-
-
DATE:6th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
Consciousness returned slowly, like wading through thick syrup. The first thing I registered was pain—a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to emanate from every inch of my body. Then, as my eyes fluttered open, I saw her.
Emily sat beside the rickety infirmary bed, her green eyes wide with concern. Tears had left glistening tracks down her cheeks, an unexpectedly vulnerable sight for someone who had just taken down a group of boys twice her size.
I glanced around the dingy room, taking in the peeling paint and the faint smell of mildew. Our school's infirmary was a joke—barely stocked, rarely staffed. It was a perfect microcosm of the neglect that permeated every aspect of our education.
Emily's hand was wrapped around mine, her thumb gently caressing the bandage. The tenderness of the gesture sent a confusing mix of emotions coursing through me. Part of me wanted to lean into that comfort, while another part recoiled from it.
I pulled my hand away, wincing at the movement. "What happened after I blacked out?"
Emily's brow furrowed. "I brought you straight here and patched you up. No teachers have come looking."
I snorted, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through my ribs. "Of course not. Matteo's probably already spun some tale about how I attacked him."
"I'll make him regret it," Emily said, her voice low and dangerous.
I shook my head, ignoring the wave of dizziness the motion caused. "You shouldn't have gotten involved at all. This—" I gestured to my battered body, "—only happened because they thought we were associated."
"I couldn't just stand by and watch you get hurt," she protested. "I can't ignore anyone in that situation."
Her naiveté was infuriating. "You don't get it, do you? I didn't have problems with them for years until you showed up making a fuss. And now they won't let it go..."
Emily's eyes flashed. "And what about your parents? The beatings at home? Don't those count?"
"Shut up," I snapped, a surge of anger cutting through the pain. "That's none of your business."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. But I couldn't take them back. The air between us grew thick with tension.
Emily opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, her expression a mixture of hurt and determination. She stood, her movements unnaturally graceful even in this small, cluttered space.
"I know you don't believe me about... everything," she said softly. "But I'm not going anywhere, Kassius. Whether you like it or not, we're in this together."
As she turned to leave, a thought struck me. How had she thrown those boys around like ragdolls? It shouldn't have been possible. Just like the gun in my wardrobe shouldn't have been possible. Just like her very existence in my life shouldn't have been possible.
For a moment, the walls of the infirmary seemed to waver, as if reality itself was uncertain. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the world to make sense again.
When I opened them, Emily was gone. But the questions she left behind lingered, as persistent as the ache in my bones.
Did she leave me here? I looked around and saw that there was no clock in the infirmary. I must be late to get home. Today was Friday so we were supposed to prepare for tomorrow to go to church.
- - - - -
The infirmary bed creaked as I forced myself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. The thought of facing my parents in this state sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with my injuries. They weren't known for their sympathy.
Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor swayed beneath me as I stood, my vision blurring at the edges. I caught myself against the wall, taking small, agonizing steps toward the door.
The old wooden door loomed before me like a mountain to be scaled. I reached out, my arm feeling like lead, fingers barely brushing the tarnished knob. As I leaned my weight against it, a bitter thought crossed my mind: Was this girl really so heartless? To get me in trouble and leave me like this?
Suddenly, the door swung open. I pitched forward, bracing for impact with the cold floor. Instead, I felt hands catching me, impossibly strong yet gentle.
Emily stood there, her green eyes wide with surprise and concern. In her left hand, she clutched a steaming cup that teetered dangerously close to spilling.
"You should have stayed in bed," she chided softly, helping me regain my footing.
I winced, both from the pain and the realization that I'd misjudged her. "I thought you'd left," I mumbled. "I need to get home."
Emily guided me back to the bed, her movements fluid and assured. As she helped me sit, I couldn't help but notice the strange dichotomy in her touch—one moment, soft and yielding like any girl's hands should be, the next, unyielding as steel when she exerted even the slightest pressure. It was as if there was some hidden mechanism beneath her skin, granting her that impossible strength.
"Rest a bit first," she said, handing me the cup. "I brought you some tea."
The aroma hit me first—a rich, floral scent that seemed to cut through the musty air of the infirmary. Steam curled lazily from the dark liquid, carrying with it the promise of comfort.
I raised an eyebrow. "Tea? My parents never buy it."
A shadow passed over Emily's face, quickly replaced by a small smile. "I remember you love it," she said softly. "From... before."
The cup felt warm in my hands, a stark contrast to the cold confusion settling in my chest. How could she know my preferences? Was there truth to her claims about our shared future?
As I took a tentative sip, the flavor bloomed on my tongue—familiar yet entirely new. It tasted like a memory I'd never made.
Emily perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving my face. "I'll help you get home," she said. "But please, take it easy for now."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The tea warmed me from the inside, and with it came a creeping realization: Whether I liked it or not, I had to deal with her.
As I drank, I found myself wondering: If this was all a dream, as Emily claimed, what would happen when I finally woke up?
