Medusa | Novella

|6|

I grew up in the slums. In filthy streets, eating moldy bread and sharing my bed with rats. After all, how could anyone bear the burden of raising a daughter like me? Before I could control myself, I had turned enough people into stone that taking care of me became a fate no one wanted. Sinclaire was only ten years old when he took me in.

He wasn't wealthy; he was just as poor as I was, all skin and bones, with red hair that was jagged and unkempt. His red eyes were seen as the devil's curse. He was like me. At the time, I was too young to understand, but he knew how similar we were.

I remember the day I promised my heart to him. He had returned with the little he could find and handed it to me. My eyes were tightly blindfolded, and I couldn't see the world outside. I couldn't see the grim situation of the dingy place we slept in for the night, nor could I understand the struggles he faced at only ten years old.

I didn't have a name. I had never had a name. My parents hadn't kept me long enough to give me one. "Medusa" was a name the locals spat at me when they cursed me, kicking dust in my direction.

"Are you still hungry?" Sinclaire asked after I ate the bread he brought back, his voice low as he broke the last piece of bread in half, offering it to me.

I hesitated, my lips pressed into a thin line beneath the blindfold. I didn't speak much, only nodding weakly.

He nudged me with the bread again. "Come on, you need to eat. I'll find more later."

"I'm fine," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I don't need it." If I ate all his food, what would happen to him?

Sinclaire sighed, tearing off a small piece and placing it in my hand. "Eat it. I'm your eyes, remember? If I say you need to eat, you eat. You can't see what I can."

I hesitated a moment longer before nibbling on the bread, my lips barely moving. It was the same routine we had fallen into every day—surviving together in the filthy streets, dreaming of the day we could escape this hell.

"One day," Sinclaire murmured, more to himself than to me, "we're going to get out of here. You won't have to wear that blindfold anymore. People are going to respect us."

I didn't respond, but he knew I was listening. He could always feel it. Even without my eyes, I was never blind to him. He was never afraid of my powers. Instead, he always told me I could use them to help us escape this place. I didn't quite understand how the death of others would help me escape, but I was eager to believe him.

"How?" I asked quietly, the word so soft he almost didn't hear it.

"How what?" he asked, turning toward me.

"How will we make it out? They hate me." My voice cracked, a small tremor of emotion breaking through my usual silence. The blindfold, the isolation—who would accept us? I couldn't even look at the world around me, and yet he expected great things from me. As if he just knew I would be brilliant.

Sinclaire's jaw tightened. He hated the way people looked at me, the way they whispered behind my back, but he hated most that I believed them. That I believed I was a monster.

"They're idiots," he said, his tone hard. "They don't know anything. They're scared of what they don't understand. But we're not staying here forever. I promise you. I'll get us out of here."

"How?" I repeated, my voice breaking again.

"I'll figure it out. You're strong, stronger than any of them. And me? I'll be your eyes. Together, we'll survive. And we'll kill them all."

That was his promise. So why—

I staggered to the metal door, kneeling by it as I felt my eyes prickle with tears. He said we would kill them all. So why— A pathetic cry escaped my lips, and I broke down in painful sobs. I banged on the metal door, torn between finding a way out and staying here like he wanted.

The transponder snail in my pocket buzzed to life, and I quickly snatched it up, hope rising. "Fredrick!?" I called out desperately. "What's happening?"

The snail was silent for a moment, then a voice came through, soft and familiar. "You're crying again, love."

My breath caught in my throat. "Sinclaire?" I heaved. "You're alive, please—this isn't funny. Tell Crocodile to knock this off! I want to go back! I don't want to retire anymore!"

My words tumbled out in a frantic rush, turning into unintelligible sobs.

Sinclaire smiled weakly on the other end, leaning back in his office. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the blood that soaked his clothes. The sounds of fighting could be heard in the background, but he didn't seem to care. All he wanted was to hear her voice one last time.

"Alright, my dear. I'm sorry. It's a cruel joke, isn't it?"

It was cruel.

"Tell me where you are!" I begged. "I'll come right away."

He chuckled bitterly, knowing that wasn't an option. He had left her 100 billion beli—it was the least he could do. At least she would never have to go hungry again. That was enough, wasn't it? He wished he could have given her more.

"Sinclaire!" I shouted from the other side, my voice frantic. But he was too weak to reply. His life was slipping away, and he couldn't hold on any longer.

"You can't die yet! You promised to be my eyes! Sinclaire!" I cried out.

He had promised.

His biggest regret was not being able to keep that promise.

"Hmm," he hummed softly, as if listening to a sweet lullaby, as death gently overtook him.