Page 3 of Heimlock

Ignoring my attempt at intimidation, she flings open cabinets, slamming them shut when she discovers my meager excuses for food.

The anger rotting my insides flares; it has me stomping into the kitchen, ready to toss her out on that pert ass.

As if she can sense my intentions, when I’m close enough to scoop her up, she spins, pointing a finger at me. “Touch me and we’ll see how you hold up on an empty stomach while we rearrange this kitchen with your fucking face, Trinte.”

That stops me in my tracks. Like I said, she’s capable of doing it. Inhaling deeply, I exhale in resignation. “If I ask politely for you to get the fuck out, will you listen?”

“No.”

Rolling my jaw, I hold her stare until my eyes water, forcing a blink. She takes this as some silent victory and continues to assault my cabinets.

“Go shower,” she says, sounding chipper. “When you’re done, there will be …” She lifts a box of noodles I know for a fact are expired. “… something to eat.”

“Good luck,” I mutter, leaving her to make some half-baked concoction.

Fuming in my exhausted anger, I do as she demands and shower. I’ll never admit it to her, but it actually improves my mood. After shaving my face, brushing my hair, and applying deodorant, I almost feel decent.

It’d be better if my father were dead, though.

Because that’s the crux of it all. When he touched me at the Weyr reunion, it brought me back to a dark place. To the day I lost my eye and the moment I swore to myself that he’d never lay a hand on me ever again.

2

Age 18

Innocence was never in the cards for me. First, I killed my mother within seconds of my first breath. Second, I robbed my father of his wife; my brother of his mother. The former revels in daily reminders, stewing shame in my soul like a pungent witches' brew.

Fynn, my older brother, has never blamed me. At least, I don’t think so. Maybe he does; maybe he doesn’t. I’ve learned in my brief life that a person’s insides rarely match their outsides.

Every smile you see holds lives you’ll never know. The good; the bad; everything in-between. Secrets locked behind teeth that refuse to part and share the truth.

A long time ago, I learned the power of toothy smiles. They are the perfect mask, and when you can make others smile? The perfect distraction.

Today is a great example.

My grin hides the wince every time I sit down. Each joke is carefully curated to distract from the way I favor my right leg. A bright laugh smothers the deep dread of the upcoming endless days of torture.

As of this afternoon, I graduated from intermediate education. All of my classmates brag about their high education classes and trade schools they’ll be attending. Leaving home to see the world.

Whenever they ask what the future holds for me, it takes willpower not to beg them all to see my lack of future. I never have. Father will never let that happen. Instead, I lied about an acceptance to Drunin Prep, focusing on graduating with a degree in Weathology. To do something with this power that slithers under my skin, unshed and unexplored. Maybe help grow crops or encourage our skies to be safer for fliers.

After today, those lies stop. I’ll disappear into oblivion. Fynn’s too busy being a Dragxi to notice the fading. He hates Father just as much as me — the only difference is that I’m fairly certain Fynn was never Father’s plaything.

“Trinte, are you even listening?”

Quilen’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Shaking my head, I look at my friend. They’re holding out a piece of paper — their diploma.

“What?”

Quilen raises the piece of paper, then motions to my lap. “Your diploma. Are you sending it to Drunin Prep?”

I shrug, looking at the diploma resting on my legs. It might as well be a napkin used to blot out my future. “I think you can send in a copy.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll send in a duplicate, so the original doesn’t get lost,” I lie smoothly. “But I’d call them to double check.”

They nod, tucking the diploma back into a manila envelope. “Good idea. I’ll let you know what I learn.”