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You lie in your bed, listening to a broke grocery store clerk defile your whore mother in the other room. They’re still playing that damned song, which seems to effortlessly penetrate through the pillow squeezed over your ears. You came home from a day that almost killed you—where you failed to protect Noelle—to find Mom drunk, rolling on the floor. That bitch, oblivious to just how annoying she is, how inadequate of a mother she is, how much she hurt you. She would be in the bunker if it weren’t for Susie.
Susie. You wish you were with her: at the lake, at the diner—really, anywhere but here, with those disgusting pieces of shit. Anywhere with enough light to see her smile, and enough silence to hear her voice. If there really was a God, you would have prayed for them to take you away.
Anywhere but here.
You throw off your blanket, leap out of bed, and cross the room to the window all in one, quick motion. Irritation fills your limbs with a nervous energy to move and act. You still have your shoes on, but they can’t hear your footfalls on the hardwood floor. She can’t hear you, that stuck up bitch. Always in her world.
You spare a glance at the corner of your room. At It. Still as a corpse, in Its cage. You were told that It stays dormant at night, but you’re hesitant to leave It alone, not after what It did today. What It did to Noelle.
What It made you do to Noelle.
Carol told you to try and keep an eye on It at all times. If you left the window open, It could sneak out, It could foul the entire plan, It could find Noelle and—
“hehe. what did you expect? i’m ribbed for your pleasure,” you hear from the room over.
You fling the window open and clamber out so fast your foot catches and you tumble end-over-end through the air before hitting the ground, almost breaking your neck.
⸻ ♥ — ♥ ⸻
Ralsei sipped tea on the ledge of a cliff. He had his back facing an imposing rock wall, and his legs dangled over the edge, hanging over a drop he couldn’t see the bottom of. His robes flapped like a flag. This ponderous section of Castle Town always had a strong wind. It didn’t bite, like a gust of winter air that chilled you to the bone; it blew thickly and lukewarm, a dry draught that made your nose stuffy.
Ralsei’s tea was lukewarm. When it had been brewed in the café, the sides of the mug were too hot to touch, and Ralsei was afraid to take a sip, lest he scald his tongue. After a walk to the Cliffs, it had cooled down to become a soothing warm. However, after many minutes of slow sipping, it cooled further. Now, the bitter accents grew, and it didn’t quite feel like a hug anymore.
Ralsei wished he could have a hug. He immediately admonished himself for having such a desire; he was the Prince of Darkness, vital keeper of the Prophecy. Any distraction could lead to the Prophecy not being fulfilled, and the Roaring would commence. Having attachments would only lead him astray, and tempt him to break what he had been made to follow.
Despite all that, he could not stop his hand from straying to Susie’s dried blood on his cheek. Susie. Since she came into his life, he knew what having a friend felt like. He knew what being loved felt like. That couldn’t be wrong, could it? Susie had told him she wouldn’t let anything bad happen, and he knew she was being sincere. He knew the consequences of breaking the prophecy, but his heart knew—it knew—that he couldn’t lose his friends. He just couldn’t.
But he couldn’t let the world end, either.
Back and forth, Ralsei went. He teetered on the fence between doing what was right for everyone, and doing what was right for himself. Something just felt so right about what Susie had been telling him. On the other hand, any attachment might mean not being able to do what was necessary to stop the Roaring.
Back and forth. Hot and cold.
Ralsei was stirred out of his reverie by a sound to his left, from Castle Town proper. Sharp, clacking footsteps. The sound bounced off of distant cliffs and valleys, turning into a never-ending echo, each step blending into the next, and the one before. Ralsei sighed, hoping it wasn’t Lancer. The child was growing on him, but Ralsei was really not in the mood to be stuffed into a tuba. Again.
But it wasn’t Lancer. It was Kris.
“Oh, um, hi Kris!” Ralsei said, smiling. “I would have made you some tea, if I knew you were coming. I didn’t expect one of you to visit, after…”
Ralsei left it unsaid. Their day was best left forgotten, at least for the moment. Ralsei got up from the ledge, tracing the rim of his mug with his finger. “Is… there any reason you came to visit?” Ralsei asked.
“I thought of you, Ralsei,” Kris said.
Ralsei went from smiling to beaming. “Oh! You did? That’s so sweet of you, Kris!” he said, moving closer. Kris spoke in their familiar, monotone voice, words flowing smoothly and unforced; the Angel was not here. Knowing what It was doing to the prophecy—doing to Noelle—it was probably for the best that they were truly alone at this moment.
“I thought of something you said,” Kris continued. Hearing that, Ralsei blushed. Had anyone ever remembered something he said? It was a small thing, but even that amount of care was unheard of before he met Kris and Susie.
“What… what did I say?” Ralsei asked. “Tell me! The suspense is killing me!”
Kris crept closer to Ralsei, so they were within arms length. “When I first met you, you said that if I ever wanted to hit you, that would be okay.”
Ralsei blushed harder—out of embarrassment. “Hehe… Yes, I remember that,” he said. He knew he was a doormat, but he forgot just how bad he was.
