My head felt like it was bursting. Not with a bang, but a slow, gruesome parting, as if unseen claws had pinched into my skull and were prying it open like a stubborn nut. Then came the squirming, a soft, wet searching deep within the confines of my mind. I couldn't see. I couldn't feel pain – a horrifying numbness had enveloped me, a void where sensation should have been. But I could hear everything.
Who have I wronged? The gods? Myself? The questions echoed in the sterile silence of my paralysis.
A man's voice, distant and faint, like a memory. Was it my father? The thought was a useless flutter; I could do nothing to change this disturbing, invasive presence. This numbness... it felt so wrong. Was it mercy, this absence of pain? A twisted kindness after witnessing... what? My father's death? The memory was a blur, swallowed by the horror unfolding within me.
What was this thing searching for?
Only counting kept the madness at bay. One... two... three... I pictured the numbers, stark and black against a white void, anything to divert my focus from the sickening crawl inside my skull. Four... five... A desperate anchor in a sea of encroaching insanity.
It felt like hours had bled into an eternity. Did I even have a brain anymore? All I could register was the sound, a relentless, intimate scratching. Claws against bone. An animal, I imagined, scavenging the last scraps of flesh from a forgotten corpse. Me.
A scream built in my chest, a silent, futile thing. I wanted to turn, to beg, but the numbness held me captive, a cruel parody of peace. It wasn't mercy, I realized with a sickening lurch. The numbness was the pain, a suffocating absence of self.
Drip. Drip. Warm, sticky. Falling onto… me? Saliva.
A monster was salivating as it delved into my mind. Did it want to eat me? No, it would have done so already, surely. This was different. This felt… pleasurable. For the creature. A slow, deliberate act of torture, bringing it some perverse joy.
What was it searching for?
Suddenly, the man's voice, closer now. Urgent. Then a roar – primal, enraged – followed by a heavy thud. An impact, splintering and sharp.
A brittle crack resonated through my being, as if the creature above me, inside me, had been pierced. Then a rapid, violent succession of sounds: splintering wood, crunching bone, snapping sinew. Heavy fragments rained down, their echoes deafening in the sudden chaos.
The hold on me broke. My eyes snapped open, expecting to finally see the tormentor, but instead, a blinding light seared my vision. It was incandescent, consuming, as if I were staring into the heart of a sun.
No. My whole body was burning. Burning.
Pain. Oh, gods, the pain. The numbness shattered, and sensation flooded back in a searing, agonizing torrent. Every nerve screamed.
I tried to rise, to escape the inferno, but my muscles… they were like molten wax, unresponsive, dissolving.
Then, even the fire began to fade, replaced by a cold, encroaching darkness… I think… I think I died.
-
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DATE:13th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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-
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I open my eyes and see that I am in fact not dead. I was in my room. The calendar on the wall, its single, crisp page declaring "FRIDAY 13 DECEMBER," made me think that I was unconscious for 3 days. The last thing I remembered was the brutal confrontation with Father on Tuesday, the agony, the sensation of claws, his bleeding forearms, and then… nothing. Wednesday, Thursday – vanished. A quick glance confirmed a suspicion: the previous pages for the 11th and 12th weren't neatly torn off by the perforated line; they were ripped, as if someone had manually, perhaps hastily, removed them.
Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. The usual musty scent of old wood and dust filled my nostrils. Sunlight, pale and weak, filtered through the grimy windowpane. I rose from the bed, bracing for a symphony of agony, a body protesting every movement. Instead, I saw that my body was intact. No, more than that, I didn't have a single bruise on me. Nothing of the fight with my father remained. Did I imagine the whole thing? The vivid, brutal memory of his fists, the feeling of bones cracking, the taste of blood – it felt too real to be a dream. No, It can't be.
The sensation of the claws at my throat, the ones that had choked me, that had somehow intervened against Father, was gone too. My throat felt normal, untouched.
The marks of claws and the scars on my body – the snake scales that had appeared after Emily's intervention, the subsequent claw and knife scars I'd seen in the mirror only days ago – were also gone. My skin had no marks of the mallets Mother had used. Nothing of the deformities nor the swelling. I ran my hands over my arms, my chest, my face. Smooth. Unblemished. As if the horrors of the past week had never happened.
A new, disquieting thought surfaced. I rushed to the small, cracked mirror. My reflection stared back, pale but otherwise normal. I pulled at my lips, heart pounding. My canine teeth. They were… sharper. Longer. Not monstrously so, but undeniably more pronounced, like a dog's, meant to puncture flesh. First the curse of a snake, then a raven, and now a dog? What infernal menagerie was my body becoming?
I got dressed, my mind reeling. The blood-stained apron Father had forced me to wear, the one that had clung to me reeking of stale gore for two agonizing days – it was nowhere to be found. I searched my small room, under the bed, in the wardrobe. Gone. Had he relented? Or was its absence another piece of this impossible puzzle? I assumed I wasn't punished anymore, a small, fragile seed of relief sprouting amidst the confusion.
Downstairs, my mother was working in the kitchen as normal. The clatter of pots, the scent of simmering soup – the mundane soundtrack of a thousand mornings. She looked up as I entered, her expression placid, almost… gentle.
"Kassius, you're awake. Breakfast is almost ready."
Not a word about my three-day absence. Not a hint of the fury, the beatings, the accusations from Tuesday. It was as if Tuesday, the 10th of December, had never happened. As if I hadn't been dragged out to the ruins and nearly killed. As if I hadn't, somehow, manifested claws and fought back. She was acting like I didn't just wake up from what felt like a coma.
