sight of myself. I look like one of the things I hate. I look like one of the rich girls that have nothing better to do than gossip about the lesser and their friends, too. Social climbing brats. Their mothers, aswell. Their priorities are on finding the best suitor for their daughters, and will do anything to get the man that will bring the most fortune to their family name. 
"You're all ready, miss," the maid says.
"Please, call me Dawn," I tell her. "And you are...?"
"Jane, mis—I mean Dawn, ma'am." 
I give her a smile, "it's lovely to meet you, Jane. Thank you for...uh, helping me get into this dress. Although, I shall have words with my brother over this particular pattern." She laughs and nods her head in what I assume is understanding. In this light she looks beautiful, with crows feet by her eyes signifying happy years of smiling, and tan skin that almost looks like the purest gold. I go to leave the room, but her voice causes my hand to pause against the handle.
"Listen when you go to the brunch with the young ladies, Dawn. Don't reveal much about yourself. Anything can be used as arsenal."
"Thank you, Jane."
The carriage ride is beyond boring, and by the time it stops, I find myself loosening a breath I hadn't realised was caught in my throat. 
I'm not nervous. The only thing that sets my nerves squealing in unease is the fact that the girls are like vultures, circling their prey and baiting their time to strike. I'm the dead carcass they will be circling, and they're just waiting to get a bite at my side. 
The door swings open and the coachman stands before me, one hand behind his back as he holds a hand out to me, to help me down. I bite my tongue so I don't tell him I don't need the help, but David told me to play nice, and I'm not sure snapping at his coachman will go down awfully well. So I suck it up and slide my hand into the middle aged, skinny man's hand and climb out of the carriage. 
I take in the scenery, my eyes darting from the ancient looking stone pillars, to the black iron gates hanging just after the stairs and to the gardens looming beyond them. Vibrant hedges, cobblestone pathways, flower beds: roses, tulips, daffodils, wild flowers and many, many more. I walk up the stairs in awe, my hands holding my dress so I don't trip and make a mockery of myself. And just ahead, sat under a large, white wooden gazebo, with vines slithering around them with light pink flowers, are the young ladies — all fifteen of them. And they stare straight at me with hungry eyes. 
True vultures.

Death. 
Death is what I feel like I'm walking into. 
That the very second I sit down with them, and am forced into conversation, to hear their patronising words, see them watching me with eyes searching for my weaknesses and feel their judgment, I'll drop dead. Maybe that would be a blessing. Perhaps then David wouldn't force me into something like this. Well, he can't when I'm on the other side. We haven't even been here twenty-four hours yet, but we're already hosting balls, and going to brunches to connect with the other 'wealthy' people. 
Young ladies in dresses like my own, hair twisted elegantly up, or styled down, wearing extravagant necklaces around their neck that scream 'I've got money, come rob me!' And faces full of scowls, or masked expressions that hide how they feel, or are quickly making a judgment on me based on just how i walk, all wait under the gazebo for me. 
I should feel blessed that they've all been brought here to meet me, but lesser is the last thing I feel. More like used by the gods themselves. 
"Dawn, yes?" One of the ladies ask. With hair blonder than my own, and skin like a porcelain dolls, I find myself staring at her. Jealously rear its head. How can one person be so... so beautiful? "Dawn?" She repeats after I fail to respond. 
"Right, yes. Sorry," I say, sheepishly. "Hello, I'm Dawn." Great going, Dawn. Way to make yourself look like a complete idiot. 
She gives me a smile, one that looks stained and anything but friendly. A demon wearing an angel's skin. "I'm Cindy, my father owns two of the banks in town."
So Mr. Greggery must own the third. There's three banks in the whole of the town, and when we used to live here ten years ago I remember that they usually were always at war with one another. 
"Lovely to meet you," I say. "All... of you." I look to the other fourteen faces, quickly taking in the girls that could give me the most trouble and some that are at least worth a chance of friendship. Maybe they won't be so bad and I'm just stereotyping them? 
"Hm, pleasure is all ours, wouldn't you say?" 
"Of course."
"Please, sit. We'd love to chat!" 
Chat? More like interrogate.

