Shattered Relations | Aru Shah AU |

XXXVI

ARU
Aru felt somebody had ripped her heart out of her chest and was stomping on it, while she watched, bleeding out. 

"No, no, no, no..." she whispered, rapidly, her fists clenched, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. 

"This is fake. Doctored," she said, softly. 

Yes. This was an acceptable narrative. 

This isn't real. 

She felt like somebody was watching her.

This. Isn't. Real. 

It all made sense now, how Supermundus was a step ahead of them. 

THIS. ISN'T. FUCKING. REAL. 

She screamed it in her head, over and over, trying to drown out her mother's words: Your father is the Dormitator.

Anger replaced the denial, as she picked up the framed photograph, her eyes blazing, her gaze zeroing in on her father's face. 

Liar.

She threw it against the wall, and watched the glass shatter, fly into the air, form tiny cuts on her face.

The photograph was free. She crumpled it up, anger fueling her, muddling her thoughts.

He's the reason Mom's dead. HE'S THE REASON MOM. IS. DEAD.

She picked up a shard of glass, and watched a trail of blood run down her palm. 

All that sympathy. All that sadness. Fake. 

How could he just kill people like that, and then turn and grieve for them, like it was a shadow who was the cause of this carnage, and not him?

How?

She glared at the bracelet clasped around her wrist, and threw it against the wall. The charm broke into two, and Aru caught sight of a tiny device, blinking red. 

Well. Another mystery solved. She thought bitterly, crushing it under heel. 

He'd corroded her last keepsake of her mother's. 

Well... not the last keepsake.

The silver gun lay there, innocent, not knowing about what its owner was going to do. 

Aru's hand hesitated over it, as a tear-drop fell on it. 

When you know about everything, you'll know what to do. 

What to do? With a gun? She didn't know. 

A terror ripped through her, as a thought snuck into her mind: There's one thing you can do...

She fell to her knees, her entire body racked with sobs. 

"I've been living with a murderer," she cried, hugging her knees. 

"I've been raised by a murderer," she whispered to herself, her rage now numbed to something else. She didn't know what, and that scared her.

"My father's a murderer," she said, quietly, the syllables foreign on her tongue, sounding wrong, like they didn't belong strung together in this manner. 

Murderer. Murderer. 

"What do I do?" she cried, again, unable to take her eyes of the gun, the same thought ripping through her head.

"I can't do it, Mom. I can't. You wanted me to kill him, didn't you? Wasn't that what the gun was for?" 

Murderer.