This, more than the healing, more than the canines, chilled me to the bone. The world had reset, but only for some. Or perhaps, only for my mother.
I ate in silence, the food tasteless in my mouth. The normalcy was a suffocating blanket.
School. I had to go to school.
The walk was uneventful, but my mind was a storm. The bloody apron was gone, so I walked without its foul weight and stench. It was a small mercy, but the stares I received were still laced with something – fear, curiosity, perhaps disgust lingering from the days I had worn it.
My first class was History. Mr. Figaro stormed in, his worn coat billowing, eyes like chips of flint. He scanned the room, and his gaze landed on me, sharpening with immediate anger.
"Kassius!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Where have you been for the past two days? Do you think my lessons are optional amusements?"
I stood, my legs feeling strangely steady. "Sir, I... I had a fight with my father. I was unwell. I only recovered now." The lie, or perhaps half-truth, tasted bitter.
Figaro's face contorted. "A fight with your father?" He advanced, his voice dripping with scorn. "A child squabbling with his parents? Disregarding their commands? This is the rot at the heart of Ventia! No respect! No discipline!" He was now in front of my desk, his spittle flying. Students around me were visibly holding back laughs, their eyes glinting with malicious enjoyment.
A strange heat surged through me, an unfamiliar anger. It wasn't just embarrassment or fear; it was something deeper, more primal. I felt my body spasm forward, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but Figaro, mid-rant, jumped back as if I'd lunged with a knife. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing again, his face flushing a deeper red.
Recovering quickly, or perhaps trying to reassert his dominance, he snatched the heavy wooden ruler from his desk. "You will learn respect, boy!" he snarled, and brought the ruler down hard on my outstretched arm.
Crack!
The ruler splintered, a jagged piece flying off to clatter on the floor. But I hadn't moved. I hadn't even flinched. There was a dull thud against my arm, but no real pain. Instead, I felt my muscles tense, a peculiar sensation because, honestly, I didn't think I had muscles like that before. They felt… solid. New.
Figaro stared at the broken ruler in his hand, then at my arm, then back at my face. His bravado seemed to deflate, replaced by a flicker of something akin to fear, or at least profound confusion. He opened his mouth, closed it, then, trying to recover his pride, puffed out his chest.
"Sit down, boy," he ordered, his voice a little shakier than before. "And do not disrupt my class again."
He turned, a little too quickly, and continued the lesson, though his earlier fire seemed dampened. The other students were no longer snickering; they were staring at me with wide, unnerved eyes.
The rest of History passed in a blur.
The bell for the mid-morning break rang, a jarring summons back to reality. As students began to file out, Emily appeared at my side. Her green eyes were filled with a concern that seemed genuine.
"Kassius, are you alright? What happened with Figaro?"
I nodded, still feeling the strange thrum of energy from the confrontation. "I need to talk to you," I said, my voice low. "About… everything."
She nodded, her expression immediately serious. "Let's find somewhere quiet."
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We stepped out into the relative chaos of the school corridor, the lingering shock of the classroom incident creating an invisible bubble of silence around us. No one met my eye. Behind the main school building was a narrow, neglected space between the brick wall and a line of overgrown, scraggly bushes that marked the school's boundary. It was often used for hurried, secret conversations or the occasional illicit smoke, and was thankfully deserted. The air here was cooler, smelling of damp earth and decaying leaves.
The moment we were shielded from prying eyes, the dam of my composure broke. I whirled on Emily, grabbing her by the shoulders. Despite my own average height, I seemed to loom over her, my desperation probably adding inches to my stature. My fingers dug into the fabric of her uniform, my gaze wild.
"I'm cursed, Emily! Cursed!" The words tore from me, raw and ragged. "Don't you understand?"
She didn't flinch, her small frame steady under my grip, those unsettlingly calm green eyes fixed on mine.
"First," I choked out, my voice shaking, "first it was the scales. Like a snake. After you… helped me. They called me a liar, a turncoat, because no one else saw them!" The memory of my uncle's terror, my mother's disgust, flashed through my mind.
"Then, after the beating in the gym, I woke up covered in scars!" My voice rose, echoing slightly in the confined space. "Deep ones, Emily! Like daggers and talons! As if I were some kind of… of marked beast! Everyone looked at me like I was a bringer of misfortune, a pariah!"
My hands dropped from her shoulders as I gestured frantically to my own face, pulling back my lips to bare my teeth. "And now… now look!" I spat, angling my head so she could see the elongated, sharpened canines. "I nearly bit Figaro! I felt it – this… this aggression. Like a dog about to snap! What is happening to me?"
Emily listened patiently, her expression softening from initial surprise to a thoughtful concern. When my frantic tirade subsided, she spoke, her voice a gentle counterpoint to my near hysteria.
"Kassius," she began, her tone soothing, "those things… they aren't necessarily curses. Think about Ventian culture. The snake," she said, her gaze unwavering, "is the symbol of Asclepius, the great healer, a bringer of renewal and medicine. It's a powerful protector."
She tilted her head. "And ravens, or crows… they're seen as divine messengers, aren't they? Birds that bridge the worlds, carrying omens, yes, but also wisdom. They see things others don't."
A small, almost wistful smile touched her lips. "Even dogs. Think of Lupercalia. Dogs are guardians, symbols of loyalty, and ferocity in defense of what's important. They are honored." She met my gaze directly. "These aren't inherently evil signs, Kassius. They can't be just curses."