~

An hour later, I find myself ready to pull out my neatly combed back hair. Bragging and questioning and bragging again. Over and over and over. Plus, all we've eaten is nothing, a lost nothing and in a moment my stomach is going to rumble obnoxiously and I'll make a joke out of myself. 
I watch a girl with skin that reflects a golden night and with curly black hair tied into a messy knot on top of her head, a lazy look that she pulls off elegantly, walk over to a table in the corner and start piling some of the strawberries onto her china plate. 
I glance back at the other girls, having finally given me a break and started talking about themselves some more. The cost is clear. I stand up quietly, holding my breath when the chair makes a squeaking sound against the stone floor. When none of them turn to me, I get up and walk over to the girl. She's probably the only one who hasn't asked a million questions a minute, or openly judged me about any of my answers. And if she has, then at least she has had the decency to not do it so loudly — obnoxiously. I grab one of the china, floral plates and a scone with some cream and jam onto it, as well as three chocolate covered strawberries. 
"I'd take more, if you want. None of them will eat them, too worried about their perfect bodies," the girl next to me says, her voice smooth like chocolate with a gentleness that's incredibly soft. "They'll go to waste." I look at her, smiling lightly as I pile another three onto my plate and take a bit out of another as I turn around to lean against the table next to her. 
"Are they always like this?" I ask, biting around the stem and then placing it onto the plate. 
She sighs, leaning her head back and to the side, a strand of a curly ringlet dropping down onto her tanned forehead. 
"This isn't even the worst I have seen them. Just wait till they all start pinning after the same lord. Last year three even got into a brawl over lord Maximus." I side eye her and we share a look before bursting into a quiet fit of giggles.
"Catty girls," I sigh.
"Don't you know it," she clicks her tongue, reaching for another strawberry on her plate. "I'm Daisy, by the way." 
"Dawn," I respond, then pause. "But... you probably already know that."
"Kind of hard not to when the cats repeat it in every sentence."
A wind brushes up against us, and I try not to shiver from the chilless of it. Although the dresses are thick, I can't understand for the life of me why whoever organised this — probably David and his new besties — would choose to do an event like this outside. Doesn't cold weather make people more temperentral?
"When does this thing end?" I ask.
"Whenever you want, I suppose. But usually it's after two hours, or when two or more of the girls get into a fight." 
"Wonderful."
"We could sneak away, if you wanted to? But I'm not sure how well that would look on you, new girl and all," she suggests.
"Please, they've already made their judgments on me. I'm not sure leaving early could tarnish my reputation with them anymore," I reply. 
"Good point. Follow my lead." She places down her plate, and I do so too. 
I grab six strawberries coated in chocolate to go, though. 
Her steps are silent as she walks around the table. I mimic her, and we must be ghosts because none of them seem to hear or see us. Daisy pulls back one of the lilac coloured mesh curtains back that hung around the gazebo in order to give it privacy from prying eyes, but also to give it more of an... an elegant look, I guess you could say. She slips behind it and disappears from view, only a faint shadow remains of her figure. I look back at the other girls, and feel excitement start to rear its head as I soon follow after Daisy. 
"You might want to eat those," she points to the strawberries in my hand. 
"What? Why?" I ask. She nods her head to the ground behind the wooden bannister running around the ring of the gazebo. 
"Because that's the only way out."
I look past her older and down to the ground that's quite a ways away. I'm probably going to die, big dress and all weighing a ton. But life's about taking risks, and it's either that, or the girls on the other side of the curtains. 
I'd rather take my chances with gravity. 
"Right," I mutter. "Of course." 
I stuff a strawberry in my mouth and shove another two into the bodice of the dress, but frowning as I throw the others over the side of the banister. Such a waste of perfectly good, expensive, food. The chocolate? Heaven. I haven't had any in years. 
