Clara
My hands tremble as I grip the gun, sweat trickling down my neck, soaking my shirt. I try to force myself to appear calm, but it's like my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. I'm not sure if I can pull this off.
I know the gun is empty. There's no bullet left in the chamber. I know that if he calls my bluff, it'll be all over for me.
He stands there, tall and imposing, like something out of a nightmare. A sharp contrast to the beautiful flowery background surrounding him. His eyes locked on mine with that familiar hatred and contained rage. It's the same look he always gives me, but this time, it's worse. There's something colder in his gaze.
I've seen what he can do with that knife of his. That clerk was mere inches from death when he threw it. And now, I can't help but wonder how many more knives he has tucked away in that jacket. How many weapons he's prepared to use if he needs to.
"Now, here's what's going to happen." I manage to force out, trying to sound like I'm in charge. "You're going to be a good little boy, be on your best behavior, and drive me to the central library, where my driver will pick me up. Don't think for a second I'll be letting my guard down."
Please don't notice. Please don't see through me.
But then, after a few seconds, something strange happens.
He takes a step forward, and his eyes widen. For a moment, I'm sure I'm imagining it because his face goes pale and he looks... worried.
What the hell is happening?
He's mumbling to himself. His hands are trembling slightly at his sides, the cold, controlled demeanor slipping. He stumbles a little as he tries to step toward me, as if something's weighing him down.
And then, he starts yelling and snapping at nothing, causing me to flinch and grip the gun tighter for some reason.
"Shut up!!!" he screams. "Stop it! Just—shut up!"
This is not the Alister I know. The one who's always been so calm, so collected, so certain.
I call out softly, "Hey..." unsure what to do, but I know it won't be enough. He doesn't even seem to hear me.
His body shakes as his hands rise to his head, his eyes squeezed shut like he's fighting something.
And then it happens.
I can barely process it at first, but I see it—flowers from the ground, bright and vibrant, begin to lift from the earth. Not just one or two, but dozens of them. They float in the air, swirling around him like they've been caught in some invisible storm. It's like the earth itself is reacting to his distress.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he yells again.
This... this isn't normal.
He stands there, eyes closed, hands clutching his head like he's trying to block something out, his breathing rapid and shallow. His panic is palpable.
"WHY WON'T YOU JUST GO AWAY!" His voice shatters through the quiet field, hoarse and raw from the force of it. It's not just anger—it's terror.
Leave. Now.
That thought slices through my mind with cold clarity. This is the best chance I have while he's like this.
The flowers keep rising—more and more of them, swirling in slow, eerie patterns above his head. All obeying some command born from his panic. He's hyperventilating now, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I can't trust what he'll do next. I can't risk what happens when he comes back to himself and realizes I've seen him like this.
I need to get out of here. Fast.
Sliding fully back inside the car, I slip onto the driver's seat and grip the steering wheel.
But for some reason, my legs feel heavy like I'm wading through water. My heart feels like it's being squeezed tight.
What are you doing, you idiot!? Run. Now. Before he's able to see you.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. The car is running. All I have to do is press the pedal.
Don't you dare do anything stupid.
This is beyond reckless and impulsive.
He is a murderer. He is trying to kill you.
He is clearly unstable, and he won't stop to stab you in the back. You finally have an opportunity to escape, and you're being hesitant. What is wrong with you!?
But my fingers won't move. My foot stays planted.
He's kneeling now, doubled over, hands tangled in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. His entire body trembles as he begs someone—something—to quiet down.
He looks like a scared and traumatized kid who is struggling to cope. It then occurs to me that this might be the real Alister. Not the cold and pragmatic person people see. But a child who has been stuck in time.
And suddenly, I'm a child again too.
Seven years old, hiding behind the laundry hamper in the back of the closet, my small fingers gripping the edge of a plastic crate as if it could save me. I can still smell bleach and mold.
I remember my mother's voice screaming my name. Then glass shattering. Then silence.
Silence was always worse. Silence meant she was coming. And when she did, when she grabbed me by the hair and yanked me out of hiding. I remember the pain, the taste of blood, and the way she blamed me for things I didn't even understand.
That feeling. That helplessness.