Her rational explanations, her attempts to frame these horrors in a positive light, only fueled my desperate conviction. "No!" I practically shouted, stepping back as if her calmness was a physical force. "You don't understand! The raven… the crow spirit… it choked me the morning I fought with my father! It held me up while my father… while he beat me! It cut him! With its own claws, making me do it! That is why I was in a coma...." The memory of his bleeding forearms, the sheer terror and helplessness, flooded back. "That wasn't a divine messenger, Emily, it was a tormentor!"
I pointed a trembling finger at my teeth again. "And this? This isn't some simple memory, some echo of the future you keep talking about! Even if my whole life is a fabrication, like you said, these things… these manifestations are fundamentally curses! I'm being watched, Emily! Constantly! Something is doing this to me!"
Her gentle smile finally faded. A shadow crossed her features, a flicker of something that looked like dawning recognition, or perhaps shared unease. "Watched…" she murmured, her eyes losing some of their focus as if she were looking inward. "Yes. I… I have felt strange presences ever since I came to this place. This time. But," she hesitated, her gaze returning to mine, a new layer of uncertainty in it, "it happened in all the dreams we shared, Kassius. The ones from your future. I always felt… watched. I just assumed it was normal for these… shared experiences. But then…"
Her voice trailed off, her brow furrowed in thought. What "then"? What had she realized?
Before either of us could speak further, the shrill, piercing sound of the school bell cut through the air, signaling the end of the break. It was a brutal interruption, snapping the tense thread of our conversation.
Emily startled, then, with a surprising quickness, she reached out and grabbed my hand. Her grip was firm, reassuring, despite the turmoil in my chest.
"We're not done," she said, her voice regaining some of its earlier conviction. She gave my hand a squeeze. "I am here to help you, Kassius. I promise. We'll figure this out." Her eyes flicked towards the school building. "We'll talk more during Gymnasium. There's more space, more time there."
With a final, encouraging look, she released my hand and turned, heading back towards the entrance, leaving me standing in the shadows, the weight of unseen eyes and unexplained transformations pressing down on me even harder than before. Gymnasium. More time for answers, or perhaps, more time for the curses to reveal their next terrifying stage.
Eventually, I followed, the bell's echo still hanging in the air.
We returned to the classroom, the murmur of students settling down indicating the next period was about to begin. I had half-expected an empty room, another free period to stew in my confusion. Instead, a man I vaguely recognized stood at the front, chalk dust already powdering the shoulders of his rumpled jacket.
Mr. Remus, our usual Mathematics teacher, had apparently recovered from the pneumonia that had kept him absent. He looked pale, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and a distinct aroma of stale cigars clung to him like a shroud. He was a somewhat unkempt man, his tie askew, his hair looking like it hadn't seen a comb in days.
Unlike Mr. Figaro with his zealous patriotism, or Mr. Nathan with his cold, ideological fervor, Mr. Remus projected an air of profound indifference. He didn't bother to put on a "face" for us, no pretense of passion or authority. Politics, culture, religion, even the much-vaunted Ventian technological aspirations – none of it seemed to concern him. His sole objective, it appeared, was to provide the minimum contractual service as a teacher.
He began the lesson with a weary sigh, calling students one by one to the chalkboard to solve problems. It was his way of gauging our academic level after his illness. Unsurprisingly, as he dryly pointed out after a few miserable attempts from my classmates, we hadn't developed at all. He commented on it, not with frustration or anger, but with a tired resignation, remarking blandly that since the school inspectors clearly didn't care about our progress, he saw no compelling reason why he should either. The bleak honesty was almost refreshing compared to the histrionics of some of the other staff.
The hour of Math crawled by. Next, Father Arnold graced us with his presence for the common. Today, his gentle voice was filled with an almost reverent excitement as he spoke about the preparations for Saturnalia, detailing the significance of the upcoming festival, the traditions, and how grand an event it was for Genova and all of Ventia.
He spoke of community, of feasting, of honoring the god Saturn for the harvest and the turning of the year. Normally, I might have found some solace in his calm demeanor, with my uncle being a preist of saturn, it wasn't like this was new information. We have this same speech every year. Today, his words felt distant, like echoes from a world I was no longer fully part of. My mind was too preoccupied with sharpened teeth, spectral claws, and Emily's unsettling pronouncements to pay much attention to rituals and deities.
Then, finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of Father Arnold's lecture and the beginning of Gymnasium.
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The thought of physical exertion, of being on display, usually filled me with a quiet dread. Today, however, it was overshadowed by the turmoil of my conversation with Emily and the lingering strangeness of my own body.
I changed in the locker room, the worn, slightly damp air doing little to ease the tension coiling in my stomach. The other boys bustled around, their voices echoing off the tiled walls, but I moved through them like a ghost, my mind already replaying Emily's words, her theories, her unsettling certainty. Except Matteo caught me by my arm before I could exit the room.
"Where ya' running to Kassius?" He inquired, his snarky tone as irritable as usual. "Is it true that you fought your pops?" He said, grabbing my shirt and raising it, seeing the spotless skin I woke up into. "I don't believe it."
"Let go of me Matteo." I grabbed his hand, but didn't exert any force. Normally, i was no match for him and I didn't want to test the peculiarity from before.
"No, why? This is important. Me and the boys-" he said, gesturing around the room, "-really want to know... Your father, Marcellus, is a notorious man. How could you just lie like that?"
" I didn't." I knew it was useless to speak any sense into him.
I thought he would continue, but he looked at someone in the room and let go of me, giving me a slight push towards the door. "We don't want to keep your colonist bawd waiting, do we?"