Daisy grabs the side of the banister with one hand, and takes ahold of the edges of her dress with the other. As graceful as anyone can make climbing over something and jumping a good distance, Daisy drops to the floor, her dress flying up around her face. I peer down at her, catching the brief thumbs up she sends me. 
I do the same, stumbling ever so slightly from the weight of the skirt tied around my waist. The corset restricts me, and a part of me wonders if I'll be able to do this without breaking my neck, but I slide both legs to hang off the side of the banister and push myself off, splatting on the ground like a pancake. 
"Wow," she says sarcastically. "You looked like an angel falling from the heavens."
"Shut up. You didn't look any better." 
She rolls her eyes. I stand up, brushing the grass off the skirts of the dress. I shiver, the wind picking up as it rushes through us. 
"Come one, let's go," she grabs my hand and begins to pull me through the gardens — bypassing the pathway up to the gazebo, though. 
Instead, we walk on the grass, past hedges and skirting around the flower beds. Finally we come across a small gate which she opens and we both step through. We walk down the empty side street and come across the carriages, mine luckily near the back. 
Daisy pauses, grabbing my elbow as she purses her lips. "Wou—would you like to go to the local cafe? We can come back in a bit to the carriages." A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips and I find myself nodding my head. 
"I'd love to," I respond. She grins and starts to tug me in the other direction, slipping past tall buildings and stepping onto a cobblestone path that extends out onto a bustling street at the bottom. 
I suddenly stop. 
"What?" Daisy asks.
"I don't have any money."
"Don't worry about it, I've got enough."
"No," I say. "I don't want to have to ask you to pay."
"You're not asking, I'm offering. There's a difference, Dawn. Not shush and come on, they've got an amazing red velvet cake that you have to try. Oh, and don't forget the strawberry you shoved down your bodice."
I feel my heart constrict. I know we have only known each other for a very short while, but is this what having friends is like? Or maybe she is just kind and feels sorry for me. 
The street is lined with markets and bakeries and cafes and shops and I find my heart palpitating in excitement at the sight. I make a mental note to visit this place again soon, but actually bring money with me this time. Daisy leads me to a cafe with a pretty pink front, the words 'Katherines' written in swirly black writing. The second Daisy pulls open the door, the aroma of sweet treats and a darker, heavier scent hits me full force. 
The smells bring back such lost memories that I had forgotten all about. Pushed them away, is probably a better term to use. 
We walk to a small circular table and sit in wooden chair that have a pretty light grey, with pink flowers decorated on them, cushions.
"How do we get the food?" I ask her. It's been such a long time since I've been in a place like this, that I can't even remember how you buy the food. Do they come to you? Do you go to them? Who is 'them,' anyway? 
Daisy laughs, "We go up to the small counter at the back and you give them your table number. One of the young lads who work here will bring it to us." 
"Sounds fancy."
"I suppose it does, but it's really not. It's just the way they are run." 
I nod along, watching as she walks over to the busy counter and orders the red velvet cake, the one she said I was going to die when I try it. She comes back and we talk as we wait. I begin to see a side to her that I can tell she keeps masked away from many others. She's a happy person behind the layers; a yellow, as I've heard people describe happy people that colour. But, she hides behind a pale blue, going unseen by many, sinking into the shadows to not be unnoticed.
The cake arrives and we both immediately dig in, and she was right, I did nearly die when I tried it. Heaven packed into a cloud — that is what it's like. 
"Thank you, again," I say as we walk back to the carriages.
"No worries, Dawn. Thanks for keeping me company," She smiles.
We part ways. 
As I stare out of the little, circular window in the carriage, I find myself hoping that I have just made a friend. Found a friend.

