Eunoia | Sirius Black

Prologue

In the deepest parts of the mansion, a scream reverberates through the walls like a gunshot. 

Blood pools on the floors even though there is no one in sight who is harmed. There are three people in the house. 

Essex Hawke, Elena Hawke, Ella Hawke. 

Only one knows the truth. Only one has seen it.

And she is running for her life. She is running as the woman barrels down behind her, her fingers reaching for the locket on her neck, her eyes crazed. A madwoman's. 

Floor by floor, landing by landing, stair by stair, she is panting, running and running and running and never stopping. Not once. 

She was never safe within the walls of the mansion, never once when she was beside the woman she was supposed to call her mother. And now, she was more unsafe than ever. 

There was something about her mother. She was always looking at her in a strange way. And she'd always feared the gaze, as if she would decide her life wasn't worth it. As if she'd lunge at her, grab her neck and snap it. As if, one day, she would finally gather it that her daughter wasn't the sweet eight year old she was supposed to be. 

She is running down, down, down, the number of stairways in the mansion which she previously loved, which were now giving her a lurch, were dragging her down into a sinkhole and she wasn't ready - she wasn't ready to drown yet. 

Light a match. Her grandfather would whisper. Light a match and feel it burn with the same intensity of a blazed fire. 

She was so close now, her mother, bare feet thudding down the stairs and on the marble floor as she ran towards her. 

Her feet were blistering from the speed. She was so little, her feet so small and her strides so tiny compared to her mother. She knew she wouldn't outrun her, and yet . . . and yet, 

How do you know you are alive? How do you know you're not dead and merely existing? He'd asked.

Because I am breathing.

He had laughed then, laughed as though she was merely a child with no knowledge of the world. And it was true. She was a child. Only, she was never treated as one. 

Purpose, Elena. Purpose is what makes you alive. What helps you breathe. What is your purpose? What is your purpose, Elena Hella Hawke?

She was running, now nearing the door. 

Her mother was screaming behind her, throwing everything and anything that she could get her hands on towards her. A lamp hit her on the head. 

She whimpered, but ran. She was feet away from the handle of the massive door she had never been able to open by herself before. 

And she couldn't hear anything, she ran and ran and ran and her lungs were near collapsing, her feet were near bleeding and there were glass shards around her and her mother was still yelling at her to stop. 

But she didn't, even though her heart was pumping so quick, she felt dizzy. Even though her arms had gone heavy and there were bruises on her legs, diamond like glass under her feet. 

For she was so close, too close to breaking free, and her tiny hands were reaching out - on the verge of clasping around the handle and her mother was behind her, nearing her alarmingly and she was inches away and she could breathe again and there was a smile on her lip for she might live and they couldn't do anything to her - she would live, she would live, she would live. She was a girl and she would become a woman and she would live. 

Survival, grandfather. My purpose is survival.

What limits would you cross to survive?

Whatever it takes. 

Is  untimely death worth survival?

Everything is worth survival. I have been used for too long. Too long has hatred cradled me, I am going to survive. I am going to run. 

How long will you run, Elena?

Till the earth wilts into dust. Till the cosmos collapses into never ending sinkholes, till the mothers learn to love their daughters. 

She hadn't survived this long, hadn't sacrificed her childhood to grow old too soon, too fast, only to succumb now. 

Light a match, Elena. Feel it burn with the same intensity of a blazed fire. 

Light a match, Elena. And watch it change the world.

And only then did Elena's hands touched the handle, pushing and pushing until it opened just enough for her to pass through, only then . . . did she breathe. And the air had a shape, a face. And it had two eyes and two brows and a nose and full lips and it was hope. It was battered and broken and kneeling with pants but it was there. It was triumphant. And it looked just like her.