I didn't bother to respond and closed the door in spite of his snicker. I'm sure this gesture said more than any words I could have found in the moment.
Down in the gymnasium, the familiar scent of polished wood, old leather, and stale sweat hit me. Mr. Casca, our instructor, was already there, his meticulously styled hair a stark contrast to the gymnasium's utilitarian grimness. He blew his whistle, a shrill, impatient sound, and began to organize the boys into teams for a game of Harpastum, the worn leather ball already in his hand. His eyes swept over us, and I felt a familiar knot of distaste tighten in my gut. I still remember what happened last friday. My body did to...
As he turned to bark instructions at Matteo's group, I saw my chance. Emily caught my eye from where she stood near the entrance with the other girls, who were likely waiting to be shunted off to a separate, less vigorous activity. A silent, almost imperceptible nod passed between us.
Before Mr. Casca could notice my absence, or even fully register my presence, I slipped away from the edge of the forming group. Ducking behind a stack of tumbling mats, I made my way towards the side exit. Emily, with a similar quiet swiftness, disengaged from her own group. I could hear a few hushed murmurs and giggles from the girls in my class as they saw us leaving together, but my mind was too preoccupied with the swirling vortex of curses, spirits, and fractured realities to care about their juvenile gossip.
We found ourselves back in the same narrow, neglected space behind the school, the damp chill of the brick wall seeping into the air. The scraggly bushes offered a thin veil of privacy. The shouts and thuds from the gymnasium felt distant here.
Emily broke the silence first, her brow furrowed in deep thought. "I've been thinking," she began, her green eyes fixed on something beyond the grimy wall. "About what's happening to you. About the… presences."
She turned to me, her expression earnest. "Once, in the future – your future – a psychic tried to read your soul. To peek inside. She wanted to 'cure' you. She was… attacked. Violently. By some kind of monster or creature inside you."
My breath hitched. A psychic? A monster?
"You begged the creature not to kill her," Emily continued, her voice low. "You pleaded with it. And you called it by a name. Baku."
"Baku?" The name meant nothing to me, yet it sent a strange shiver down my spine.
"Yes," Emily affirmed. "But you had to be wrong about the name, Kassius. Or perhaps you chose it for your own reasons... no, I'm sure you misheard. Baku, in the old folk tales from a distant Eastern country of Chou, is a nightmare-eater. A benevolent spirit, a guardian that devours nightmares and protects people from evil spirits. Such a being… it shouldn't be capable of cursing you. It should be helping you, protecting you."
Frustration, sharp and biting, surged through me. "Then what other explanation is there, Emily?" I demanded, my voice harsher than I intended. "If it's not this Baku, if it's not a curse, then what is all this?" I gestured vaguely at myself, at the air around us. "The snake scales, the raven, these dog teeth, the constant feeling of being watched, of being… violated? Those aren't memories."
She shook her head slowly, her gaze dropping. "I… I don't know, Kassius. I don't have another explanation right now."
A tremor ran through me, my muscles tensing involuntarily. I leaned back against the cold brick wall, the rough surface a grounding sensation. I exhaled, a plume of visible vapor escaping my lips and nose, dissipating quickly in the chilly December air. The sight of it was another small, stark reminder of how wrong everything felt.
Trying to steer my thoughts away from the terrifying unknown, I latched onto a more mundane, yet still unsettling, mystery. "My parents," I began, my voice a little shaky. "They're acting like nothing happened. Like these past few days, the fight with Father, my three-day… absence… it's all normal. Mother was in the kitchen this morning, just like always. No questions, no accusations. It's… unnatural."
Emily looked at me, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "I don't understand what the problem is. Isn't it better if they're not angry or punishing you?"
I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. "You don't get it. My mother disappeared on Tuesday, the day I fought with Father. Vanished. I think it had something to do with a conversation she had with my uncle. And speaking of him…" I saw the blank look on her face and realized she wouldn't know the history. "My uncle was the first one to call me cursed. Last Sunday. He saw the snake scales on my arms and practically threw me out of his house in terror."
Emily listened intently, her head tilted. "So, your mother reappeared after three days, acting normally? And your uncle was scared of the scales…" She paused, considering. "Perhaps… perhaps they came to some sort of plan? Your mother, your father, your uncle? Maybe they decided the best way to handle whatever they think is happening to you is to not react in the meantime, to not make you anxious by questioning it."
"Not make me anxious?" I echoed, the irony thick in my voice. "Emily, their silence, this bizarre pretense of normalcy when my entire world is falling apart, that's what's making me more anxious than anything else!" The feeling of being gaslit by my own family, by reality itself, was a heavy weight on my chest.
The feeling of being gaslit by my own family, by reality itself, was a heavy weight on my chest. I pushed myself off the wall, pacing the small, confined space, the earlier sensation of my muscles tensing still a faint memory.
Emily watched me, her expression unreadable. She was fiddling with her fingers, her gaze distant as if she were sifting through countless possibilities or painful memories. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears and the damp chill of the alley.
Eventually, she opened her mouth, her voice barely a whisper. "Kassius…" she began, then hesitated, her eyes clouded with an emotion I couldn't decipher. Sadness? Reluctance? "You… you asked if you were cursed."
I stopped pacing, turning to face her. "And? Am I?"
She worried her lower lip, avoiding my gaze. "Perhaps… in a way… you are." Her eyes finally met mine, filled with a profound sorrow. "There's something I haven't told you. Something I… I didn't want to tell this version of you. It's too much, too soon."
