My mind spun, memories flooding my senses, each more agonizing than the last. Overwhelmed with fear, I could only hear my own voice, pleading for it to stop.
A man with long, dark hair and a faceless silhouette tightened his grip around my throat. Desperately, I fought for freedom, but the life was draining from me, blending with the harsh, blinding white light that consumed everything. He spread my legs and forced his knee between them, pinning me down. A surge of panic ignited in my belly, like gasoline poured over a spark.
I summoned every ounce of strength I had left, my fists clenched in defiance. It wasn't a fair fight—this was survival. My movements were fueled by desperation, but my body betrayed me. Adrenaline surged, draining as quickly as it surged, giving me brief moments of strength before exhaustion took over. Pain twisted through my muscles, and every second stretched like an eternity.
I finally landed a punch to his face. His jaw slackened, bloody spit drooling from the corner of his mouth. But before I could escape, he yanked me back, kicking me relentlessly. Each blow felt like a fracture in my bones, each strike threatening to snap me in two—and they did.
Like a beaten dog, I rolled away, leaving a bloody trail in my wake. My right eye swelled shut; vision faded, but I could still sense the violence—the raging aura behind the silence. My arms instinctively wrapped around my abdomen, trying to shield myself as I struggled to rise. My legs shook violently, barely holding me upright. But before I could regain my footing, he unleashed a devastating kick to my stomach, and then grabbed my head, smashing it against the wall. My mouth filled with blood, my teeth broken, the world a blur of tears. I tried to shield my face, but his brutal fists ripped through any semblance of defense. He was enjoying himself, his voice cold and cruel. "Don't die yet. It's only just begun."
To him, I was a toy—a plaything in a twisted game. Each attempt to stand was met with a punishing blow, as he demonstrated his power and dominance. I was on the brink of death, but the stench of my own blood brought a flicker of life back into me. His hands tightened around my throat, constricting like a snake, suffocating me with every breath. Pain rippled through my veins, each breath harder than the last.
Broken, shattered, I felt nothing but agony. My body went numb, and everything inside me seemed to stop—the pain, the fight. I was slipping away. But then, through the fog of fading consciousness, I heard a voice—my twin sister, Guren. Her name echoed in my mind, and for a fleeting moment, I believed I was dead. Reliving the final day before her disappearance...
It was afternoon when we walked to school, side by side. We always held hands whenever we were outside—some people thought it was strange, but it wasn't for us. We were twins. It was how we connected, how we grounded each other. Without Guren, I felt numb, incomplete, like something vital was missing. But when she was with me, all was right. We knew each other's emotions without a word—no matter how well I hid them.
The memories flooded me, each one more painful than the last. Guren had a big heart—always ready to help others, even if it put her in danger. I didn't always understand it, especially when she acted recklessly for the sake of strangers. Maybe I was just afraid of losing her.
Her ideals were big, revolutionary. She dreamed of a world with no money, where love and kindness reigned, where people helped each other without hesitation. I never shared her vision—I never cared about changing the world. All I ever wanted was to stay with her, to never be apart. That was enough for me.
We were opposites in many ways, but that only made us stronger. Our parents had named us Guren—a crimson lotus, and me Seànn—the place where land meets ocean. A lotus without water would wither, and a sea without land would be nothing but emptiness. We were meant to be together, as we had always been.
It had been three years since our parents died in a car accident. It was our idea to let them take a break, to have some time to themselves. Guren had pushed for it, and I had supported her. After the tragedy, I told her it wasn't anyone's fault, yet I couldn't understand why it happened, why it had to be them. Guren hid her pain behind her smile, but I knew her better than anyone.
As we walked down the familiar path, I could feel the dampness of the rain-washed cement beneath our feet, the once-smooth stones now uneven and slick with age. The old pathway curved alongside the church where we used to go every Sunday, the memories of those days seeping into the present like a fading echo. Above, the sky stretched wide, a brilliant expanse of blue dotted with a few soft, puffed clouds, glowing white in the warm embrace of the afternoon sun.
