A Touch of Thorns

Chapter 1- Expectations

I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.

-Groucho Marx

-:-

The human mind is the scariest thing. It holds the capacity to make complex webs of deceit, weave tales of both beauty and horror, and shape reality according to its wishes. It's a labyrinth, a maze of thoughts, fears, and desires that can capture even the most clever of individuals.

I still remember the first time I killed someone. The scene replayed vividly in my mind's eye. I recall the cold bite of the blade as it sliced through flesh, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the musty air, and the echo of desperate screams resonating in the empty room. Tears cascaded down, tracing paths of despair across a once hopeful face, now contorted in agony. The fervent pleas for salvation dissolved into silence as life ebbed away, leaving behind vacant eyes that had held oceans of emotions just moments before. I stared at my hands, now tainted with crimson, feeling an unsettling mix of horror and perverse satisfaction. It was an inexplicable rush—a sensation both unsettling and oddly exhilarating.

It was then that the Syndicate found me.

"You did good." The leader's voice, cool and composed, cut through the eerie silence like a chill wind. He handed me a handkerchief, a token gesture that carried the weight of an unsettling pact. "Let's make a deal, Briar. Join the Syndicate, and I'll offer you purpose." 

His words, draped in veiled promises, held an allure that danced between temptation and moral ambiguity. As the handkerchief exchanged hands, I felt the weight of my actions pressing heavily upon my conscience. The stains of crimson, once imprinted on my hands, felt indelible—a constant reminder of the irreversible path I had embarked upon.

~~~

The phrase "You did good" lingered in my ears, a haunting echo of unwitting talent for something so grim, reverberating within the hollow caverns of my consciousness.

In stark contrast, my parents never seemed to acknowledge the things I excelled at, never a word of praise or encouragement. The memories of their relentless criticisms flooded back, their voices piercing my thoughts like shards of ice in a relentless storm. Each word they uttered seemed to cut deeper than the last, carving furrows of doubt and frustration into the very core of my being. It always commenced in the same pattern.

"Vivienne," my father, the king, sighed heavily, setting his papers down on the intricately carved, ornate desk within his grand chamber. The air felt stifling, heavy with the weight of unspoken expectations, charged with the tension that invariably accompanied these conversations. The scent of aged parchment mixed with the faint aroma of burning candles, filling the room with an air of formality and rigidity that stifled any semblance of comfort.

"I spoke with your teacher."

"About..." I raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Yes, but you've also done nothing right." His words, like a blade forged in ice, cleaved through the air with chilling precision. They were a stark reminder of their persistent disappointment, their expectations that forever seemed elusive. The taste of bitterness clung to each syllable, the bitterness of unfulfilled hopes and suppressed aspirations.

The words hung in the air, a heavy fog of disappointment, laden with the weight of years of unmet expectations. They settled upon my shoulders like an invisible burden, suffocating me with the impossibility of ever meeting their standards. Their lack of understanding, their inability to see beyond the façade I constructed to shield myself, was a crushing realization.