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Aunt Ariel grins, her dark red lips reveal a perfect set of white teeth. “Unlike them, we have no weaknesses. Little emotions don’t get in our way. When they do, we crush them.” Her grin gets impossibly wide like a Cheshire cat’s. “We’re a powerful, beautiful chaos.” Her features morph back into neutral, ice in the depth of her gaze. “I thought hard about how to ensure the continuation of our line. How can I remind Arthur of who he is? How do I subjugate both Alexander and Eva into an unredeemable loss? How can I do all that and trigger you to transform into what you truly are?” She pauses, a small smile escaping her. “It seems that a sacrifice needs to be made.” Aunt clutches the shotgun with both her small hands. “I look forward to seeing our future through your eyes, Aaron.”
It happens in a slow motion but still feels all too fast. Aunt aims the hole of the shotgun under her chin. A loud bang echoes in the otherwise silent night, deafening me. Blood splatters on the white chair and onto me. The warmth of it is soothing. It’s nothing like Victoria’s. This blood is filthy. Fragments of tiny bones swim inside it. A rosy organ’s pieces mingle with it. Strands of black hair are tinted red. The place where Aunt’s head used to be looks like the red chaotic painting in Father’s office.
It’s a masterpiece.
Someone is clutching my shoulders. Crying my name. Trying to steal my attention from the beauty Aunt Ariel left behind.
Two arms crush me in their hold, bruising me with lavender. Mother. She smells like spring, flowers, and horses. A warmth that came too late. I don’t want it anymore.
I’m dragged away from the room. My limbs don’t move as I’m snatched from winter’s coldness and thrown into spring’s embrace.
I want to go back.
No, I have to go.
‘Don’t worry, Aaron. I’ll always be with you.’
Frost seeps into my chest, freezing it to stone. I look over Mother’s shoulder to where my headless Aunt sits. I frown when she doesn’t move.
‘I’m not there, dearest nephew.’ Aunt Ariel’s ice-cold voice whispers inside my head. ‘I’m over here.’
. . . . .
Present,
My eyes pop open.
Cold moisture covers my skin like a blanket. My heart pumps blood harshly as my breaths come out in a frenzied mess. I attempt to get up, but the heavy weight on my chest prevents me.
I throw my head back on the bed, the soft sheets absorb the dampness off my skin.
Fucking hell.
The dream was too visceral. Too real. As if that memory happened today instead of twenty-two years ago.
Why in the gates of hell am I dreaming about my childhood?
My subconscious is playing a dirty trick on me. I dreamt those memories because they’re lethal reminders of mistakes. Choices.
/> Recently, I made two mistakes.
First, I allowed another human being to get under my skin. Then, I couldn’t stop at watching, which led me to the second mistake; I took Mae without a prior plan of what to do with her.
One thing’s for sure: Mae’s not allowed to leave.
Not alive, anyway.
This is one of the few times I have acted upon an impulse. I don’t like it. Impulses lead to mistakes. Mistakes are the source of losing control. My haunted dream is the best judge of that.
This situation is in desperate need for a fix.
I glance at the clock. Four in the morning.
“Get off me, Knight.” I push at the warm, heavy body on top of my torso.
His eyes sparkle, differing from the same black-coloured fur. His gaze fixates me as two large paws pin my shoulder blades to the mattress. His claws emerge by an inch, readying to rip my chest.
“Let me go, Knight. I’m not joking.”
