The Secrets of a Spy

(1) Twisted Grief

You would think it'd be warm in a church, with all the candles and prayers and smiles. But it was so cold. Freezing. I shuddered on the wooden bench and twisted my clammy fingers in the ruffles of my black skirt.
Mama was dead.
They said she perished from natural causes. A heart attack too brutal to come back from. But she didn't. I was there when she was killed with a poisonous dart. I saw the man break through the window and pummel her to the ground. I watched from the shadows like I always did. I did nothing. What could I have done? Something. Anything. But I was frozen. I was afraid. I was still afraid.
My body trembled as the pastor droned on in a dull tone, having no relation to our family whatsoever, and therefore no real emotions for our tragedy. He read a script and stated the sorrow befalling our sad, broken family. He said how God gave and took away. Why? What kind of God took a mother from her daughter? And why did no one believe what I saw?
My brothers and Father hadn't looked at me since I sobbed in their arms, begging them to understand Mother was murdered by a man with their tattoo. A snake strangling a dove, the insignia of their spy agency. Everyone told me I was in shock. I had just lost my mama. I was in denial. I was crazy. Am I crazy? Probably. But, was what I saw real? Definitely. I couldn't stop my tears as they poured down my face. The scene repeated in my memory, raw and unwavering. I still heard her scream for me to hide. The shattering of glass. The masked man and his exposed tattoo.
My vision swam and I had to lean forward with my head down. I swallowed against the urge to heave, though it's been days since I had a decent meal. I don't think I'll ever eat again.
How can no one believe my plea? Didn't they see the glass? Didn't they do an autopsy and find poison in her blood? Did they forget how healthy and strong my mother was?
I choked on my tears as the pastor's words fell to a close and everyone stood, repeating a practiced prayer for the deceased. But the words did nothing to ease the grief strangling me.
Once the pews were emptied, and I was the last to stand, I took shaky steps toward the casket. Her casket. I placed my hand on the polished, pearl wood.
"I'm sorry, Mama," my voice broke. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
I felt eyes on the back of my head and turned. One of the many spies in the room stared at me. He had tears in his eyes and I wondered if they were real or forced. I recognized him as a close friend of Mother's. Perhaps her killer now. I couldn't tell anymore. Each spy was a potential suspect.
The man gave me a respectful nod, but I ignored it and headed for the door as my lungs constricted. I was all too aware of how many spies I was surrounded by; how many traitors filled this church. Who killed her? I glanced behind me, catching the eyes of a dozen others from the agency. Nausea roiled my stomach. How dare they show their faces at her wake. Just as I reached to open the chapel door, it swung out and knocked me off my feet. I stared up at the boy whose mouth hung open in horror. He quickly gripped my arm and pulled me upright.
"Are you alright?"
The tip of a snake tattoo peered from the collar of his shirt. So young to have that tattoo. His dark eyes held me still as though they were made of the deepest depths of the ocean and the sweetest caramel. I was at a loss for words as my vision blurred from lack of oxygen. My thoughts trailed to his tattoo, to his hand on my arm, and back to his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again, but I pulled away and ran as fast as I could. My heart thundered in my chest as my head spun. I leaned against a wall far from the chapel, feeling the world tilt from all different angles. I touched the spot where the boy's hand had been but felt only the handprint covered in my mother's blood. I dropped into a trembling crouch as I cried in fear and anger. How will I ever find the one who killed my mother?

The days that passed seemed to never end. Hours went by, then days, and soon it had been months since Mama was buried. I didn't leave my room. I couldn't. I stayed in bed and cried until my brain was too numb to conjure anything else. I didn't eat. I barely slept, and when I would finally drift, all I would see were her dead eyes and cold body.
I heard a knock on my door, but I didn't try to get up and answer. I knew Papa walked in, his confident footsteps unmistakable. He hesitated before resting a hand on my back. It shook. He never trembled.
"Dalia," his voice rasped. "You need to get up, please."
I sunk lower into my quilt, the one Mama made me for my tenth birthday. Only a year ago. It still smelled like her. Father pulled at it gently until my head was exposed. He lifted me from the bed and held me in his arms, quilt and all. That was the first time he had interacted with me in weeks. I thought he had forgotten about me. My eyes throbbed with a longing for tears, but none came. Papa held me close, caressing my head.
"I'm so sorry, love." He breathed. "I shouldn't have ignored you the way I have been."
"Why?" The word was a shattered, dead thing. Father tensed. "You look just like her."
I gathered the courage to look into his eyes. Sorrow filled them with oceans of pain. I could tell he struggled to look at me, but he held my gaze. I pressed my hand to his cheek.
"I forgive you," I whispered as I fell weakly into his arms. His tears dripped into my hair.