~

I walk through the hallway, passing doors that I have no idea what's inside and who uses them. David's sent for me, and I can only imagine why. 
I knock when I get to the door at the end of the hallway and don't bother waiting for him to answer as I turn the steel handle and walk in. 
A ginormous oak desk is pushed in the centre of the room, a bay window looking down at the front courtyard off to the right, a wall of bookcases that I doubt I'll ever be able to touch, or read, and the same woodsey, cigar scent that i remember fondly. 
All things that remind me of... of my fathers office. 
Or, what was once his office. 
David is sat behind the desk, shooting me a glare. "Heard of knocking?" 
"Nope. What is it?" I ask as I sit down in the plush navy blue chair sat opposite his desk. 
Sheets of documents litter it, documents that look important by the seal on them, and curiosity make me want to reach over and grab one. How has he had the time to make investments and deals when we're just getting back into this life. 
A few moments pass before he sighs and changes the topic. "You could have given the ladies a chance, Dawn."
"I did, David, and all they did was send me passive aggressive comments the entire time. You sent me into a lion's cage wearing a meat suit!" 
"Couldn't you have tried to get to know them? Perhaps they were just wary of you. They're young ladies of high profile, and you're a girl that just became rich again after being a peasant."
It's my turn to glare. "How does someone's amount of money affect how trustworthy they are of friendship and kindness?" 
"You know it does, Dawn. You've lived the life of someone poor, searching for any way to get food and warmth." 
"But I'm not poor now! And I wouldn't want their friendship or kindness whether I'm rich or poor — I don't need people like that in my life."
"You need someone in your life," he says. 
"What's that supposed to mean?" 
"It means—" someone knocks on the mahogany door. David clears his throat. "Come in."
A middle aged woman walks in, eyes jumping between us as if she can sense wherever this conversation was about to go. 
"The dress is ready," she says.
"Thankyou," David nods his head before looking back to me. "Go with her to get ready for the ball. Make sure you eat something, too. There won't be a lot tonight."
"But—" 
"Dawn go."
He leaves no room for argument as he turns back to the documents in front of him, glancing up at me once as he signs his signature at the bottom of the sheet of paper. I glare at him when our eyes clash, and he returns the gesture. Huffing, I turn around and follow after who I assume is the seamstress. 
Just over twenty-four hours here and we're already throwing a ball? Don't the people decorating, cooking, doing all the work, and the people coming, need time in advance to get ready and prepare. It's like we never left. Davids slotted right back into this like Cinderella and her glass slipper. However, I feel like I'm watching this new life through a glass window. 
There, but not quite. 

