the other Son

1998

It was cold outside but she still preferred the snow to the crowded cafeteria. Her formerly short hair had grown back quicker than she'd thought and now peeked out from under her hat – her parents would notice nonetheless, of course, and she'd have to explain. It was the main reason why she refrained from cutting it again. Every inch shortened her father's anger and her mother's fussing once she had to go home for Christmas break.

It had been pointless anyways and she was a girl, would always be a girl, would always stand below boys and men. Boys will be boys, they said.

She ate her sandwich on the steps of the side entrance to the science wing of the school where the least amount of students lingered during lunch break. Although the awful rumour about her having lice had disappeared after two or three excruciating weeks some sort of brand had persisted, invisible at first glance but there and it drove her peers away from her. Being friends with her was an invitation to get picked on, social suicide.

Be nice, they said. She didn't want to be nice. She wanted to run and scream and fight and everything she was allowed to do was speak softly and look pretty and smile whenever she was wronged.

Having finished her sandwich she pulled the book she'd gotten from the library out of her backpack and flipped it open to where she'd stopped right before class. Her fingers were stiff and blue from the freezing temperatures and she struggled a bit to turn the pages.

"Ooh, look at this."

She hadn't heard them coming, too engrossed by heroines wielding swords and daggers and fighting for the good, and horned centaurs and winged lions and mighty armies.

The book nearly slipped from her cold fingers and she gripped it tightly, wishing it would suck her into the fantasy world where her gender wouldn't matter.

Creon leered at the book. "Didn't know runts can read." The boys with him snickered at the cheap joke, brainless dummies.

"You should try it sometime," she shot back with her chin jutting forward defiantly and courage from the pages seeping into the tips of her fingers, brave like the heroines.

Creon sneered and his eyes were even more blue among all the crisp white. His gaze returned to her precious book.

"Give it to me."

Her heart skipped a beat. "No."

His expression morphed into curiosity, like watching a critter die on the sidewalk. "Give it to me," he demanded again and held out his hand.

"No."

She was amazed by how well-trained his friends – or servants? - were since a tilt of his head was enough to prompt them to step forward and while one grabbed her short hair through the wool hat, driving his knee into her stomach, the other wrestled the book from her hands. Gasping for breath, pain radiating through her belly she watched as the book was delivered to Creon's waiting hands.

"The dark side," he read the title and weighed the book in his hands as if to approve of its worth. She'd have to pay for it if he damaged it.

"Do you think she's cool?" He held the book so she was able to see the cover – not that she had to see it since she knew it by heart from all the times she'd studied it in some sort of reverent prayer.

She nodded. He grinned.

"I think she's ugly." His spidery fingers tapped onto the heroine's face on the cover as he grimaced. "Just as ugly as you."

Be nice, they said.

"I mean, that scar." He wrinkled his nose as if hit by an unpleasant smell. One of his friends gagged dramatically. Creon paid him no mind though, too focused on his prey, her. His eyes were icy blue.

A lazy smile trickled like melting snow over his pretty face. "I think a scar would fit you well, don't you think?"

Her throat was tight as a vice and she shook her head, weakly croaking, "No."

"I do think so." He dropped the book dismissively and she went to dive forward, saving it from getting wet but her hair was gripped again and her scalp was on fire from the sheer force. Clumsily, she fell onto her knees and her pants were immediately soaked.

She looked up at Creon, appalled by this emotion on his face – vicious and cold and on the brink to insanity.

"Will you beg?" He retracted his hand from his coat pocket and, oh God, he had a knife. How did he have a knife, they were prohibited, the students weren't allowed-?

The pocket knife snapped open and revealed its perfectly smooth blade.

"Everyone will see that you're just a runt." He raised his hand and a scream bubbled up her throat but instead of striking her he handed the knife to the boy next to him. She didn't know his name, didn't know any of their names because without Creon they were nothing.

"Cut her open like that stupid book," Creon demanded, almost bored.

Panic was flitting across the brown haired boy's face. He knew this was going too far, knew the trouble they could get in. He could say no. Do the right thing and refuse. It was right there on his young face, in his wide eyes, and she thought she could see the words through his open mouth on the tip of his tongue.

His expression hardened, became that of an adult within seconds. He wrapped his fingers around the pocket knife and stepped forward with determination. Did he crave Creon's approval so much to do the unthinkable?

The world tilted on its axis, snow became sky, sky became snow and the blade ran across her cheek like a caress. Wasn't it supposed to hurt?

She heard herself scream and the hot path of tears.

She was shoved forwards into the snow and finally her face exploded into agony and her cries were muffled. Be kind, be kind, be kind.

Fight.

She pressed numb hands into the ground and heaved herself up, trembling from adrenaline. The snow at her feet was an improbable red.

Creon watched her, fascinated.

She wiped some of the blood off of her cheek and the sleeve of her coat got soiled by coppery redness. She must've looked like a feral animal as her gaze slid over to the brown haired boy who was about to cry, barely holding it together in front of Creon.

Despite her face hurting she smiled and blood ran into her mouth. "I'll kill you."