A cold dread began to seep into my bones, far more chilling than the December air. "Tell me, Emily. Whatever it is, I need to know."
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. "In the future… in about eight years from this point in your life… you will die, Kassius."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Die? My breath hitched. The alley seemed to tilt, the rough brick wall wavering before my eyes.
"But that's not all," she continued, her voice soft but relentless, each word a nail hammered into my coffin. "After you die… you make a contract. A pact. With some kind of spirit, or… or a necromancer. To come back to life."
My stomach churned. A necromancer? A spirit? This was beyond curses. This was… damnation.
"That thing," Emily whispered, her eyes wide and haunted, "the entity you contract with… I think it's still observing you. Even now. In this state. That's why you feel watched. That's why these… manifestations keep happening."
A wave of nausea washed over me. My legs, which had felt so strangely strong just moments before, turned to water. I felt sick, so utterly sick that the ground seemed to rush up to meet me. I slid down the rough surface of the wall, my body too weak to hold itself upright. My head was spinning, the world a dizzying blur of brick and grey sky.
"No…" I gasped, shaking my head, though the movement sent fresh waves of dizziness through me. "No, I… I don't want to believe it. It can't be true." Die? And then what? Become some puppet for a dark entity? My life, already a tapestry of pain and confusion, was apparently destined to unravel into something far worse.
Emily, seeing my distress, let out a small, anxious cry. She rushed to my side, dropping to her knees. "Kassius! Kassius, breathe!" she urged, her voice laced with panic. She grabbed my hands, her own trembling. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear for me. She looked completely lost, unsure how to help, how to fix this.
Then, in a movement that seemed to surprise us both, she leaned in. Her lips, warm and surprisingly soft, pressed against mine. For an instant, the world stopped. There was a strange, faint sensation, like a tiny spark of static electricity, a warmth that spread from her lips through my entire being. The spinning in my head slowed, then ceased. The crushing weight of her revelation didn't disappear, but it receded, pushed to the background by this new, overwhelming sensation.
The heat of her lips, the gentle pressure, the sudden, shocking intimacy of it… it brought me back from the brink. My mind, which had been fragmenting under the horror of her words, suddenly cleared. Instead of the sickening dread, my awareness was filled with the frantic, thunderous beating of my own heart, a rush of blood that made my face burn.
She pulled back, her own face flushed a deep crimson, her green eyes wide and uncertain. We stared at each other, the remnants of the kiss hanging in the air between us. I didn't know how to feel. The terror was still there, lurking, but now it was overlaid with a bewildering mix of shock, confusion, and a strange, unexpected warmth.
A whimper escaped my lips, a pathetic sound. "Emily," I asked, my voice low and shaky, "who… who are you really? To me?"
She remained crouched over me, her blush deepening. "We were… we were really close, Kassius," she whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were still holding mine.
"Close?" The word felt inadequate, hollow. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring her image. The weight of everything – the curses, the beatings, my fated death, the monstrous contract, and now this kiss from a girl who knew my horrifying future – it was too much. The tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down my cold cheeks.
Seeing my tears, Emily's expression softened into one of profound tenderness. She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing mine. Gently, she used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe the tears from my face, the fabric surprisingly soft. Then, with a quiet sigh, she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a hug.
I leaned into her embrace, my body still weak, my mind still reeling, but finding a strange solace in her closeness. Her hug was firm, secure. We remained like that for a long while, huddled together in the cold alleyway, two lost souls clinging to each other amidst a storm of impossible truths. The fear didn't vanish, but for those few moments, it was held at bay by the simple, human comfort of her presence.
Suddenly, the shrill, jarring sound of the school bell pierced the quiet intimacy of our embrace. It shattered the moment, a harsh reminder of the world waiting for us.
Emily jumped, pulling back as if startled by an electric shock. "The bell!" she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. "We… we should go back." Her face was still flushed, her eyes avoiding mine.
I nodded, feeling a reluctant strength returning to my limbs. The world hadn't stopped, after all. Pushing myself up against the wall, I rose, shaky but upright. The horror of her revelation still echoed in my mind, but the kiss, the hug, her quiet confession of closeness – they had woven a fragile shield around my heart.
She glanced at me, a flicker of concern in her eyes, before turning towards the school building. I followed, the unspoken words and the phantom touch of her lips a strange, new weight I carried alongside all the others.
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The echoes of the bell and the phantom warmth of Emily's lips still lingered as I navigated the short distance to the boys' changing room. My mind was a whirlwind, her horrifying revelation about my future death and the subsequent, shocking kiss battling for prominence. I felt exposed, raw, as if a layer of my skin had been peeled away.
I stripped off my gym clothes mechanically, the worn fabric smelling of sweat and the peculiar, sterile scent of the gymnasium floor. The sooner I changed and left, the better. I just wanted to be alone, to try and process the cataclysmic shifts that had just occurred in my understanding of my own life.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my school shirt. I had just pulled it on, my other set of clothes – the ones I'd worn to school – still in a heap on the bench, when the door creaked open. My heart sank. I knew that sound. It wasn't the hurried exit of a lone student; it was the deliberate entry of a group.
Matteo swaggered in, his usual coterie trailing behind him like jackals. Damascus was there, his earlier camaraderie with me during the start of gym class now replaced by a sneer. Emiliano, the tailor's son whose cruelty always seemed particularly sharp, smirked from the back. And flanking the entrance, effectively cutting off my escape, were the twins, Luca and Antonio. They were hulking figures, their expressions dull but their intent clear.