It took me weeks to gain the strength to walk again. I didn't bother going back to school and took to wandering the empty house instead. My torn family was more distant than ever, though I knew my brothers and father still loved me. I didn't hold their actions against them; however, I never excused evil endeavors.
Two of my four brothers, Ryker and Dekkit, were rarely home these days, which could be said for everyone else. I didn't know where they went under the cover of shadows, but whenever the two returned it was late, and they were drunk. They were also sixteen and seventeen. Papa cursed them for it, shouting at them throughout the night. Nekoda told me that it was because father didn't know how else to react, for he also got drunk late into the night.
"It's the only thing they think is capable of numbing the pain," he said, taking a swig of water. Nekoda was always the wisest of us, and the reason was far more than his seniority of all siblings. The dark glasses he wore around his light eyes marked him as someone who read too much and spent most of his time thinking. We were similar in those aspects, but that's where the likeness ended.
While Nekoda's wisdom and brains made him less emotional, I only grew more so with the things I indulged in. I never could get a hug from him, and he didn't shed one tear when our mother died. Even so, I knew he wasn't completely "feeling less". I'll never forget how he clutched my hand when we first stepped into the church where Mother would have her burial.
Ryker and Dekkit were the complete opposite of Nekoda, and they scared me. They took being the youngest sons as an opportunity to be reckless and dangerous. They never missed a chance to tease me, cutting my toys in half and drowning my clothes in bleach or paint. The cruel pranks ended with Mother, but once in a while, I caught one of them in my room, and the familiar fear of finding one of their surprises on my bed kept me up the rest of the night. Mother was the only one who could put a stop to their antics with her fearless discipline. Father too, but after losing his wife he didn't have the heart to parent any longer, at least not in the way he used to. So the two boys ran wild into the night, doing deeds only the shadows could see. I wondered how they still managed to keep their place with the Dove and Snake, considering the organization aims to be "valiant" and "honest". Perhaps they didn't know what their two spies did when no one was looking. Perhaps they applauded my brothers for being so vile. But someone was always watching, even if we couldn't see them.
Alas, even with all these twisted changes formed by grief, my father changed the most. He no longer read me stories or smiled. He didn't touch my cheek in his loving way or kiss my head when I cried. All he did was sit in his office all day. I didn't know if he ate. If he slept or if he cried. He poured most of his energy and time into his spy work, which he hadn't ceased even after Mother's passing. I often found myself lingering outside of his study, listening to the phone calls he so often had. He spilled information carelessly through the crack in the door, and I absorbed it all. The first time he caught me spying was after a phone call with his boss. The reason for the argument was muffled by his shouts, but I heard him throw something against the wall and heard it shatter into a million pieces. Without thinking, I had entered his study uninvited. On the ground was a picture of him and Mother, the glass cracked and falling apart. Tears pierced my eyes at the sight, but the fear of my father overtook any emotion.
His jaw clenched as he strode toward me, his face red and angry. But Father never got angry at me. Not like that. He also would never, ever hurt one of his kids intentionally. Yet, even now, I still remembered the sting his hand had left behind on my cheek.
"Foolish girl! You shouldn't be listening to that rubbish!"
Father towered over me as I propped up against the wall, crying and holding my face. I didn't bother explaining I hadn't heard what the conversation was about. The color drained from his skin and he stumbled back a step, bringing a hand to his mouth in horror.
"Dalia..."
"Dalia!" Jarious jumped between Father and me. "What do you think you're doing, Dad?" He growled. "How dare you hurt her! What would Mother think?"
Jarious was the kindest of all my brothers. He protected me more now than my father. And now he was protecting me from my father. Jarious knelt beside me and touched my face, his brows pulled tautly. I couldn't see my face, but I felt it swelling and tasted the blood on my tongue. Jarious picked me up into his arms. I clung to his neck as I buried my face in his shirt. Without another word to Papa, he carried me up to his room and slammed the door, breathing heavily. Tears were in his eyes as he sat me on his bed.
"I'm sorry, Dalia." He choked. "You shouldn't have had to experience that." Jarious rushed to get a first aid kit. He cleaned the blood from my face and applied a salve to the bruise, sealing the cut with a bandaid.
"Please, try to understand him." He whispered. "Father isn't himself right now, none of us are." My brother took my hand. "But I promise, things will...everything will be fine." He wiped my tears as they fell. "It'll be okay, one day."
But it was never okay. Because one day, Papa died too.