As I was finishing the hot beverage, my eyes couldn't help but wonder at the girl next to me. She was a beauty, a kind of charm I've never seen, but her whole figure was unnatural. She was slim and short, but her face didn't look like a middle schooler's. If I were to put it, perhaps Someone 19 or older? Yes, the more I looked at her, the less it made sense that she was at my school. And her hair... Besides the multiple tints of green that already would be hard to reach for a human even with paint, today she had curls, obviously made with some machine. But what machine? Such devices were impossibly expensive in our country.
This means that it was true when she said she comes from Concord.
"I need to get home," I said, setting down the empty cup. "My parents will worry."
Emily rolled her eyes at the word 'worry,' clearly skeptical. Nevertheless, she slipped her arm around my back, helping me to my feet. A jolt of pain shot through my ribs, reminding me of the beating I'd endured.
Just then did I realize that I never took my shoes off in bed. Hopefully the nurse wouldn't return too soon.
Then, one step at a time, we made our way into the hallway and then outside. Having her like this, holding me upright, I became acutely aware of Emily's scent. At first, I expected something pleasant, but the more she stayed close to me, the more I noticed an underlying, unsettling aroma. It wasn't quite alcohol or disinfectant, but something... toxic. Burnt plastic, perhaps? The smell lurked beneath layers of perfume, subtle yet unmistakable.
By the time we reached the butchery, my anxiety had reached a fever pitch. Emily moved towards the door to our living quarters, and I opened my mouth to tell her to leave. But before I could form the words, she had already knocked and pushed the door open.
My heart sank. Whatever happened next, I knew it wouldn't be good.
- - - - -
My mother appeared, her eyes cold and assessing. She barely glanced at Emily, focusing her disapproval solely on me.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice sharp as a cleaver.
Emily cut in, explaining about the attack. I watched my mother's eyebrow rise, her lips thinning into a line of disbelief and anger.
"Let go of him and go home," she ordered Emily, then turned to me. "Inside. Now."
But Emily didn't release me. "Why are you so harsh?" she challenged, her voice steady. "It wasn't his fault." I froze. How could she be so foolish? Does she think she makes a difference?
I felt the air grow thick with tension. My mother's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them. "A proper girl," she said, each word dripping with disdain, "doesn't linger in the streets like this."
Emily's grip tightened, impossibly strong. "I'm involved because they targeted him to spite me," she insisted.
My mother's face darkened further. "Whoring in school?" she spat, and my cheeks burned with shame and anger.
"It's not like that," I protested weakly, but my words seemed to evaporate in the charged air between them.
As the confrontation escalated, I felt a familiar helplessness creeping over me. Emily's defiance, while admirable, was dangerously misplaced. Didn't she understand the consequences?
When my mother tried and failed to pry Emily's hand from my arm, I saw something shift in her eyes—a cold fury I knew all too well.
"Let go," I said to Emily, my voice stronger than I felt. "You don't have to do this."
She looked at me, hurt and confusion plain on her face. But I held firm, silently pleading with her to understand.
As I climbed the stairs, my body aching with each step, I heard the door slam behind me. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot, final and damning.
I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this confrontation would have consequences. In trying to protect me, Emily had only made things worse. I was anxious, thinking of whatever she will do to me. I suffered punishment from far smaller mistakes. I unintentionally came across the revolver while taking off my bloodied clothes. The cool sensation from it's metal made me recoil, but as I heard my mother's footsteps on the stairs, keep my own eyes. I saw my hand moving by itself to grab it, as if by instinct, fearing the upcoming danger.
But the expected storm never broke. I heard my mother's hand on the doorknob, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "Your father will hear of this," she said, the threat hanging in the air. Then, silence. I was clutching the weapons so hard. I am so surprised I didn't set it off. Eventually the sound of her footsteps retreated, leaving me standing there, stunned. Confusion washed over me. Had Emily's presence truly rattled my mother that much? It seemed impossible, yet the evidence was clear-something about this encounter had thrown her off balance, leaving her unsure how to react.
Still holding the revolver , I looked in the mirror colored only by the Moon and I was so happy that she didn't decide to open the door. I had such a deranged smile, as if my face ignored all the traumatic events from today. Did I subconsciously want to release this anger I don't know what I would have done.
Scared, I let go of it, the heavy metal frame making a thud upon coming in contact with the wooden floor, before collapsing on the bed.
Exhaustion suddenly crashed over me like a wave. The adrenaline that had carried me this far ebbed away, leaving me swaying on my feet. I tried to fight it, to make sense of what had just transpired, but my body had other plans.
Sleep reached for me with cold, insistent fingers. It felt like a clammy embrace, a wet hand pulling me under. As if something unknown look pity on my suffering and forced me to take a break. But even then, I felt horrible.
-
-
DATE:7th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
I jolted awake to my father's heavy fist pounding against my door. "Church. Now," he barked.