"Well, well, Kassius," Matteo drawled, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. He sauntered closer, his eyes glinting. "Had a nice little chat with the foreigner, did we?"
I tried to edge past him, my bag clutched tight. "I'm leaving."
"Not so fast." Luca and Antonio moved as one, their broad shoulders blocking the doorway. Matteo, with a deceptively casual shove, guided me from behind, forcing me to turn and face him.
The world seemed to explode in a flash of pain. Matteo's fist connected with my right cheek with brutal force. My head snapped back, stars bursting behind my eyes. I stumbled, my legs threatening to buckle, only to be caught by the unyielding wall of the twins behind me. They propped me up, their grips like iron vises on my arms.
"So," Matteo sneered, leaning in close, his breath foul. "Did the little green-haired witch spread her legs for you, church boy?"
A surge of heat, potent and unfamiliar, flooded through me. Despite the pain throbbing in my cheek, my voice came out surprisingly steady. "Mind your own business, Matteo."
Damascus, ever the loyal lieutenant, stepped forward. "Didn't think you were the type to become someone's pet, Kassius. Especially not a freak's."
"And I didn't think you were the type to even know what a girl's attention feels like, Damascus," I countered, the words sharper than I intended. "Let alone comment on others."
The big boy's face darkened, his fists clenching. He swore, a low guttural sound, and took a menacing step forward, but Matteo raised a hand, a silent command for him to hold.
Emiliano, his eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation, chimed in. "Looks like Kassius here wasn't beaten enough last Friday. Still got some fight in him."
"You're right, Emil," Matteo agreed, his lips curling into a predatory smile. "Maybe we were too gentle."
The twins tightened their grip, yanking my arms painfully behind me. Matteo approached, his movements slow, deliberate. He grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my already aching cheek, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"You know, Kassius," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the only reason I didn't do more to you last time, after she humiliated me, was because I respected your father. Figured he'd deal with you. But if even he doesn't care about what you do, if he lets you run around stinking of his butchery and consorting with foreign trash…" He squeezed my face harder. "Then you're free game."
A desperate, primal instinct took over. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth into the fleshy part of his hand. Matteo roared in pain and surprise, reflexively slapping me hard across the face. The impact forced me to release my grip, blood – his blood – tasting coppery on my tongue.
"I won't give you any satisfaction, Matteo," I spat, defiance burning through the pain.
He wiped his bleeding hand on his trousers, his eyes narrowed into slits. "Oh, you're right about that, Kassius. The real satisfaction will come later." A truly nasty smirk spread across his face. "When I finally get to punish that green-haired bitch properly."
"You wouldn't dare touch her," I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound brave. "Remember your score with her? What was it? Two-nil, in her favor?"
Matteo's smirk widened, turning venomous. "Ah, but you see, I did a little digging. First, I thought she must be rich, with that fancy briefcase and all. But after a little… bribing… of the school registrar, I found out something interesting." He paused for dramatic effect. "She's an orphan, Kassius. No family. No backing. Just a charity case living in some rundown city apartment."
His voice dropped, becoming oily and suggestive. "And the Balavo Alley boys? They owe me a favor. They heard about a pretty little orphan girl who thinks she's tough. Even she won't be enough for them, not when they're done."
My blood ran cold. Balavo Alley. Gangsters. Real guns. These weren't just schoolyard bullies; these were dangerous people. The image of Emily, alone and defenseless against them, flashed through my mind.
"You wouldn't dare!" I exclaimed, desperation clawing at my throat. "They'll kill her!"
Matteo chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "Oh, they might. But not before I have my turn. I was promised her body after they're done with her. A little reward for my information."
A wave of nausea, cold and sickening, washed over me. The thought of Emily… of what they planned…
"No!" I screamed, thrashing wildly against the twins' hold. "Leave her alone!" But I couldn't muster the strength. My struggles were futile, pathetic.
The other boys in the changing room, those who had been pretending not to watch, now openly laughed, their faces alight with vicious glee.
Matteo's fist slammed into my stomach. Air exploded from my lungs. He hit me again, and again, each blow a sickening thud that resonated through my entire body. My vision blurred. Bile rose in my throat. I choked, doubling over as my stomach revolted, throwing up onto the grimy changing room floor. I collapsed to my knees, shaking, humiliated.
"Ugh, you're disgusting," Matteo sneered, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. He forced me to look at him, his face a mask of triumph. "Don't worry, church boy. I won't give you your real punishment just yet. Not until I end that foreigner. This is just a taste."
End the foreigner. His words, his casual brutality, the leering promise in his eyes… it ignited something within me. A rage so potent, so blinding, it eclipsed the pain, the fear, the nausea.
Seeing the fury in my eyes, Matteo's smirk widened. He slapped me again, lightly this time, then again, goading me. "What's wrong, Kassius? Gonna cry? Gonna beg? Can't do anything, can you?"
The rage swelled, a roaring inferno. I focused all my will, all my desperation, all my hatred for him and what he represented, into breaking free. My muscles screamed, my sinews strained.
Suddenly, with a surge of power I didn't know I possessed, my right arm slipped from Luca's grasp. It was slick with sweat, or perhaps the force was simply too much for him to hold.
In a single, fluid motion born of pure instinct, I launched my freed arm towards Matteo. He reacted quickly, raising his arms to guard his face. My fist connected with his forearms, a solid, jarring impact. But it didn't stop there.
