"Time is our weapon, and patience our best shield."
– William Astrel
Since childhood, I always understood things better than everyone else. I could discern hidden details and comprehend them.
I noticed the bruises on my mother's face, carefully covered by thin layers of makeup. I observed how my father's fists clenched.
The arguments about money and work... After all, this was Dunhard, the capital of Liberwich, the largest nation in the world. It was safe and beautiful, but, unfortunately for us, the Pariahs, life was dangerous and unpredictable. Jobs were scarce and perilous.
I could identify the structure: the best were revered; the worst, cast aside, forgotten in the remote parts of central Dunhard.
I remember my father smiling. He had landed a job as a welder on a government expedition in the Akif Desert, one of the deadliest places on the planet. The payment: half a million cruzados. According to him, "enough money to disappear from this house." My mother and I were not part of his plans. She tried to argue, speaking of dangers and legends, of the ancient gods. That was the first time Dad hit her in front of me.
Ignoring my mother, who lay pleading for him to stay, he left. Still, in the factory fog, during the early hours, my mother spent days praying and begging Ontar, the God of the Lost and Unfortunate, for my father to return alive.
Unfortunately for her, God laughed in her face and spat on her prayers. Morgan Flack was not worthy of Ontar's protection.
It was a Monday when an individual with a folded flag arrived at the door. My mother collapsed in tears and hysterical screams. I couldn't understand. That man was bad for her and for me, always aggressive and angry at everyone. And yet, she cried for him?
Storm
"Our lives are like flowers; with each pain, we lose a petal."
– William Astrel
The military honors were held that same week. Only one of the explorers survived: Alessan Akur.
The sky over Moinspiel Cemetery was dark gray. Clouds heralded a fierce storm. Thunder and lightning tore across the sky, like screams of pain and agony amidst the silence and lamentations of the families. My mother, unlike the sea of black clothes and hats, chose white, the color of Ontar.
Everyone there paid tribute to the deceased, now brave men and women who had given their lives for the nation. None of them knew that Morgan Flack, my father, was a monster. My mother remained pale, her eyes fixed on the coffin, praying. I think at some point my father loved her, but he changed. Is that normal? For people to change and become false?
Amidst the decrepit, God-forsaken cemetery, there he was: a beacon amidst the widespread mourning, Alessan Akur. I could discern: beyond the shallow surface, there was a deadly current. The air near him reeked of gasoline mixed with a nauseating smell of gunpowder.
His eyes showed sadness and loss, but I perceived: that look was just like my father's when he came home in a furious, uncontrolled state.
Constantly, he subtly looked to his right, as if someone were there. He whispered things to the void. No one else seemed to notice how close to the abyss that man was. The individual reacted to sounds and voices only he could hear and, in doing so, turned and looked deep into my eyes, and smiled. He knew I saw through his mask.
At that moment, I had a premonition: the hairs on my body stood on end, and my legs weakened. I felt pressure throughout my being, something like sinking into the ocean. My body warned me of danger. The man was like a predator on alert.
"Alexandria, let's go home." As if nothing had happened, that sensation vanished with my mother's words. It took me seconds to regain consciousness, and the man was no longer looking at me, but at the black sky.
"Okay, Mom." And so, together, we left. What was that? I could have imagined everything. That individual was dangerous and clearly knew how to control himself. I still feel his gaze on me. That fury and malice clung to me and my mother.
I can perceive my mother's pain on her face.
I can feel my father's marks on my skin.
I can see her heart, now fragmented.
I can feel that man's eyes on me.
"Love is fuel for fury."
– William Astrel