~

The girl stares back at me, her face glowing with a look of unsteadiness; nerves. I can't help but admire her, absorbing the twists in her usually straight, dirty blonde hair; the unusual blush on her once pale face — ruche — and the pretty red dress that hangs from her bones. The girl doesn't look like her. 
I don't look like me. As pretty as the maids have made me look, which I can appreciate, I don't feel like me. 
The gold rimmed mirror rests propped up against the cushions of the bed, and I sit in front of it as I examine myself. I dread tonight. I remember balls from when I was younger, and yes, crawling under the tables and pinching unsuspecting people's feet was fun. However, standing around and talking to people you really don't want to talk to with a stomach screaming in starvation is not. And a part of me wishes — no, hopes — that something entertaining will happen that will at least put me out of my misery for a little while. 
Because... because I'll be alone, left to suffer the males who think they're entitled to everything around them—women included— and the mothers, who have the agenda to throw their daughters at the richest man in the room, judging me with their looks and words. I won't have a younger David to sneak into the gardens with like i did ten years ago, nor my father unsuspectingly passing me chocolate truffles off his plate will he speaks to 'important clients,' and I won't have my mother whisking me away a few hours earlier than the ball is supposed to end, claiming I have a horrendous stomach ache. 
I can hardly recognise David and I doubt he would sneak off to the gardens with me, and my mother and father aren't here to help bide the time or take me away early. They're not with me to keep me safe from the people who all talk about money and pretend to be your friend until they stab you in the back so they can climb the social ladder just that teeny bit higher. 
So, for those reasons, I hope a stuck up mother or her daughter spills a flute of champagne down their dress, and an arrogant male slips and falls into dancers, causing a domino effect just to make my night slightly more amusing.
That makes me a really bad person. 
And I'm not sure I care, at the moment. 
A knock at the door startles me, and I quickly grab the mirror, shoving it under the covers. 
"Come in," I call, running my fingers over the sheets so they don't look wrinkled. 
The door opens and in walks Jane, dressed... dressed in her maids uniform. "Are you not attending?"
"No, mis—Dawn," she gives me a small smile. "Only the rich and worthy attend balls like this." 
I bite my lip. What a load of bull. If I were in charge of anything like this, which I doubt I ever will be, I'd make sure it was open to people of any and every class. But, this was just another thing I had forgotten. 
She looks down at where I'm sat and her eyes widen. "No, no! Stand up, you must stand up!" Shocked, I stood up. Jane rushes over to me, running her hands down the creases that have formed on the red dress. "Oh, don't worry about that, Jane. It's not a big deal." 
"Not a big deal?" She chokes out, shocked. "Mr. Hudson would murder us, and you, if you didn't turn up to the ball in pristine condition. You have to look perfect. You are both the faces to the Hudson family, and you must make an impression." 
Look perfect? Make an impression? That all sounds awfully exhausting, and I'm exhausted already. 
"I—" I don't get a chance to say much else as another knock sounds against the oak door and I find myself pursing my lips slightly, gut instinct telling me who it is. 
This time, the person doesn't wait for an answer before the door opens, and standing there in a dark suit is David. 
"Are you ready?" He asks, not even acknowledging the fact that I got all dressed up for his stupid ball and made an effort — even if it was he who chose the dress and instructed the maids on what to do. I still sat there and played along, even if I did want to push away their proding hands. 
Biting my tongue, I reply, "yes."
"Good, come then. You," he points at Jane. "Make yourself scarce, you're not needed any longer." I really hate him at the moment. 
"Nicer," I cough. 
"What was that?" He turns his attention back to me.
"I said that you could have been nicer," I snap. 
"Dawn, dont," Jane tries to say, grabbing my hand. 
"Miss Hudson, to you, and no, I will talk to my employees how I please. Now come, we're late and you're being an embarrassment." 
I open my mouth to retort, but Jane's hand that still holds the skirts of the dress tug down on it and I take that as her silent request to stay silent. Instead, I nod my head once. I can stop my mouth from moving now, but he's going to get everything I have to say and more later. 
How has twenty-four hours of having money and power gotten to his head this quickly. 
I start towards the door, every step I take feeling as if a cord has been tied to the bed and trying to pull me back towards it. Every breath hurt and I felt my hand itching to lap David for how aggressively he just spoke. I don't know if it's all just an act to make himself feel as if he belongs back here, but I want my brother back. 
But, the brother from the life that feels as if it was years ago, but was only living it yesterday morning, nearly had me taken away from his gambling adventures and made some mistakes when all he was really doing was trying to get us back to this life. 
I still haven't had time to ponder the events of what happened just before we regained money and moved away from the village, e.g the demon. And honestly, I'm not sure I want to. It's probably better I don't think about this now, or even at all. I don't even know where to begin, and I know the second I do I'll just freak out.
"Be on your best behaviour," David says. I look up at him — which I'm not looking far as he's not the tallest man alive and I'm not the smallest woman either — and squint my eyes. 
"Yes, of course," I say. 
"Play nice, speak when spoken to, don't be snarky, sarcastic or rude, try to make friends and if the males ask for a dance, give them a dance, Dawn. It won't kill you."
"All of the things you just listed very well might."
"Dawn!"
"Whatever. Yes, fine," I roll my eyes. "Anything else?"
"Don't embarrass me."

The blood feels like a second skin. Blood that is not my own. It's everywhere: embedded under my fingernails, matted in my hair, staining my clothes... even in my mouth. I shouldn't be surprised, war is war, and the man that is the sole reason for it — the reason so many people have lost their lives — stares back at me with malice, his twisted lips pulled in a snarl. 
I feel my veins rumble at the sound of the cries, my own blood beginning to singe. And as my vision slowly fades into ink, I feel the world erupt into flames and light. 

~

"I'd learnt during life that nothing is ever as it seems, that things are always hidden right beyond our eyes reach. In till that day in the woods, I never understood what that really meant." — future Dawn.