I didn't realize at first, but today was saturday. Of course. How could I forget.
Moving brought expected agony, but as I braced for pain, I realized something was wrong. The stiffness remained, but the sharp sting of bruises had vanished. Frowning, I stumbled to the mirror and stared at the bandages wrapped around my arms and chest.
With trembling fingers, I unwound them. Where purple bruises should have bloomed across my skin, intricate patterns of scales shimmered instead—silver-green in the morning light, like a snake's skin grafted onto mine. They were a sort of tattoo.
I touched them, disbelieving. They weren't raised or textured, but embedded in my skin as if they'd always been there. A memory from Father Arnold's lessons flickered through my mind: the snake as healer, guardian spirit, protector against harm. Even then, in our society only slaves and murderers are tattooed.
Was this some sort of joke?
Emily. Had she done this? She was the only unnatural entity I could point to.
I should probably hide these from my parents.
The sight of the revolver on the floor interrupted my thoughts. I lunged for it, stuffing it back into the drawer just as my door creaked open.
---
The walk to church was silent and tense. My father strode ahead in his pristine coat—the only garment he owned untouched by blood—while my mother kept several paces between us, her eyes burning with a hatred so agonizing I wondered how she could call herself a believer.
Saturn's church loomed ahead, unassuming from the outside but filled with Genova's dangerous men. The kind of men that would skin you alive if met outside this holy establishment. I watched them nod respectfully to my father, a butcher whose reputation was built on more than just quality cuts of meat or even his reputation as a wrestler on holidays.
I was seven when it happened. A desperate man had threatened to burn our shop unless my father surrendered a pig. Instead of giving in, my father dragged him outside and "exchanged hands"—a euphemism that ended with the man's neck crushed, his body paralyzed. He died on the streets, begging for coins that would never add up to the surgery he needed.
My mother, devout in her own harsh way, had forced my father to attend church every Saturday since then. As if prayers could wash away what he'd done. As if anything could.
Certainly the Gods spoke of atonement, but my father never once felt bad about what he did. In the end he protected his livelihood and no one else dared to come at him. I am sure that is how he justified it.
But this is the exact way of thinking that all the other people come here praying have, to appear to be sorry. It's all a pretense. Ever since I understood this I hated going to church.
Even then, did I still have the right to judge them? Wasn't I going to hurt my own mother yesterday with a weapon no less?
Who knows what they would have done with her if she opened the door…. Actually I do know. There's no point pretending to be innocent. I would have killed her. By instinct I would have killed my own mother.
But how do I have that instinct? My father didn't even let me kill animals, let alone a human. Is this the future Emily spoke of? Would I really want such a future? Such a horrible fate…
I looked at my hands, at the scales under my sleeve. The snake certainly was a protector in Ventia, but I do remember that in the Unified Religion He was the reason for humanity's downfall. Mister Nathan always talked about how we should keep ourselves far away from snakes and liars.
I kept remembering all of those screams from 2 days ago. Calling me a killer. If so, is this my real skin? The one that was peelled off by injuries?
- - - - -
The Pontifex Maximus, my uncle, a man with a youthful gray hair, droned on about the approaching Saturnalia. His words washed over me, but I couldn't focus. My mind kept drifting to the snake-scale tattoos hidden beneath my shirt, to Emily's impossible strength, to the gun still hidden in my drawer.
"The 17th of December," my uncle intoned, "marks the pinnacle of our most sacred festival. We must prepare our hearts and homes for Saturn's blessings."
I glanced at my mother, her face a mask of pious attention. Did she see the hypocrisy? The contradiction between Saturn's promised abundance and the poverty that gripped most of Genova? As if one day with buffets open to anyone made up for the lack of food all year round.
Halfway through the interminable service, my father stood with a barely concealed sigh of impatience. He caught my eye as he left, his expression unreadable. Was he disappointed in me? Angry? Or simply indifferent?
When the ceremony finally ended two hours later, my mother's curt dismissal came as no surprise. "Go home," she said, her eyes already seeking out my uncle. No doubt to poison him against me with tales of my 'misbehavior.'
The walk home was solitary, the streets of Genova unusually quiet. Everyone was either at church or preparing for Saturnalia. I found myself wondering what Emily did on Saturdays. Did she observe any holidays? Did time even work the same way for her?
The butcher shop's familiar scent—blood and sawdust—greeted me as I entered. My father looked up from his work, hands slick with gore. "Change and help me," he grunted.
As I donned my work apron, I marveled at how easily my body moved. The pain from yesterday's beating was completely gone, replaced by an eerie vitality that hummed just beneath my skin.
For the rest of the day, I lost myself in the rhythm of the work—cutting, weighing, wrapping. But with each slice of the knife, each thud of the cleaver, a question nagged at me: If Emily was right, if all of this was just a dream or a memory, what was I really doing?-*-*-*-*-*