Ralsei was improving. He was proud of that.
“Um, and why did that make you come here?” Ralsei asked.
In response, Kris closed the distance and drove a fist into Ralsei’s stomach.
“You never took back that offer,” Kris said.
Ralsei’s knees instantly gave out, and he crumpled to the ground. For a brief moment, all he could do was clutch his stomach while his body refused to respond. Breaths came in stops and starts, and never full enough to quench the feeling of needing to breathe. Ralsei felt like a fish drowning in air. Bile rose in his throat.
“K… Kris…” Ralsei choked out. He could feel his diaphragm twitching. “That hurt…”
From the ground he was kneeling on, Ralsei looked up and saw a sadistic grin spread across Kris’ face. The red from their barely glowing eyes reflected in their teeth, like blood. “Good,” Kris said. “I like seeing you hurt.”
Kris wound up a kick and sent it flying towards Ralsei’s head. Ralsei blocked it with his scarf, which wrapped around Kris’ leg. Kris swung their leg back and easily yanked the scarf off of Ralsei’s neck, which pulled the young prince to the ground once more.
Ralsei climbed to his feet and shied back while Kris untangled the scarf from their leg. “Kris, please, you don’t have to do this,” he pleaded. “What about our… our times together. What about what Susie—”
Kris dashed forward—growling in anger—and punched Ralsei on the nose. He spun away, holding his face. Kris didn’t relent; they grappled Ralsei from behind and tackled him to the ground, immediately wailing on the prince with their fists. Ralsei held his hands up to shield himself, until his forearms were burning with pain.
Kris stopped punching and rose to their feet, out of breath. “Look at you,” they said. “So weak.” Without warning, Kris stomped on Ralsei’s chest, and the boy felt something snap.
Ralsei screamed in agony, and turned on his side, clutching the place where his rib broke. His eyes were squeezed shut from the pain, so Ralsei didn’t see Kris’ kick coming. Their shoe’s stiff toe slammed into Ralsei’s stomach, in the same spot where he was punched earlier. For a second, Ralsei could not breathe at all. The muscles in his abdomen spasmed. Overwhelming nausea came over him, and Ralsei could not stop his stomach from spewing its contents out his mouth. Hot vomit—hotter than his tears—dripped from his mouth, his nostrils, into a puddle on the floor. Bits of food got stuck in his once-white fur. Ralsei was so exhausted that he didn’t bother saying anything.
Ralsei got on his hands and knees and tried to crawl away, but Kris used their foot to push the prince's face into his own puddle of sick. “Pathetic,” they said. “So pathetic. So weak. You can’t fight back. You can’t do anything. I’m. In. Control. Now.”
Then, for a brief moment, Ralsei almost resisted. He remembered what Susie said to him, how she encouraged him to stand up for himself.
He was the Prince of Darkness. Of course he could fight back. At any moment, Ralsei could heal his wounds in an instant. He let Kris take his scarf; one strike from it would have broken bones. With a wave of his hand, Ralsei could burn Kris to cinders. Make their skin bubble, their flesh sear, their bones char. He…
He was nothing. A darkner. In reality, he was letting Kris do all this, because that was his purpose: to serve lightners.
Ralsei knew Kris was having a hard time. He knew they must feel alone, afraid, powerless. Powerless from their promises. Powerless from the Angel. Powerless from the divorce, from everything. They needed this—deserved this, as did Ralsei. Besides, he could just heal after Kris was done. It didn’t matter in the slightest that it hurt. Ralsei was an object, and objects did not have feelings—they served a use. What Kris was doing only proved that. If this was the best way Ralsei could be of use to Kris, then he should be grateful.
So, Ralsei let the strikes hit. Kris let go of all restraint—they descended onto Ralsei and rained a flurry of violence on his body. Any part of Ralsei that was unmarred faced Kris’ wrath: his thighs were pounded, his throat was throttled, and Kris even bit off a piece of Ralsei’s floppy ears. By the time Kris was done, the little prince lay, with his teeth, in a puddle of blood, urine, and puke, struggling to breathe with broken ribs.
Kris rose to their feet, and silently gazed upon Ralsei for a moment. Then, without a word, they left. Ralsei hoped he was able to make them happy. The cuts on his lips split open as he forced his mouth into a smile, salty tears making his wounds sting.
⸻ ♥ — ♥ ⸻
You gingerly vault through the school’s broken window, trying to not put too much weight on your left hand. You think you sprained your wrist when you punched Ralsei.
You walk along Hometown’s empty sidewalks, the cold LED streetlights making you squint. You don’t hear a single person. The smell of wet grass wafts through the air. The metallic taste of blood is stuck in your mouth. Your wrist hurts.
The front door is unlocked, because of course it is. The song stopped. You can hear them snoring upstairs. You don’t try to be quiet. You stomp through the living room to the kitchen. You check the fridge. The pancakes are still gone.
You collapse onto your bed in your blood-caked clothes. You know you have the festival tomorrow. You know you have to see Noelle. You know you have to put that thing back inside of you.
You really hope you don’t wake up.