Of Memory and Might ["The Fates Book I" fanfic]

1.3 - The Scary Hand

Author's Note: Just a scene representing how I depicted Atria's 'foster hell'. 

~~~~~~

Scene 3: The Scary Hand

 

“Atria’s first and only foster home had been a fearsome place.”

~Nicole Fearahn, The Fates Book I, Part 3.10

 

A.D. 2002

 

Ten-year-old Atria Shearer was perfect.

Perfect to inflict torment, in the master of the house’s eyes. Perfect for teasing about it later, to the other children in the foster home. And perfect for loving, in the eyes of Eldor Ambrose.

But the concept of loving, and the one person who gave it to her came late in the young girl’s life. For years, it had simply been the torture, the scarring, and then the laughing and whispering, afterwards. Young Atria had simply decided she was not meant to be loved.

She didn’t need it, anyway. Alone in the darkness, in the corner of the attic, she stayed content. She seemed to thrive and feed off of the obscurity in the place she would never call home.

She was the girl who never smiled. The other children knew her as the one the master liked to take upstairs. The one the master liked to slap. Her sable tresses hung in a screen over her forehead, her pine-green eyes glowing, somehow still luminous as one who had never been touched as she had.

Distantly, Atria knew of Eldor, though not by that name. He was unambiguously kind, the light in the shadows of the others’ lives. He was rarely beaten, rarely touched; the master preferred verbal abuse with this one.

The words never appeared to graze his gorgeous complexion, even as a boy. Eldor was ethereal, in a way, untouched by human emotions or flaws. Atria, along with the other children, often believed that his place was in a story book, rather than here, in foster hell.  

She sat in her usual spot, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, so much so that the others wondered if she could breathe. It was almost time. Any moment now, the master would come and take her to their usual place upstairs. The place where none of the screams could be heard.

She was weak. The other children were quick to tell her so, every chance they got. But she couldn’t help crying every time the hand went across her cheek, every time her lip was split for the thousandth time, every time the whip went across her back.

“Girl.”

And then there was her. Lilith, or ‘the demon’s pet’, as they liked to call her. Hair blacker than the eventide, eyes that would have made even the night envious. Her voice carried a distinct British lilt. She was the same age as Atria, and just might have been the worst part of foster hell.

Lilith kept a close eye on Atria. She had been chosen, for some reason, to be the blunt of both the master and his evil daughter’s punishment. From the day she had arrived, Lilith had taken a particular interest in her. And she was always smiling, as if the tortured girl’s existence was quite amusing to her.

She sneered down at the other girl now too, her teeth pointed like a goblin. She was also an otherworldly creature, a goddess of terror and ghosts, perhaps. A goddess of the night.

Atria didn’t respond. Instead, she brought her head up, a small gesture to show that her attention was taken. Even by this demon, for what it was worth.

“The master wants to see you.”

There it was: Lilith’s call. It happened every day, at this precise time. Atria rose slowly, her silky sheet of hair falling behind her, reaching her hip. Her bright eyes surveyed the hall.

She walked past the sneering Lilith. Past the gory tapestries that hung on the dark walls. They depicted scenes far too real to Atria, so she didn’t bother looking. In the dark, her green eyes were like a beacon of light, like a black cat walking through a shadowy night.

She passed the boy on her way upstairs. He had been called before her this time, and she could see a mark on his cheek. She would’ve gasped; the master never hit Eldor. Not the boy who was always helping the others, who was never so much interested in himself as he was the less fortunate.

Instead, she stayed quiet and forged ahead. His bright eyes burned into her bruised back as she did so, and she nearly turned back. Nearly.

She ascended the spiral staircase, knocked on the door as always, ever the polite child in a house full of sniveling six-year-olds.

He took his time responding, and she blanched. Her face lost its elegance just then, and she looked exactly her age for once. The frightened ten-year-old, who had nowhere to go.

“Come in.”

There were no words to describe the master’s voice. Even now, they sent tremors down her spine, causing her hands to shake and her breathing to become uneven. Even so, she responded immediately.

His bedroom was as lightless as the rest of the house, if not more so. The four poster bed sat in a shadowed corner, the sheets as crimson as the blood spilled here. His voice scraped at her ears, when he spoke again.

“You’ve been noisy.”

Her breath rattled in her throat. She said nothing.

“I can hear you, you know.” He rose from the bed. Towered over her, before stooping down to her level so that they were eye to eye. “You’re crying in the night again.”

Words had escaped her, so she merely nodded.

The hand went across her face before she could move away, sending her tiny frame sprawling across the clean wood. Tears stung in the back of her eyes, but she willed them away. No. I will not cry for him.

“You know, don’t you? You know you deserve to be punished.”

She nodded again. A sob escaped her throat, the lump in it larger by the second.

This was not the right thing to do. Another smack, this time to her ears, and she saw stars flash before her eyes. Her hand automatically went to the side of her head, where his ring had found home. Her fingers came away streaked with crimson. The same color as the sheets.

She didn’t dare cry. Instead, she rose from the floor. Apologized profusely, articulately. Everything he wanted her to say was said before the black door was opened, and she was shoved out of it.

The tears poured out of her eyes in silent misery, and she sunk to the floor. Wrapped her arms around herself, as if that would change anything. And retreated back into the corner, just like every other day in foster hell.

She knew the side of her face was still bleeding. She could tell by the other’s laughter. It scarred her ears worse than any physical punishment the scary hand could deal out. So she curled into a tighter ball, hoping to block out the sounds.

But someone was watching. Her pine-green eyes danced like a bar of light, searching for the particular pair of eyes.

And she found them. Staring at her across the room, was the first kind look she had received in...she couldn’t even remember when.

And it was his dark yet bright gaze, so utterly void of pity, and yet so full of something else. It was that which had her sitting up. Ignoring the other children’s hilarity, their teasing, their pointing. Atria Shearer sat against the wall, her hands folded in her lap.

And braved a smile.

~~~~~~~

Author's Note: Lilith was a small part of this chapter, but I always imagined her as sort of a demon's pet...who do you think she's based off of? [Hint: Lilith literally means "night monster"]

Next scene will be the only one that is a flashback of modern day Cloe :)

Thank you for reading! Please vote if you enjoyed this scene :)