"Dammit!"
I groan and step out of the car. Poppies, daisies, and bluebells, brush against my legs like fingers trying to hold me back.
He's going to kill you. He's going to torture you. He's done it before, and now he won't hesitate. Your carefully constructed life will end as you know it because you weren't right in the head.
Every fiber in my body is screaming at me to turn around and run away. But, of course, I'm not right in the head.
I don't stop to think anymore; I toss the gun aside and sprint forward.
The world narrows to him in the middle of the field as I make my way through the swirling petals.
I drop to my knees in front of him. Then, cautiously, I reach out before wrapping my arms around his head and pulling him towards me.
His face presses into the crook of my neck, and I feel the tension in his jaw against my collarbone, the rapid heartbeat echoing through his chest.
I shift one arm lower, curling it protectively around his back, the other tangled in his soft hair. His whole body is tense under my touch. I feel the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, like a furnace pressed against me.
"Calm down." I whisper into his ear. "You're okay. Take slow, deep breaths." I can feel the raggedness of his breaths against my neck and how his body jerks with each desperate inhale.
I brace myself, waiting for the moment when he'll snap, shove me away, shout at me, and demand I never touch him again, just like he always does. His anger is like a ticking clock, always ready to explode. I know the drill. He hates it when I get close. Maybe he might pull out his knives and drive them into my back. Just a quick stab, an end to the things he can't deal with. How ironic, I think—he might just kill me for trying to help him. And I'll have no one to blame but myself.
I feel his hands move. Hesitantly, they start to lift. My throat tightens as his fingers brush across my waist, and my heart skips a beat. A flush creeps up my neck, and my mind begins to spiral. What is he doing? This is too much.
But when his hands start to move up to my back, I freeze. A chill runs down my spine, and I feel that my fears are coming true.
"Please don't kill me for this." The words slip out before I can stop them. I close my eyes, immediately regretting it. God, I'm a fool.
My instincts scream at me to push him away. Since I had foolishly tossed the gun aside, I should back up, snatch a knife from his jacket, and fight if I have to.
But instead of the sharp bite of a blade or his usual angry outburst, his hands slide smoothly over the curve of my back, pulling me in, and I realize that he's trying to hold me.
His grip is fierce. Fingers digging into the fabric, pushing deep into the skin. The pressure is sharp, but I don't pull away. It's not an embrace—it's something else. A plea, an unspoken request for reassurance, for something to anchor him in this moment of chaos.
As I hold him, rubbing his back, I feel his tension slowly begin to ease, like the release of a long-held breath. His body starts to relax as his breathing slows.
"It's okay. No one's here except us. Whatever you saw wasn't real." I murmur.
The soft colors of yellow, white, blue, and purple remain caught in the air, creating a surreal halo around us in the field. It's unnerving but also weirdly beautiful.
Still, it seems Alister has a switch, or something, because without warning, his entire demeanor shifts.
His body goes rigid as he pushes me away with startling force. His hands, which had been holding me with desperate intensity, now shove me hard, sending me tumbling backward onto the ground.
His face is a deep, fiery red now, cheeks flushed with a mixture of frustration, rage, and, I don't know—embarrassment, maybe? Although, I wonder if my face looks like that too, seeing as how it's still warm. His eyes are now narrowed, shooting daggers at me. The flowers that had been floating weightlessly in the air around us begin to fall like a sudden shower of petals.
Some land on his head, settling on his messy hair, and some on his shoulders and chest. And despite the fury radiating off him, there's something so... adorable about it. The absurdity of the situation makes me want to smile, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself.
"What the heck were you doing!? I told you to never touch me again!" He yells.
What a late reaction.
I shift, propping myself up on my elbows, and with a slightly awkward smirk, I look him square in the eye, taunting him just a little. "You sure have a weird way of saying thank you."
I don't even know if he hears the teasing in my voice or if he's too wrapped up in his own frustration to notice. "Alister, How...did you do that?...with the flowers. Was that your ability?"
"I don't know. It just..." He trails off as his gaze lands on the gun not far from us, half-buried beneath the flowers. "It just happened," he finishes.