That day, Guren was upset with me—her voice sharp as she called me "Seamule," the nickname she'd given me when she was frustrated. It was a quiet kind of anger, but it was there, and I could feel it without her even needing to say much. She hated that I stayed at work until the early hours of the morning, but we needed the money. Keeping our old house meant sacrifices. Temporary jobs weren't enough; they never were. While Guren picked up errand jobs whenever she could, I'd managed to secure a permanent position at a local beverage factory. The work was grueling, late nights spent in cold, echoing warehouses, but it paid enough to keep us afloat. Enough to cover our bills, and even save a little for a future I dreamed of—one where we could leave the city behind and start fresh somewhere new, somewhere quieter, although Guren was aiming for a more vibrant city with more opportunities.
"I want to stop by the church!" Guren said. It was the last place we had been with our parents, the place where we were baptized. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back there, but I understood that it was an important moment to her. Perhaps she wanted to say goodbyes.
The Cathedral loomed before us, its weathered stone facade bathed in a pale, overcast light. The entrance was choked with dead leaves, their brittle forms whispering as they swirled in the wind. Above, the towering spires reached for the grey sky, their intricate carvings worn smooth by centuries of rain and snow. The door, once grand, was now heavy with age, its wooden surface cracked and peeling, giving it a haunted, forgotten appearance.
Thirteen uneven steps led to the entrance, each one a challenge to ascend. The stone steps were irregular, worn down by countless feet over generations, and uneven in height—some too high, others too low. I stumbled with every step, the rough stone beneath my feet sending jolts of discomfort up my legs, as though the very ground was reluctant to hold me. It felt as if each step mirrored my life: never quite sure of the path, always one misstep away from falling, always haunted by the past. The cold air seemed to cling to the place, wrapping around me like the memory of something lost.
My sole happiness in this world had always been the simple truth that we were together—our family, a unit of 4, inseparable and whole. But since the day I learned about the tragedy, I found myself desperately searching for some logical thread, some answer I must have missed in the years before. I replayed every moment, every memory, as though understanding the reason for their death might somehow bring me peace. But it never did.
The more I searched for the cause, the deeper the emptiness became. It felt like a cruel cycle of pain—endlessly retracing my steps, rehashing every detail, hoping for an explanation that would make sense. But the answer always eluded me.
Our parents had taught us value and morals, they tried to instill faith in us, although I never found meaning in it. No matter how hard we prayed, no matter how much we worshipped, nothing changed or would change for worse. I had always resented it, especially after they died. If God was truly almighty, if He truly had the power to shape the world, then how could He allowed this to happen? Hadn't they worshipped Him enough, believed enough, loved enough?
I couldn't reconcile the faith I had been taught with the reality of their absence. Why them, and not someone else, why not someone who deserved to die? There are billions of people in this world, millions of bad people doing bad things every day. Why weren't they the ones to be taken away?
And now, how could I keep the warmth my parents had given me, when the moment they were gone, all that remained was cold, frozen silence? Guren and I were left to face the world alone, and without them, it felt as though the very air had turned to ice.
The pastor, who had been our father's closest friend, didn't even show up to the funeral. That absence cut deeper than I expected. People kept telling us that our parents were gone because it was meant to be—that they were in a better place now. But there's no way the "better place" could be one where we weren't there with them. If that's what heaven was, then it wasn't a place I wanted to believe in.
The cruelty of the world was something I struggled to understand for so long. People are quick to offer their empty words, to try and make you feel better with platitudes like "It was meant to happen" or "They're in a better place." But they don't truly want to grieve for others. Not until it happens to them.
Just like what happened to our parents. Within mere months, the visits stopped. The check-ins dwindled. Everyone who had once promised to be there, who had pretended to care, returned to their lives as if nothing had changed. They moved on, leaving us behind to face the wreckage of our family, abandoned and broken, like leftovers from a world that had no place for us anymore.