Marked for Murder

fifteen: separate us from the love

IF I HAD CLAIMED to know what pain was during the Proclamation, I was wrong. I had not yet felt what I am feeling right now: this terror, this feeling of being abandoned. It seems to be all consuming, like a relentless woodpecker drilling into the very soul of your existence.

Macaria is downstairs; she's sent my friends home and is explaining everything to my family in private. I am in my room, my eyes wandering to the mirror, every now and then. My gaze keeps meeting the monstrous mark and I cannot help but whimper at the sight of it.

It's — plainly put — disgusting. The outer circle seems to grow and spread, its veins jutting out in every direction possible. The bident feels like a cruel joke; a symbol of Hades, the saviour, unleashing such pain.

I press my eyes shut. There's no way in the Underworld that my life went so horribly wrong, so fast. I cannot fight this, I cannot plead not guilty, I cannot do anything. Right now, if my parents even look upon my face, I shall consider myself fortunate.

It is a huge gamble for my father. He stands to lose either way. He could give me up — the right, the honourable thing to do — or he could keep me a secret and endanger his life and my family's. Dad would be stripped of all his glory, his position and would be reduced to nothing.

Harvey would never spare an opportunity to rise up further in the hierarchy. He wouldn't care who he had to step over, no matter the consequences. I don't think that's what being Fortunate is. Having no heart, no feelings?

And I'm the one cursed to be a Forsaken. The Fates might have a warped idea of fair and unfair.

I jerk into a straight position when the door flies open. Flinching, I turn, knowing that I would not be greeted with good news. I'd be lucky if Dad simply threw me out instead of killing me right now.

My mind stops processing for a minute when I realise my father isn't yelling or freaking himself out. He simply walks over to me, to the bed, and sits down gently next to me. I notice how he is shifty and nervous, like he's almost scared to move close to me.

I gulp and vision blurs. Amidst all the differences and warring opinions, my dad has always been the warmest with us. The cold, unyielding General of the Council would smile and joke with only his family.

And now he was scared to be around one of his own.

The thought leaves me with an empty void in my chest. I bite back a choking sob and watch my mother move inside, with Macaria and Charles close behind. My father clears his throat but it does nothing to help the emotion stuck in his heart.

"Cynthia," he whispers, his eyes haunted. I hate that I am the reason for his vulnerability. I wish I could erase my existence at that exact moment -- the moment when I shattered everything he stood for.

I don't say anything, only look down and intertwine my fingers with each other to keep them from clawing the Mark on my back out. My father takes in a shaky breath before attempting to finish his sentence again. I know it will not be something I want to hear, so I quell my hope.