As he begins to lean forward, instinct kicks in before I even have time to think. I quickly snatch the gun off the ground, my fingers wrapping around the grip like they were meant to be there.
"Right. So, you're going to take me to the library. Got it?" I say, pointing the gun at him.
He doesn't flinch. His expression remains calm. The hyperventilating, crumpled mess I held in my arms moments ago might as well have been a ghost.
He stands up, picking up his glasses and brushing the flowers off his shoulders like they disgust him. The glare he gives me is nothing short of venomous.
"I know where you live," he says coldly, voice low like a razor sliding against skin. "I know how to get into your room."
I blink, startled, but he doesn't stop.
He steps closer, each word laced with a promise that has my stomach twisting. "Utter a word about this to anyone… and I will kill you in your sleep. Do you understand?"
A shiver tears through me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Yeah."
He stares for a beat longer, just to make sure the message sinks in, and then turns, as if that's the end of it, like he's just brushed lint off his shirt and now he's moving on.
Anger flares in my chest, taking place along with my anxiety.
Not a second of gratitude. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Not even a hint that the person I saw—the one I helped—even existed.
Of course he wouldn't say thank you. Of course he'd rather hurl a death threat than admit he needed someone.
But fine. If he's going to act like that, I'll at least have the last word.
I lift my voice, sharp and theatrical, letting it echo across the clearing. "If you're going to go through all that trouble of breaking into my room," I shout after him, "at least dress up like a vampire! You know, something out of a dark romance novel—with a rose between your teeth and a dramatic shirt that shows off your clavicle. You've already got the pale skin and broody hair; might as well commit!"
He doesn't look back. Not even a twitch. No scowl. Doesn't even give me the satisfaction of a glare or even a scoff.
Instead, he raises a hand lazily, without turning around. "I know the gun's empty," he says flatly. "You can stop waving it around like a fool."
My smirk dies on my lips as mortification creeps in.
He knew the whole time? But then why would he not attack me when he knew that? What game is he playing?
My hands clench around the now-useless gun, heart hammering with lingering adrenaline and frustration.
"You're welcome, by the way!" I grunt as I stomp past him, shoulder-checking him hard as I go. He doesn't react to that either, like I'm not even worth the effort.
I reach the car, rip the door to the backseat open, and slide inside, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. I drop my head against the window and scowl hard enough to burn a hole in the glass.
Yet… he didn't hurl a knife at me. Even knowing the gun was empty, even after the yelling, he didn't retaliate.
Is this gratitude in his twisted world?
Also, what was with those floating flowers? He did look genuinely confused about it, like it's happening for the first time. But why? Was his panic the trigger to it?
I sigh. Getting into this gemstone matter is like falling deep into a rabbit hole.
The car ride back is painfully awkward and so quiet, it's deafening. He doesn't look at me as his face stays red with anger.
"Emotionally constipated cryptid." I mumble under my breath as I brush off the petals tangled in my hair, resting on my lap, and clinging to my shorts like confetti.
♡.........💙.........♡
My heart pounds with every step I take. The staircase that I've walked up and down for so many years feels long, and the top seems menacing.
When the maid told me, the second I walked into the house, that my parents had called me to the study room, I knew it was something bad. Not the kind of bad that could be brushed off with a laugh and a flimsy excuse. The way her eyes darted to the floor and the tight grip she had on the tray she held—it all screamed danger.
Not to mention Daniel standing with a smirk outside his room, overgrown dark hair looking like a mess.
I've flipped through all the pages in my mind, trying to guess what it could be about so I can mentally prepare myself for it. What did I do wrong this time? Did they find out I lied about today? About having evening classes just so I could go to that gas station? Maybe they found out where I went.
Or maybe...the worst-case scenario, Daniel did something again to get me punished. Whatever the case, I have to stick to my usual script.
A lifetime of secrets will do that to you. Lie after lie after lie. A relationship built on lies and secrets. It's a skill I've honed since childhood.
Dad's study room is personally my favorite room in the whole house. Golden lights from brass lamps bathe the space in a warm glow. It's a double-floored sanctuary, with a wooden staircase curling up to a second level where more books are stacked from floor to ceiling.
