Polyamorous Killers

Chapter 1: The Past

3rd POV
At the age of four a little girl was taken to a doctor, because she seemed to only be happy when there was problems like people arguing.
——
The waiting room smelled of bleach and old magazines. Four-year-old Elara sat on the edge of a cracked vinyl chair, her legs dangling far above the floor. She was tiny—even for her age, the kind of small that made adults speak in hushed, worried tones. Her dark hair hung in uneven strands around a face that was all wide eyes and sharp curiosity. She wore a faded purple dress that swallowed her frame, the hem brushing her ankles.
Her mother, Claire, kept glancing at her from across the room, fingers twisting the strap of her purse. Her father, Mark, stared at the fish tank as if the sluggish goldfish might offer answers. Neither parent spoke. They hadn't spoken much since the last incident.
The doctor, a graying woman named Dr. Harlan, called Elara's name. Claire stood quickly, smoothing her skirt, but Elara was already sliding off the chair, padding barefoot toward the hallway. She didn't wait for her mother's hand.
Inside the exam room, Dr. Harlan knelt to Elara's level. "Hi, sweetheart. I'm just going to ask you and your parents a few questions, okay?"
Elara nodded, but her gaze drifted past the doctor to where Claire and Mark hovered in the doorway. She watched them the way a cat watches birds through glass—quiet, patient, hungry for movement.
Dr. Harlan flipped open a chart. "Your mom says you've been... upset lately when things are calm at home. But you seem happier when people are arguing. Can you tell me about that?"
Elara tilted her head. Her voice was soft, almost musical. "I like it when voices get big. It's warm then."
Claire flinched. Mark rubbed the back of his neck.
Dr. Harlan kept her tone gentle. "Warm how?"
"Like blankets," Elara said. "When everyone's quiet, it's cold. Empty. But when they yell..." She smiled, small and private. "It fills up."
The doctor scribbled something. "And do you ever try to make people argue?"
Elara blinked. "Sometimes things are too quiet. I just help them start."
Claire's voice cracked. "She hides my keys so Mark and I fight about who lost them. Last week she told the neighbor I said her dog was ugly. The woman screamed at me for an hour. Elara sat on the porch swing the whole time, smiling."
Mark finally spoke, low and strained. "It's not just mischief. She follows us. If we argue in the kitchen, she's suddenly there, pressed against the doorframe. If we try to talk it out quietly in the bedroom, she's under the bed. We find her there later, curled up like she's listening to a lullaby."
Dr. Harlan looked at Elara. "Do you like listening to your parents argue?"
Elara's eyes were bright. "It's the best sound. Better than songs. Better than stories."
The doctor hesitated, then asked Claire and Mark to step outside for a moment. Once the door clicked shut, she turned back to the child.
"Elara, does it ever scare you when people are angry?"
Elara considered this seriously. "No. It feels... right. Like they're finally being honest." She leaned forward, conspiratorial. "Grown-ups lie when they're quiet. They pretend everything's okay when it's not. Arguing fixes that."
Dr. Harlan closed the chart. She had seen oppositional defiance, attachment issues, even early signs of conduct disorder. But this—this was something else. The child wasn't defiant. She wasn't angry. She was... nourished by discord. As if strife were her oxygen.
When the parents returned, the doctor spoke carefully. "Elara is healthy physically. But her emotional responses are... unusual. I'd like to refer you to a child psychologist. This may be a pattern we can address early."
Claire nodded numbly. Mark stared at his daughter, who was now tracing invisible patterns on the exam table with one finger, humming softly.
As they left the office, Elara skipped between them, holding both their hands. For a moment, the family looked almost normal.
But in the car on the way home, Claire whispered, "Did you hear what she said? She thinks we lie when we're quiet."
Mark gripped the steering wheel. "We have been lying. Pretending everything's fine when it hasn't been since she was born."
Claire started to reply—sharply—but caught herself. In the rearview mirror, she saw Elara watching them, eyes gleaming with fragile hope.
The argument never came.
And in the backseat, the tiny girl's smile slowly faded, leaving something small and cold in its place.