SAINT

CHAPTER 8

''I am not a stranger,'' I said and pointed to his book. ''I'm someone who reads the same author you do.'' ~ Lemony Snicket. 

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Damon Alaister

The TV flickers on a tranquil evening while rain taps against the freshly cleaned windows. Bacon sizzles gently in the pan's oil. The TV hums with reporters discussing an obscure town, one murderer, and three victims.

I close my eyes, my heart rate increasing slightly as I grip the spatula tightly. "It has been three days since the police declared the Culling brothers dead. Three days, and their bodies have yet to be seen," The reporter states, flipping the bacon onto the wooden chopping board and cutting through the crispy layers.

My teeth clench together, accompanied by the symphony of pens clicking, rain drumming on the roof, and the reporter's voice dissolving into the void. A haze clouds my sight as anger seizes my heart's strings. The cross sways toward the entrance, her black dress eclipsing my vision as she fixes her gaze on me. Darkness bears down like wildfire rampaging unchecked, her watchful eyes on me, making no move to atone for the fu-

"Brother!" I hear a soft voice as the clicking of her pen against her economics textbook stops. I lean forward, noticing the time has passed 8 PM. I sigh softly, turning to meet her baby blue eyes that sparkle despite the frown they bear. The colors of our eyes are like scars, permanently etched into us. I despise how they reflect back at us in the mirror, just as she looks upon us.

 A gentle smile spreads across my face as she pouts slightly, "Is the food ready?" she groans, her golden locks tumbling over her shoulders. My little miracle, the sister I cherish. "Daisy, relax, I'm just stirring the bacon into the soup," I reply softly. She may be 22, a college student nearing her business management degree, but her eyes still sparkle at the mention of bacon.

"Hmm... bacon," she sighed, enticed by the aroma of the sizzling meat. "You know, the Culling brothers were likely eating bacon," Kingsley whispered to me, his voice filled with the wonder of a child at a carnival. I rolled my eyes. "Let's not speak of the three innocent brothers," I said firmly, setting the large pot of soup on the table.

"I mean, Kingsley isn't entirely wrong," Daisy said, spooning food into her bowl and planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. Kingsley gestured towards the television, crumbs scattering from his mouth across the tablecloth in his haste to consume his meal. I sigh as their attention remains fixed on the screen, ignoring the meal that has been prepared.

I turn my head towards the screen as an unusual face appears. He is short, with a small scar etched into his left eyebrow, complementing his green eyes that observe the world like a cat. A touch of sadness lingers among the wrinkles of his darker brown skin, while his white hair curls freely.

"Todays, reports have surfaced that the CEO of Trade Investors has issued a statement confirming Jacob was covertly employed by their burgeoning company," the reporter stated in a monotone voice as her blonde hair whipped in the wind. My mouth fell open slightly as the face of Trade Investors emerged from his 40-story building, overlooking the sick and poor.

"Shit," Kingsley muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes widening with excitement. "I swear, you—" My jaws clench tightly as Daisy places her soft finger against my lips. "Shhh," her blue eyes still captivated by the TV, "this is the most entertaining thing since low-rise jeans," she whispers.

I scoff slightly, allowing my gaze to drift from the TV back to the warm dish in front of me. "This thing will rot your brains out," I exclaimed, trying to catch their attention. "These brothers need peace, not you two knuckleheads," I muttered, my voice fading as they ignored me. Clenching my fist, I searched for the remote, while her black hair haunted me, the only woman who ever held my attention and gave me goosebumps.