But what always pulls my gaze is the wall dedicated to his love for firearms. Guns of every kind are displayed like trophies: rifles, pistols, and old muskets, each set in perfect rows and columns against a deep green velvet background. Above them, three taxidermied heads watch over the room—an antelope, a bear, and a lion. I used to stare at them for hours as a child, utterly captivated by the idea that they had once been real. Powerful. Until someone stronger came along.
Dad sits in his throne-like velvet chair, his attention fixed on some documents splayed across his massive desk. He glances up as I enter, his eyes flicking toward me without emotion before returning to the paper.
But Mom, on the other hand, stands in front of the desk, her posture screaming hostility. The second she hears my footsteps, she turns. Her cold blue eyes lock onto mine with a fury that makes the air in my lungs freeze. She's gripping her phone in one hand, white-knuckled, like it's a weapon she wants to use.
"You insolent brat!" she screams, storming toward me. Before I can even open my mouth to ask what I did, her hand flies up and hits my face with a sound so loud, it echoes through the vaulted study like a gunshot. Pain blooms like fire as my fingers instinctively rise to cover the sting.
"Why is it so hard for you to behave yourself?" she spits, her voice trembling with rage. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"
I try to think—try to breathe. But fear wraps around my chest.
"I...I don't understand...what did I do?" I ask, trying to remain calm.
"Don't know what you did? Really!?" She raises her phone in front of my face.
I feel like I've been punched in the gut. My heart drops and all blood drains from my face as I stare at a photo of myself sent by an anonymous number.
It's me—behind the campus building. A cigarette between my fingers. Eyes closed, leaning against the wall, looking relaxed.
"Calm down." Dad calls out without looking up from his work.
"Calm down!?" She turns back at him. "She's smoking! When we've never even smoked in our lives!"
Pure blatant lie. And the subtle smirk on Dad's face tells me he knows it too.
"I'm... sorry." I say, barely above a whisper. My voice breaks under the weight of shame, and I keep my head bowed.
She exhales, long and heavy, before turning back to me. "What is with you these days? Are you not satisfied with the life we have provided for you? The love and luxuries you enjoy in this house are too much? That you need to do these things to feel, what, 'refreshed'?"
"No," I say quickly. "It was just one time. I was very stressed about exams, and I just... wasn't thinking straight."
The door creaks open behind me.
Maria steps in, with a smug sort of glee shimmering in her eyes. She's holding something.
"Your suspicion was correct, Miss. This was hidden in her room," she says, and my blood turns to ice.
She lifts her hand, revealing two packs of cigarettes.
She's lying. She wants me to get in trouble.
"Those aren't mine!" I burst out, panic wrapping its cold fingers around my throat. "I swear, they're not mine! Please, Mom. I don't know where she got those from, but they're not mine! She's lying!"
But my words barely register. Mom's eyes are narrowed, her jaw tight, as if she's on the verge of slapping me again.
She doesn't. Instead, she snatches my bag from my hands so fast I almost flinch.
She opens it and rummages through it.
Thank goodness I threw out the empty box. But...
My fears come to reality as she pulls out the silver lighter from the bag and holds it up.
My cheeks burn hot with humiliation. I can feel it rising up my neck, flooding my face, searing my ears.
She tosses the lighter onto Dad's desk.
"Your daughter carries a lighter around in her bag. Are you still going to stay quiet about all this?"
He stares at the lighter for a moment before looking back at his paper.
That only fuels Mom's fury. She turns to Maria. "Lock the door and hold her down."
She doesn't hesitate. She walks to the door, and turns the lock with a sharp click.
My eyes widen. "Wait, wait—Mom, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—!"
Before I can even take a step back, Maria grabs me. Her hand clamps over my mouth, while her other arm snakes around my body, dragging me down onto my knees. I thrash, but she's stronger. She kneels behind me, locking my arms to my sides, her grip iron-tight.
Mom pulls a cigarette from the pack and lights it with a flick of the silver lighter.
Dad clicks his tongue, glancing up with a tired expression. "Must you do this here?" he mutters. "You'll get ash on the new carpet."
Mom doesn't even pause. She grabs my right arm and yanks the black sleeve back as far as it'll go, exposing the skin of my lean arm.