My arm, moving with a will of its own, snaked around his guard. My fingers, now more like talons, closed around the right side of his head. As he tried to retreat, to pull away, my grip tightened, my fingers finding purchase on his ear.
My muscles tensed, a primal instinct guiding me. I twisted my arm backwards, sharply, violently.
A wet, tearing sound filled the air, followed by an unearthly scream.
Matteo collapsed to the floor, clutching the side of his head, blood gushing between his fingers. He writhed, howling in agony, his ear a mangled, bloody ruin.
The sudden, shocking violence stunned everyone. The twins, their faces pale with horror, instinctively loosened their grip on my other arm.
Seizing the moment, tensed and trembling with adrenaline, I shoved them away with all my might. They stumbled back, their surprise giving me the precious seconds I needed.
I turned and fled, bursting out of the changing room, the sounds of Matteo's screams and the shocked cries of the other boys echoing behind me. I didn't look back. I just ran.
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My legs pumped, carrying me away from the scene of carnage, but my mind was a maelstrom. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, and a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a sickening disorientation.
Down the stairs I stumbled, my body heavy, unresponsive. I propped myself against the cool stone wall of the corridor, struggling to stay upright, to not pass out right there. The sensation wasn't entirely new; I'd felt this strange, draining aftereffect before, after other intense… episodes. In fact, this time it felt almost tamer, less consuming than on previous occasions.
But this time was different. This time, I had no excuse.
I looked at my right hand. It was steady now, pale, showing a constant of the brutal act it had just committed. Blood and torn flesh clinging to my fingernails. Just my hand. With my own hand, I had hurt someone. Maimed them. For once in my life, I had inflicted pain, not just received it.
The realization hit me with the force of another blow. I couldn't blame it on anyone else. Not on a curse, not on some unseen entity controlling my limbs. Perhaps the "curse," whatever it was, had given me the unnatural strength, the sudden surge of power. But I was the one who had imagined the act. I was the one who had twisted his ear, who had felt that sickening, tearing sensation.
It didn't matter that I did it thinking of Emily, of protecting her from Matteo's vile threats. That was no excuse. It felt hollow even as the thought formed.
And the most disturbing part? I knew it wasn't reallyfor her. The rage had been too personal, too deep-seated. It was for me. For all the humiliations, all the beatings, all the fear.
A fresh wave of dizziness washed over me. I remembered Emily's words about my fated death, the necromantic contract. Was thisthe monster I was destined to become?
My stomach churned. I had to get out of here. They would come for me. Matteo's father was a councilman. There would be repercussions.
Weakly, I pushed myself off the wall and started walking, or rather, shuffling, towards the school exit. Each step was an effort.
I glanced back at my right hand, flexing my fingers. The worst part, the truly sickening part, was that beneath the shock and the lingering nausea, I didn't feel bad. Not in the way I should. My mind raced, trying to conjure excuses, to diminish the severity of what I'd done. He deserved it. He threatened Emily. He was going to hurt me. But I knew, with a chilling certainty, that those justifications were empty. They were just words, failing to cover the raw, unsettling truth.
Was I really the kind of person to hurt others like this? The question echoed in the sudden silence of my mind.
I looked at my hands again, really looked at them. They were the hands of a boy, still small, still relatively uncalloused. These were the hands that had never lifted in defense against my parents. Never against my uncle. Growing up, I had learned a brutal lesson: adults were just in their violence. Their punishments, however harsh, were deserved. That was the order of things.
So then, the violence youngsters used – Matteo's, Damascus's, even my own today – was it unfounded? Just cruelty for cruelty's sake? That's what I'd always believed. But as my thoughts churned, a more insidious idea took root. Could it be that I was just making excuses for my own passivity?
I remembered the revolver, hidden in my room. The weight of it in my hand, the strange, almost comforting familiarity. Could it be that the reason I never guarded against my parents' abuse, never sought revenge, was simply because I was too weak to make any difference? That my body, my very instincts, knew the futility of it?
It's not like I never imagined fighting back. Countless nights I'd lain in bed, bruises aching, and fantasized about striking out. Against Matteo… against my parents… against my uncle…
This primal rage, this sudden eruption of brutal violence, had stripped away all my illusions. It showed me that I didn't have any excuses. I wasn't inherently better, more "educated," or quieter than my peers. I wasn't different. I was just weak. And given the chance, given the power, I would have done the same things as them. Perhaps even worse. I was no better. A failure of a human being.
Tears began to sting my eyes, blurring the corridor into a wavering, distorted mess. But even as they fell, a cold, practical part of my mind knew that I couldn't afford to stop moving. I had to get out.
With a shuddering breath, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and forced my legs to move, carrying me out of the school and into the uncertain, hostile streets of Genova.
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Suddenly, as I neared the desolate corner where the cobbles gave way to a weed-choked alley, I felt a petite hand gently close around my arm, stopping my blind escape. Disoriented, vision still swimming with tears, I flinched, expecting another threat, another accusation. Instead, the presence pulled me closer, with a surprising strength that belied its small frame. A soft, warm kiss brushed my cheek.
Through the watery haze, I saw familiar strands of vibrant green hair, catching the weak afternoon light like spun emerald. Emily.
An involuntary sob, raw and ragged, escaped my lips. The carefully constructed walls around my emotions, already battered by the day's events, crumbled completely. I turned, almost collapsing into her, and hugged her tightly, burying my face in the surprisingly soft fabric of her school uniform. Her scent, that strange mix of flowers and something subtly artificial, filled my senses. I clung to her, a drowning man grasping for a lifeline, trying to draw some measure of calm from her steady presence. My right hand, the one that had inflicted such grotesque violence, trembled as it found its way to her hair. I grabbed a couple of her shining, silky strands, the texture unexpectedly soothing, and felt like the crushing pressure in my skull lessened, just a fraction.
