Marry or Kill

04

E L I A S

Days before

In my mirror, a repulsive scar snakes its way across my collarbone. Slowly, I trace my finger along the jagged edges, feeling the rough texture of the damaged skin beneath my touch. The orange light casts a sinister glow over my reflection, turning my eyes into pools of molten amber.

I look tired today, and indeed I am.

Naturally, I take the liberty of concealing this unsightly imperfection beneath the fabric of my attire, sparing the world the unsavoury sight of it. It's a small act of self-preservation, a way to shield myself from the prying eyes of others and the memories that the scar dredges up.

As I navigate the corners of the cold establishment, I cast dismissive glances at the soldiers stationed like statues at each doorway. Their faces, frozen in a face of supposed discipline, betray nothing. Their misery remains inconsequential to me, a fact I need not be visually reminded of.

I begin to tuck my pistol in its holster, its polished barrel catching the glinting light with an almost mocking shine. A subtle effect, perhaps, but enough to unsettle one of the guards. Absurd, really, for anyone to entertain the ludicrous idea that I would need to kill a seemingly useful guard.

I carry on through the establishment, and make sure to avoid Noah's shift around here just because I've had enough reasons to be pestered today. Noah's lover disappeared into The East two years ago, leaving him haunted by her absence—I know little about his affairs with women, especially under the ruling of my father.

She had gotten sent to The East because of her father's treason, and has never returned. But little did I know how much he liked her because he has been uptight ever since.

My collar is too unfitting and tight—partly sealing my airways. I try not to show the irritation clawing up my throat, but I think it's already obvious when I adjust my neck.

I pass my father's room, but my ears catch the quiet murmuring coming from inside. He's talking to someone on the phone.

For a moment, I pause, listening in. I've had enough lessons in my childhood marred with pain to know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but still, my instincts betray me, and I dip my head near the ajar door.

"Obviously, I've put that pitiful exchange money to good use, and rest assured, she'll be returning—though I doubt she'll recognize the life she once knew," my father murmurs in that same belittling tone of voice, laced with the arrogance twisted in his voice.

It gnaws at me for a moment, and I wonder how he hasn't been killed when he speaks to people like this. But then I recognise it in myself as well. I'm a hypocrite.

I've always been aware that my curiosity tends to tread into the realms of the ridiculous—unnecessary, sacrificial. Yet, despite my better judgement, I find myself listening in longer, compelled by the need to uncover the identity of the person he's discussing.

"Rest assured, she won't dare to stick her nose where it doesn't belong, especially given your son's peculiar attachment," my father replies with a sly chuckle, then suddenly like a crack of a whip, the door creaks and becomes further ajar.

Light cascades onto my features, exposing them to an unforgiving glow that mirrors the guilt of being caught. The sudden glow lays bare the emotion etched across my face. A silent confession.

My father watches me for a moment, and anger twists in his face. "What are you doing, Elias?"

I don't dare to betray my skepticalness or the fact I'm preparing for pain. "Eavesdropping," I reply—I don't care to lie because he already knows anyway.