I squirm, panic rising as Mom crouches slightly, bringing the burning tip close. My eyes lock with hers, begging—pleading for mercy—but what good are eyes when words have never been enough?
"Let this be a lesson." She says. And then the cigarette touches my skin, just above my elbow.
A flash of blinding pain surges through me. I try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat beneath Maria's hand. My body jerks violently—knees scraping against the carpet—eyes squeezed shut as tears form in them.
She does it twice. It feels like my flesh is being torn open with every second that passes.
Dad groans loudly from across the room. "Alright, that's enough."
He doesn't raise his voice, just a flat command, like he's tired of the scene. He gets up from his chair; his posture and build, along with his neatly trimmed greying hair, show a man who doesn't look a day older than 40. The years have been kind to him and my mom, who still moves with grace and poise. She eyes him, the cigarette still held firmly in her hand, but after a beat, she flicks it away and motions for Maria to release me.
The second Maria's grip loosens, I jerk my elbow back at her, catching her off-guard. She stumbles, falling back into a chair behind her.
Dad, looking completely disinterested in the drama. "Maria, leave us."
She doesn't argue and quietly leaves the room.
"Just thinking about how many people must have seen this." Mom mumbles, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "After I preached to everyone about keeping an eye on their teenagers while maintaining a distance and trusting them, my own child betrays me and does all this behind my back."
I've heard it before—her lectures about perfection. It's her thing. Mom's an author, known for 'My Model Child', her book on ideal parenting. She attends endless events, interviews, and conferences, all about how to raise children like me—disciplined, respectful, and "squeaky clean," as she likes to call it.
Which puts immense pressure on me.
"For goodness sake, she's 19. And this is not as big a deal as you're making it out to be. Stop causing a fuss." Dad steps forward and looks at me as I get up and wipe away my tears with the back of my hand.
He places a hand on my shoulder, which feels cold to the touch.
"Don't ever do it again, alright?" he says, and his voice is tired, like he's saying the same thing over and over, hoping this time it'll stick.
I nod meekly and glance at the guns on the wall to my right.
To an outsider, my dad might seem very laid back. Calm, composed, and a caring father. Who loves his children enough to forgive their mistakes.
But then I think back to when I was two years old. I had wandered into his study, a curious toddler who didn't know better, and I saw the gun. It was on a table, unattended. I didn't think much of it, just a shiny object waiting to be explored. I picked it up, fascinated by the metallic surface, and put the barrel into my mouth, sucking on it as if it were some kind of toy.
Dad sat at his desk, watching it all. He didn't move. He didn't stop me. It wasn't until Mom walked in that anything changed. She yanked the gun away from me and scolded him fiercely.
If this is one of the many forms of love, I wish someone would tell me what kind.
"Go." he says, already turning back to his desk like I'm just another passing problem in his day.
I don't wait. I pick up my bag, my legs moving on their own. The door clicks softly behind me, almost shut—almost.
Then I hear it. Their voices.
"Is that all you have to say?" Mom says, "You're her father too, whether you want it or not. At least act like one."
Her footsteps echo, moving farther into the room.
"I'm trying the best I can given how much I care." Dad replies tiredly. "Unlike you, who seems to fret over her all the time."
There's a loud thud—a palm slamming against wood.
"You think I don't miss Penelope too?" Mom snaps. "I gave birth to her. She was my own flesh and blood."
There's a silence that hangs heavy before Dad speaks again.
"I'm sorry. It's just that... even after all these years, every time I see Clara, I'm reminded of Penelope. I wonder what she would have looked like if she were still alive. I keep remembering her, down to the moment where she took her last breath in my arms. I never thought I wanted children until I saw her little face. And now you expect me to pretend like she never existed?"
"Do you think it was easy for me? Replacing her with some other child whose own parent didn't even want her? And pretending that she's our firstborn? This child who's nothing like us. Who doesn't take after our talents or sense of responsibility? Our Penelope would have been perfect. Flawless. I miss her every day too... but that doesn't mean we shouldn't play our roles as parents."