"Kassius," her voice was a soft murmur against my ear, laced with an aching concern. "What happened? You're shaking."
I pulled back slightly, enough to see her worried face, her green eyes wide and searching. "I… I hurt Matteo," I choked out, the words tasting like ash and blood. "It was because…" I stopped myself. No more excuses. The justifications my mind had been scrambling to build felt like sand castles against the tide of my guilt. "I hurt him because I wanted to," I admitted, the confession tearing through me, raw and shameful. "I can't excuse it. There's no reason good enough."
She cocked her head, her expression shifting from concern to a thoughtful contemplation that always unnerved me. After a moment, a small, almost hesitant smile touched her lips. "Calm down, Kassius," she said gently, her voice a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. "Whatever you did, I'm sure Matteo deserved it."
I wanted to reply, to scream that she was wrong, that no one deserved that, that her casual acceptance of my brutality only deepened my horror. But looking deep into her spectral eyes, those captivating green orbs that seemed to hold a universe of understanding and an uncanny sense of home, I understood that it wouldn't make any difference. Her loyalty, her acceptance of me, was absolute, and in a strange, terrifying way, that unwavering belief was both a comfort and a condemnation.
My arms tightened around her again, my voice a broken whisper against her shoulder. "Why? Why would you accept a monster like me? After what I did…"
A faint giggle escaped her, a light, incongruous sound against the backdrop of my turmoil. It wasn't mocking, but rather… fond. "Oh, Kassius," she murmured, her cheek resting against my hair, her own arms now wrapping around me securely. "It's because of you that I even know what life is. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have experienced any of this – the good and the bad. The joy, the fear, even the pain." She pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes, her own shining with an intensity that stole my breath. "You are my everything."
Heat flooded my face, a blush so fierce it felt like my skin was steaming. Her words, so earnest, so absolute, were a lifeline and a lead weight all at once. They were too much, too profound for the wreck I felt myself to be. I shook my head, overwhelmed, and gently let go of her, stepping back. "I… I have to go home," I mumbled, desperate to change the subject, to escape the intensity of her gaze and the reflection of myself – someone worthy of such devotion – that I saw in it.
Emily's face lit up, her earlier concern momentarily forgotten, replaced by an almost childlike eagerness. "Okay!" she exclaimed, her energy suddenly boundless, a stark contrast to my own bone-deep weariness. "I'll follow!"
As we started moving, her hand found mine. My first instinct was to pull away, to retreat into the familiar, wretched isolation of my self-loathing. The touch felt too kind, too undeserved. But her grip was warm, confident, and after a moment's hesitation, my fingers hesitantly closed around hers. We walked back towards the butchery, her small hand a comforting, grounding presence in mine. The curious and no doubt judgmental stares from the few onlookers we passed barely registered; her presence beside me created a small, private bubble in the hostile world.
Even with her warmth radiating beside me, her fingers intertwined with mine, I didn't forget what had happened in the changing room. The image of Matteo's bloodied face, the sound of his screams, the sickening feel of his ear tearing – these things were branded onto my soul. I was disgusted with myself, with the capacity for brutal violence I hadn't known I possessed. But Emily's unwavering warmth… the staggering thought that I, Kassius, could mean so much to someone, that I could be someone's everything… It made me feel a fraction better. A sliver of light pierced the oppressive darkness of my guilt. Perhaps… perhaps I wasn't such a horrible person. Perhaps I had overthought what happened. He had threatened her. At least, that was the fragile excuse I desperately wanted to give myself, a shield against the crushing weight of my own monstrosity.
When we reached the familiar, grim facade of the butchery, its scent of old blood and sawdust a grim welcome, Emily saw me heading towards the main shop door.
"Kassius," she asked, her head tilted in curiosity, "why aren't you going to use the auxiliary entrance to your rooms? Wouldn't that be easier?"
I paused, my hand on the shop's grimy, cold metal handle. "Matteo's father is a councilman, Emily. Someone important in the city," I explained, the reality of the situation settling heavily on me. "I've brought trouble to my father, serious trouble, especially with Saturnalia coming up. I have to face him through the shop. I can't sneak around."
I prepared to let go of her hand, to step into the den of my father's inevitable wrath alone. But she called my name, her voice soft, pulling me back for a moment. I turned, and before I could form a question, she leaned in and planted another kiss on my lips – quick, warm, and utterly disarming. It sent another jolt, less shocking than the first but just as potent, through my weary frame.
"We should go around somewhere tomorrow," she said, her cheeks tinged with a lovely pink, her eyes sparkling. "Explore. Instead of you holing up in your room like usual. Please?"
My own face was burning, the heat spreading down my neck. "Okay," I managed to agree, my voice barely a squeak. The thought of spending a day with her, away from the suffocating confines of my life, was a terrifying, exhilarating prospect.
She let go of my hand then, her smile radiant, a beacon of light in my shadowed world. "Good luck, Kassius." She stepped back, clearly intending to wait until I was inside, a silent guardian.
Red-faced and steaming, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, I turned towards the butchery door. I had to do this. I had to face what I had wrought. I had to display courage, or at least a convincing imitation of it. At least for her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the shadowed interior, the metallic tang of blood and the earthy scent of sawdust instantly enveloping me like a shroud.
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