~

"Don't answer the door to Mr. Jones, Dawn. You know he's a creep." 
I look up from my place by the fire, the world I was just being sucked into resting in my hands, the pages snug between my fingers. The flames dance in a synchronised fashion; two distant beloveds twirling in the dark night, their burning love crackling. My eyes meet my brothers for a brief second, and I find him standing by the moulding, wooden door of our cottage. 
"Where are you going?" I ask him.
"Out to do some work for Mr. Kane," he replies, shrugging on his worn-out coat. "In fact, don't answer the door for anyone... please. You know what they're like."
"Sure, sure," I say absentmindedly, lifting the book — the only book I own — back up to my face and squinting slightly to see the tiny words on the yellowed paper.
I hear him huff to himself loudly, and his rolling eyes even louder. 
"Night, Dawn."
"Night, David!" I yell as the heavy door closes with a colossal bang.
I sigh and lean back against the worn out armchair I'm sat on, my feet pulled up under my body and slowly going number and number as the seconds tick by. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it with much difficulty. I already know there isn't any food in the cupboards, no matter how many times I walk back over to check them in hopes some have suddenly magicked themselves in there. I turn back to the book, letting myself get absorbed into the fantasy world written in paper and held in leather. 
She drops to her knees, his blood slowly seeping in between her fingers as she clutches at his tunic tightly.
"I'm sorry," she cries. "They found the letters!"
"Shh," he coughs, blood trickling out from his lips. "It's not your fault, Marie."
"It was, though, Jack!" Marie shakes her head, her dark hair whipping around her head violently, midnight strands catching in the wind. "Gaston, h-he... he was the one. He killed your-"
I flinch. 
lightning strikes the sky; painting the inky darkness in a chaotic mess of spider webs. It stretches across the vast night, lighting up the shadowy streets of kiston. I snuggle deeper into the chair when the thunder soon rolls in, and find myself shivering in not just fear, but the bitter chillness that's creeping through the thin glass windows and penetrating the small room, too. Rain soon joins in. 
I find myself cursing the goddess, Erisca. The very same goddess the people in the village religiously believe in, in hopes that she will keep them safe from the creatures lurking in the forest. Plus, the iron circles hung over their doors and windows; mythed to ward off any danger, or negative energy plaguing someone's soul. 
I, myself, am no exemption from the latter. Anything that'll help me sleep safely at night and take one extra worry off my shoulders — David's, too. 
I place the book down on the small, wooden table before the fire and run a hand across my forehead, my eyes heavy with sleep. 
I'd been up early to head to the bakery — the only one in town, and the only job I'd managed to snag when I turned sixteen last year — and hadn't had much sleep due to the bitter coldness suffocating the cottage in its icy clutches last night. Therefore, I'm now stuck feeling as if my veins have been stuffed with lead, and my brain removed from my head and replaced with a bucketload of oxygen. Although I love the job, I hardly earn a dime, and usually only two bronze coins at the end of the week. Maybe four in the summer when the village's trades have been good, and the people have the money to spare. 
The winter months are the hardest, and the poorest. From the end of October and all the way through to March are mind numbingly tedious, and keep you on your starving toes. Crops have all shrivelled and died due to the cold, and the wagons of supplies that get delivered to the village are always priced astronomically. Besides, we're on the outskirts of the continent, miles beyond civilisation, and a place where the population is so tiny that if we all died from hunger, nobody would notice — or care. 
Lightning strikes a tree outside the window, sounding like giants battling. I release a breath, my heart pounding and blood rushing from my head as nerves build. I used to love storms. Love the sound of chaos and nature clashing in a tangle of fury and rage. But no more. No longer. Not since that night. The night that will be forever ingrained in my mind. Forever written in the blood and sorrow that had filled the air. 
You never quite realise when life's misery's going to creep up on you and strike. It just comes. Without warning. It pulls everything right out from under your feet, leaving you to navigate with the little tools it's left for you; hidden under the guise of something else.
The clock — one of two things that came with us from our old life — chimes in the corner of the room. I sigh. Sleep is something I've always struggled with, and tonight it seems the monster overshadowing my mind is waging a war against the sleep that so desperately wants to come. 

