A Bloodless, Broken Family

『 ⁰ ₁ 』

[ 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐭 ]

bullying; abandonment; child abuse; child neglect

Three.

Innocence, purity and believing that heaven sounds like the bell of the ice-cream truck as it rounds the corner, that it tastes like the sweet watermelon-flavoured icicle melting on your tongue; that it's laughing with the little boys and girls in the playground as you chase each other with dirty soles, holes in your little brown shorts and stains on your t-shirt; that it's Daddy picking you up and hiking you on his shoulders pretending to be superman—because he is your superman—as Mama giggles, taking a photo she'll later frame.

Three: pain is scraping your knees on the sidewalk and missing your favourite TV show because Mama picked you up late from Nursery. Three—playing heroes with your 'best friend forever and ever and ever!!' while you talk about a future where you two are the best of the best, victorious and strong and idolised. Three: listening to Mama sing you a soft lullaby to put you to bed, falling asleep to the sound of angels and shifting clouds and the loud morning sky.

Three is innocence; purity.

And then you're four.

Four—everything is wrong.

At four, you meet the doctor. He is the first of many monsters. (Because if he is not a monster, then he is an honest man. And you don't want an honest man. You want a liar.) He takes away everything you loved at three; innocence and purity. He speaks in snake's tongue, venom injected into your veins from the needle pressed into your forearm. (You do not believe him when he says he drew blood. He poisoned you. He had to.) You do not understand what he says, but you know it ruined you. There's the doctor, and you're four—not three, not anymore, never again—and everything is wrong.

"He's quirkless," the doctor tells Mama, tone clinical and absolute.

"Impossible," Mama says in return, stricken, "that's impossible."