Rewriting His Past

Mates

"Black's are always ready." The Duchess, who gave birth to him, had a chilly falsetto. Not again. Dusk begged the voice to fade.

"Black's are always ready." The Black's young master, his brother, had a calm, almost amused voice. A whip crack, and a sword ting, signaled the start of the battle. Please do not bother me. Dusk pleaded: He only wanted peace.

"Black's are always ready." He could hear his father's stern voice in his head.

"Black's are always ready." Even the youngest, who loves traps, had a high-pitched voice that rang in his head. Everyone had wronged him and had some level of hatred for him. Each of them invaded his dreams and was present throughout the day. The memory that elicited the most responses was the one that was the worst. That winter night must have been long. When the memory repeated itself, Dusk's head began to spin. Then he fell back to the time when he was ten.

"Why are you incapable of doing something as easy as dodging?" Dusk observed his mother, who towered over him, looking down at him with her red eyes. Her eyes took on a glow in the candlelight, making her ten times more frightening than usual. Due to the slap he had just received, Dusk forced a hard swallow; his face ached. The fever that was sweeping over his body was burning his face.

"I apologize, Mother." Dusk apologized, trying to win her over. He had just stepped outside to refill his water pitcher when he started to feel exhausted and achy. He did not expect to run into his mother, and on his father's advice, he did his best to avoid her.

"You are sorry; I am sorry." The sharp heel of his mother's foot caused his mother's black dress to flare up, sending him tumbling down the hallway. "I am sorry I gave you birth! If only I had known that my mastery of the martial arts would deteriorate so much and result in a child who lacks even the foundation of the martial arts!" His body was too frail to do anything but fight off the fever as his head spun and he attempted to stand. Help me.

"Sorry, Mother," Dusk said, lowering his head to the floor. His ribs were throbbing in time with his feverish heartbeat. He steamed up his face while exhaling on the ground. The hardwood floors echoed with the sound of his mother's square heel, making each incoming step cause his body to tremble more. Someone, anyone?

"Sorry, I will not make you a Black. Knight." His mother called his brother over. Older by two years, Dusk used to want to be like him. Now he only feared him. Please.

"Yes, Mother." As their mother had requested, Knight spoke up, sounding more resolute and unbending. The tears were too strong for Dusk to contain. He lost sight of them as the watery haze obscured the grain of the floor in his vision. Just once.

"Making him stronger." Dusk could only infer that her dress stopped in front of him from the way the edge brushed past his face. "It's the least we can do." Just once.

"Yes, Mother." Dusk lifted his head, wiping his tears away with his arm, as a sharp crack filled the air. He witnessed his brother charging at him while holding a whip. Someone.

"Brother?" Through his constricted throat, Dusk spoke. He pleaded with his brother and family to spare him harm with just one word. Dusk watched the hand that held the whip shake. Please.

"Knight." One word from his mother as she turned away ended Dusk's only hope. Don't let it happen.

"Black's are always ready." Knight raised his hand and recited the family motto. The whip followed him until it suddenly arced toward him from behind. In order to avoid the whip, Dusk twisted his body as much as he could. All he did was expose his back to excruciating pain. With more tears falling than he could ever count, Dusk cried out in agony. Dusk's adult and child selves pleaded. Please, someone, anyone, just once, stop him. Stop them.