~

The door bangs open. I jump, my head whipping around to watch as David staggers into the cottage. 
"What on earth happened to you?!" I cry, jumping up from the chair and racing towards him.
"Nothing," he groans, grabbing onto the aged table and hauling himself into one of the three chairs carelessly placed around it. 
"It doesn't look like nothing!" I snap.
"Would you drop it?" David growls, irritation leaking into his words. He runs a bruised hand through his hair.
I purse my lips, eyeing his purple, swollen face — specked with dried blood — and creased, wet clothes, stained with a redness that's not wine. 
"We don't have any bandages, they got used up the last time you went hunting and came back with a cut thigh. But let me go get some coins from under the floorboard and I can go get you some new ones."
"You can't," he says, coughing into his hand.
"Of course I can. There might have been a storm last night, but I'm sure I can step around the branches and rubble," I say, already walking towards the floorboard that slowly rests higher then the others, a perfect place for hiding valuable things — not that we have many, though — and where we keep the spare coins we make. I wedge my fingers into the small gap and start to pull it up, my frail arms straining. 
"Dawn, dont-"
It's too late.
The floorboard is already resting on the ground beside me, and my blood is rushing from my face. But not like last night in fear. No. No, this is in shock. In anger. And sadness. This is the feeling you get when you feel your heart drop and blood fall to your feet, as if gravity is suddenly trying to suck it out of your toes. 
The once small hole under the floorboard that had about five bronze coins and our prized only silver one is empty. The pain of early mornings and exhausted limbs in the evenings all for nothing. All gone. 
I look up at David, my face devoid of any emotion as I register what he's done. He's the only other person who knows about it, the hiding place. Not to mention i had put in my last weeks worth last night just before i had sat down to read. He had gone in there last night, too, but i thought it was to put in the little extra he had to spare, not to take it all out. 
"Where have all the coins gone?" I ask him, my voice deathly calm. I look at him over my shoulder, his face sickly pale, a vast contrast against the green and black bruises littering his skin. 
"Dawn..."
"Where are the coins, David?"
"Dawn, I can explain. I promise!" He exclaims, his breath short pants.
"I don't think, to any extent, that an explanation could make me forgive you right now," I whisper. "You took the coins."
"I know. I know! Gods, I know, Dawn!"
"Where is it then? Why are you beat and bloodied?"
His mouth drops open, as if he's about to speak, but he rapidly closes it again. He repeats the action a few more times, and I can see the clogs churning behind his glassy green eyes — trying to figure out the best way to tell me, I presume. 
"I- I got into some trouble," he finally says. "Last summer I took a loan, one where I'd have to pay it back over time."
"That's how you afforded the food and my new boots."
"Yes," he carries on. "But times began to run out and I went last night to find a way to fix the problem."
"Where did you go?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer. I stand from the floor, slotting the floorboard back into place and dusting my hands against the rags I have the audacity to call a dress. 
"The tavern," he sighs.
"You went to gamble?" I look at him like I've never seen him before. And in a way, I haven't. I've never seen this man sat before me before. Or maybe I have, and he's just always been hidden under the mask of my big brother. 
"Yes."
"Go on," I push, folding my arms across my chest and leaning against the rickety kitchen counter, which in theory is just a slab of wood nailed into the wall and about the length of my arm. 
"I won," he says. "But the men I won against weren't from around here. They spoke differently, with a funny accent. An-And they had this look about them that screamed trouble. Danger. I knew they were bad, Dawn. Are bad. But the men I got the loan from aren't nice — possibly even worse. And I can't do that to you. You deserve better."
I click my tongue, cocking my head to the side. "And?"
"And the men found me as I was walking back home and they weren't happy. Th-They took the earnings from the gamble and our money, too."
"And they beat you up, too, because they're sore losers?" 
"Precisely."
I sigh, a throbbing pain pinching between my eyebrows. The anger inside of me just keeps building and building. Growing and growing. It's hungry, and furious with David. How could he be so stupid? 
"How long do you have until you have to pay back the loan?" I ask him. 
He's silent. Quieter than a mouse hiding from its predator. But, I guess he is the mouse in this situation; afraid of me and my reaction. Afraid of the disappointment I'll feel towards him when he finally decides to utter a word. 
"By the twentieth," he finally peeps. 
"Of November?" I ask, but deep down I already know the dreaded answer — the one, in which, I really hope isn't true. 
"No," he winces. "Seventy bronze coins and ten silver are expected to be delivered to Mr. Smith by the twentieth of October."
All is silent. Even the wind has extinguished it's relentless howling. Perhaps Mother Nature is just as nosy to hear what my response is as a wealthy mother is, pestering a young lord for his hand in her daughter's marriage. 
But I don't reply, I can't. What am I supposed to say? We have no money. Nothing. And suddenly we have to find that much in four days? I might as well just accept fate and welcome it with open arms. 
"What's the consequences if you don't have it?" My heart has resumed pounding — not like it ever stopped, though. It just went quiet. Silent as it thrummed blood through my veins violently. But now it's loud. So, so loud. A rhythmic thud and pound drumming in my ears. 
"You."