There's a pause. Before Mom speaks again. "Just remember what's important. The inheritance. That's why we're doing all this, right? Soon your mother will pass away, and it'll all be yours. If you don't want Clara in the house, we could always marry her off to someone later."
My fingers tremble as I look down at my hands, balled into fists so tightly that my nails leave half-moon marks in my palms.
"Remember that time when she smiled at me? The first time I held her," Dad says in a wistful voice.
Mom laughs faintly. "Right. She kept crying in my arms, but when you came into the room, she immediately stopped. I was so jealous."
I straighten up and walk down the hall. I don't want to hear any more. Not about Penelope. Not about inheritance. Not about how I was never meant to be here.
I spot Lily glance at me with concern as she reaches the top of the stairs. I look away, ignoring her and walking past her before she can say anything.
Winning the ballet show 3 times in a row. But failing 1 or 2 times.
Not enough.
Not being stubborn, crying or begging, when the nanny tasked with taking care of me because my own parents were too busy or didn't want to, got fired because she was making me soft and wasn't strict enough.
Not enough.
I chew down on my thumbnail as I walk.
Being locked in my room until I study and complete my work in addition to the extracurricular work forced onto me. Working late till my nose bleeds.
Not enough.
Secretly learning all about guns from a young age and how to wield and aim one, just to impress Dad and bond with him so that he can take me on his hunting trips far away like he did with Daniel. Even though he was terrible at it.
Not enough.
Giving charity to many orphanages, old age homes, and disability centres.
Not enough.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
I slam the door shut and throw my bag at my study table. I bite down on my lip until I taste copper and let out a shuddering breath before walking up to the mirror.
What should I do? I beg of you, please tell me what you want from me so I could make you accept me. Tell me which way to bend, and I'll do it right away. Tell me to eat dirt, and I'll do it without hesitation. Tell me to humiliate someone, and I'll do it without feeling guilty.
Just tell me...what more do I need to do? What haven't I tried yet? Where am I lacking?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Tear-streaked cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. Dilated pupils. A stranger staring back at me.
And...I instantly hate my face.
Sensing movement, I turn to see James staring at me from the door.
"Seeing me like this is entertaining, huh? You must be feeling pretty satisfied." I utter, narrowing my eyes at him.
He simply shrugs. "Honestly, I thought it would be. But...it doesn't feel that good or satisfying. It's just sad."
I roll my eyes and look back at the mirror.
"I...remember when I was 4 or maybe 5, you loved telling me how your classes went and what happened with your friends. I don't exactly remember anything you said since I was so young, but the only thing that stuck with me was your enthusiasm. I'd wait for you at home, and you'd rush to me the moment you got into the house and would start talking nonstop about your day even though I understood none of it." He says as he starts walking towards me.
I do remember.
"I know we're not that close anymore. But...if you ever want to talk about...anything. serious or random, whatever. I'll listen." He gives my arm an awkward pat before turning around and walking out of the room.
But...I'm not your sister...
I'm a replacement.
"What kind of twelve-year-old talks like that?" I mumble as I make my way to the bathroom to wash up and focus on the root of the problem.
Why...Why would Alister do that? Why send my mom that picture knowing I'll get in trouble?
Why, after everything that happened today between us, would he still do something like this? Why create more bad blood between us? What kind of twisted satisfaction does he get out of this?
I held him when he broke down; I can still feel the warmth of his body, the way his arms clung to me. How, for a moment, it felt nice to have that kind of raw and real connection with someone.
But this… this is his way of repaying me?
The anger in my chest twists tighter. Maybe I should just do this alone. Maybe that's how it was always supposed to be. Alister's becoming a liability. A danger. Every step I take near him just opens the door to more chaos, more damage. And now, taking him down—before he slowly ruins my life—feels more obvious than ever.
I pick up my phone and search for the video I had of him.
Wait...what...
I scroll through my secure folders, feeling a knot in my stomach and a growing sense of panic when I can't find it anywhere. I run over to my tablet and search for the video in there. But still nothing.
He hacked into my account.
"You bastard!!!" I yell as I toss the device onto the bed. So this is what he was planning while pretending to not care.
I'll get him for this.
My thoughts circle like vultures, but one idea claws its way to the surface.
The cabin.