The Degenerate (Mythics Book One)

1 ~two years ago~

 The photo in my mom's closet was dated fifty years back, its black and white grains blurred with age. It was a newspaper clipping, or at least I thought so because of the soft texture and white edges. The longer I squinted at it, the more I couldn't deny the twinge of recognition in my gut. I knew those too-large eyes and freckled cheeks. Even in black and white, the dark brown hair was obviously familiar. This girl had it kept cropped around her brow in a chic and edgy pixie cut. I pressed my hand to my long brown locks, finding it hard to breathe.

Sitting here, kneeling in my mother's closet with the air becoming stuffy and humid with my panic, I didn't think about how my back was to the bedroom door. I didn't think about how my mother said she would be home soon, not even about how I'd left the front door unlocked for her.

"What are you doing in my room, Ivory?"

I tensed, my fingers freezing and dropping the clipping. The impossible picture of me fluttered back into my mother's box of keepsakes. It rested lightly on top of folded letters and an old baby bracelet. It didn't fit in with the memories. It didn't belong among the shrine-like collection of pink bows, a palm-sized scrapbook, or the forgotten mother's ring collecting dust in the back.

I stayed firmly planted on the carpet, staring at my hands. My mother's gaze was a pair of needles, poking, prodding. Waiting. "I was looking for family heirlooms or something," I said slowly, chewing the words. "I thought maybe I---"

"Did you find anything?"

The air in my lungs refused to cooperate. "I found a picture," I said, and suddenly, I was drifting, my eyelids weighed down by sandbags. A feeling crept over my bones, lifting the weight on my chest. Almost like pins and needles, the cool sensation washed over me like water. I turned to face her. "A picture of me."

"Oh," she said, thin lips spreading into a smile. "May I see?"

My hands grabbed the picture, and then I was on my feet, walking to my mother. She gently held the clipping, eyes narrowed into painful slits. Up close, too close, she smelled like the ocean that crashed a short walk away, salty and briny, but... she was dirty. I smelled mildew. Decay.

"This..." my mother began, "is most unfortunate." The light, airy quality to her normal voice was gone. Now it dripped with rancid honey, coated with savage glee. I got the feeling this wasn't unfortunate for her at all. "I must say I'm disappointed with your abilities, sweetheart."

A pounding, demanding surge of energy rose within me, telling me to run, run, run. My heart raced as perspiration began to collect at my temples, tingles drifting down my neck. This couldn't be my mother. I would never feel like this around her, but the fact that I did now only seemed to contribute to the acute sense of wrongness spreading through me. I felt my fingers twitch, but that was the only movement I could muster. I couldn't even force words out of my mouth.

Gazing down at the clipping tenderly, my mother suddenly clenched her fist and crushed it. "Should have done that a long time ago I suppose."

A ragged gasp escaped me.

"Oh, dear, no." She held my chin between two cold fingers. She shook her head. "I'm afraid this ruse can no longer be kept up, now that you've seen a fraction of the truth."

My voice was hoarse. "What truth?" It occurred to me that she decided when I got to speak or move. My skin was itchy and stretched too tight while I was trapped within.

There was no light in her icy blue eyes as she said sharply, "You have been a complete and utter waste of my time."

She let go of my chin and pushed me away. I staggered backward, still unable to move, heart throbbing with vibrant panic. I watched as she pressed a button on the earpiece she always wore when she was working from home. "We have an issue," she started, all crisp and formal. "Subject seven has woken up."