For Every Letter

CHAPTER TWO

Envelopes #14: letters damien wrote but never sent

I wonder if it was magic. Every single day, I wonder if I had dreamt you up, if you had put your hands to those walls and fire ate, fire became life, or if I had just taken a match to wood by my own hand and sworn to myself that it was you.

I think I deserve this, after what I did, what I have done. I don't think you do. I killed your father, in a way. And he might have been the reason half of you was purple and the other was yellow every day, but that doesn't mean I hadn't seen how you would have bled for him with a single look's order. No one loved their parents like you.

I don't. My father is not kind, but I am not, either, and that makes me so afraid to be like him. To be him. He is smart, and patient, and loving to all commoners, but I am not one of those, and so he isn't to me. With me, he is the Head of the Marred-Crosses.

My announcement broke his heart, I think. He wants me to be his heir. He thinks I am the best candidate. I know I could be. I had taken half the time my siblings had needed to learn the sword and the gun and the fists, third with which they had memorized our history.

But I can't, after you. This life is not for me anymore. This is not punishment, sentenced by me onto myself. I think, in an odd, obsessive way, I am still hanging off your words. I am still thinking about how your lips curled around the word mine. You said you would have the crown, and I would sit besides you, burning every splinter and brain-dead insect that looked at you.

I do know we were just children, but I can't forget you. You moved like you will become a queen. You moved like you already are one. The guilt is still there, and the servitude is, too. If you would come now, and look at me, and tell me to kneel, I would kiss the ground you stood on, and if you allowed me, your feet.

#

I woke up to that featherlight, sharp texture of rough yet somehow smooth paper owned. The envelope my father had sent was in my hands, clutched tightly, a reminder of my restless night and waiting duties.

Life continued. It spun neither turtle-slow nor rabbit-quick. I went to my lessons: Zahir finance of Leading industries of medicine in the first building, Malice development of Reigning relationships between districts in the third building and Sentry justice of Leading justice of matters of blood spilled in the seventh building.

There were no Marred-Cross classes for me to attend, I had made sure of that.

I was an outcast. I hadn't been when I was first introduced officially as blood of reign, but then I went and took up pacificism. I was never outwardly ignored or spoken against. Those who came to Emerald and Jade were mostly from Zahir, so they prefered to smile as widely as they could and then stab. I was now accustomed to it, like the scattered Marred-Crosses and Sentries around. 

I was friendly to everyone. I was nice. At this point, I didn't even know if there were words to describe me beyond good.

My eighth lesson and the time forwards I dedicated to the club. Riel and Julie had a match against Ten and Cilla. Miss Lobelia, the one who taught most of Marred-Cross brutality and cruelty classes and so supervised our team, helped with their forms. I sat on the bench, healing everyone who came forward with an easy smile, Riel the exception. Riel got a grimace, sometimes a wince.

Cilla wrapped up practice two-thrids into the time it usually took. I shared a look with Julie at that, whose eyes were glossy after a particularly bad landing. She gave me a wobbly smile when I pushed her hair off her face and chided her for not coming to me about the bruise I now saw blooming like the many roses in Zahir on her jaw. Ten tried to slip away after I was done with her, but I grabbed him and glared until he conceded and I had iced his bruises and cleaned all his cuts.