"Time does not heal all wounds; it just gives them space to sink into the subconscious, where they will continue to impact your emotions and behavior."
— Yung Pueblo
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Father didn't always hate mother. He didn't always hurt her or me. But when he found out who my mother really is, the day that I was born, he started loathing the mere sight of her.
He made me think I was worthless since I was the son of a worthless woman.
My mother is a desicle, and my father is a human, what does that make me? None. Worthless shit.
On my eighth birthday, father called me in his home office. He had never let me in that place. He stood beside the large window, gazing outside.
"You know what's your worth Rumis?" Another reminder that I was neither to be called a human, nor a desicle; a soul in-between. An insult of his way.
"You tell me." I retorted.
"When I was your age, I was already helping my dad in his business work..." I wasn't expecting him to start telling me his story. He never had, by any means, ever talked to me without an insult. " 'A child genius' he used to call me, my father. When I took over the business, it really took off and here we are now." He let out a slow audible breath then continued: "Compared to how I was when I was your age, you're... nothing. Ordinary."
The words shouldn't have hurt, but they did, in a way that felt surreal.
"Isn't intelligence genetic?" I bit the words out in a low guttural tone, with brute force and anger.
He scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. "You know Rumis, if intelligence was genetic, I would be in a mental asylum right now."
So you're technically saying you're family was stupid?
"Then? Where does it come from, real intelligence?"
He looked at me then and gave a slight smile, the only time I had seen him sincerely smiling at me, even though it was small.
"The day you figure that out," He spoke, his voice as low as a whisper but steady and loud enough to reach me. "I will admit that you're worth it, son."
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Worth.
The only normal conversation I ever had with my father didn't end as normally as one would expect to.
I don't particularly remember what happened after that, but I remember my mother tucking me to bed as my wounds screamed.
"When will this time pass? When will we ever be free of father?" I ask her, trying not to wince in pain.
In return, she gives me the sweetest smile ever and gets up. She reaches the door and says the words I have never been able to forget: "I read somewhere that: 'Time does not pass, it continues' ; and so will our time continue until the clock stops ticking for your father.'
And I took myself to be the one who stops the clock for him, Mother.
I wreched myself out of the thoughts and looked down at the card in my hand.
Guilt started settling in the pit of my stomach again and I forced myself to look up at the building I was standing infront of now. A lump formed in my throat, realizing what I was doing. The grip of my fingers tightened around the small rectangular card in my hand.
I didn't steal it. I just made a duplicate, the real one is still in my mother's possession, right?
Pushing the thought away, I steeled myself once again and entered the small, not-so-public and ancient looking library.
As soon as I entered through the main wooden door, three things hit me with the force of a strong wind. First; there wasn't a single person here who was a human; Desicles, all of them. Second; everyone had the same card on their desks as the one I had in my closed fist. Third; everyone's eyes were on me, like I was a threat? No, it was something else. They were looking at me like I was... food.
I ignored the judging looks and went to the counter. "Hello. I would like to get an entry."
I was here to get an entry to The Poison Tree and knowing that my mother never wanted me to go down this path, knowing that her being a former member of the organization was the reason father loathed us the most, I couldn't help but feel like this would be a felony and won't end good for me. Either way, I had to do this.
It's been over a week since I came to the Brecei kingdom and Aunt Merissa made it pretty clear to me this morning that she won't bear with me another week.
"Entry to what, Sir?" The receptionist replied.
I slid the card in my hand on the counter. Deep red in color, with golden engraving on it. An ID card, my mother's ID card from when she was still a member of The Poison Tree.
The receptionist gave a curt nod and reached his hand under the table and took out an old landline phone. He dialed a number, too quick for me to interpret what numbers he hit. The phone ringed but he didn't put it to his ear and then he put the phone back down again.
"You would want to wait on the table near rack 5."
I slightly nodded as an answer and turned around to the racks, the numbered racks. Apparently, the numbered racks were at the back of the unnumbered ones. As it so happens, the not-so-public and small library wasn't that small.
I made my way to the table near rack 5 and just stood there, facing the racks, tapping my foot on the wooden floor.
After a while, a man came to stand beside me, his face in the opposite direction as mine. He came up to my shoulder, wore a mask, a cap, his sinwey muscle visible from the shirt he wore.
"How did you get the card?" He finally spoke in a low and grave voice. His voice was of a an old man but his looks weren't.
"By card, I think you mean the ID card."
"Where did you get it?"
Not so conversational, eh? Interesting.
"Someone, you might know very well if you've been part of the house for long enough."
"Who exactly is that someone?" He finally turned and met my gaze, his dark eyes piercing. "And it's organization for you, House is for those who are a member. Those who are not just call it organization."
There was a way to play with words, to make the other person anticipate your answer, to make them want to hear it, and I had been taught that quite well.
"Lydia." I spoke after a long silence.
A flash of recognition flashed across the man's eyes at the name. "I'm taking you know who that is, don't you?" I probed with the question.
"How do you know her?" His tone was sharp now. He didn't even try to hide the fact that he seemed angry.
Why, I wonder, would you feel furry at the mention of my mother's name?
"I came here on her reference, Lydia Nathon or Lydia Armitage, whatever you would like to call her."
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As we entered the small room in the secluded corner of the library, there was a beeping sound and the lights in the room turned red. The man stood near the door, completely calm as the room started moving.
An elevator?
It went down and down, lower from the surface. The lights of the room finally turned white again and the man opened the door and stepped out.
The tunnel we stepped into, if it really was a tunnel, was pitch black. Not a single light, whatsoever. As he walked and I followed the sound of his footsteps in the dark, I could smell moss.
Exactly how old is this place? Decades? Centuries, maybe?
I stopped guessing and forced myself to focus on the man and the rhythm of his footsteps.
After a while of just walking in silence he stopped infront of, what I could make out in the darkness was, a gate. He knocked at the metal door and the sound echoed through the tunnel.
"Only speak when you're asked to and don't speak out of line, otherwise; you'll pay." The man warned in a low whisper as the gate opened.
The room, beyond the door, was huge and the only light in there was of the candles on bronze stands. Five stands, to be specific, increasing in size from the sides to the middle one, the one infront of the only man in the room's seat being the tallest. He sat on the biggest throne wearing a red cape and a golden mask. Two thrones to his either side were smaller in size and at the feet of each of the smaller thrones was a compass.
"How did you find out about The Poison Tree?" The man in the red cape and golden mask who I took to be The Proprietor spoke as the man who had led me here disappeared into the darkness. Listening to his voice was enough to place his age.
Mid fifties to early sixties.
"If I straight out told you," My lips curled up at the ends, involuntarily, even when the man before had told me not to speak out of my way. "...what would be the fun in that?"
Besides, life's not fun without risk, is it?