-
-
DATE:7th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
I get the feeling that father doesn't actually want my help. Yesterday he kept belittling me about how I don't know how to take cuts and how I am wasting the meat. I was surprised he even called me to the butchery. I think it was the first time in a year.
I believe he wanted to ask me about that girl, but didn't decide on the way to do so.
"Ventians don't have green hair," he'd muttered at one point, his eyes narrowing. The comment hung in the air, loaded with unasked questions about Emily. But he never pressed further, leaving me to wonder what he really thought about my strange new acquaintance.
Either way, now is Sunday and I have to attend tutoring with my uncle.
I ate breakfast and traveled to his house. My uncle owned a three floor apartment block and he used to require of his renters menial work at the church instead of rent. I think it was his way of creating a community.
I entered through the door, took the first set of stairs, got on the second floor and reached the familiar door of his teaching office. The worn doorknob of his teaching office felt cool beneath my palm, evidence of countless lessons taken here. Inside, the long table was already half-full, familiar faces turned expectantly towards my uncle.
As I took my seat and glanced around at the children seated ne-ar me, I couldn't help but feel the weight of the reality I was living in. Damascus betrayed me, but was he even a friend? These neighbors, these peers—they weren't friends. How could they be, when I spent my weekends locked in my room? This îs the only place I ever saw them.
My uncle's voice filled the room, reiterating yesterday's sermon with passionate zeal. But as he spoke of Saturn's blessings and the approaching Saturnalia, my mind wandered.
The other students nodded along, some taking notes, others simply basking in the familiar comfort of routine. I noted that Damascus decided to stay home this time. Was it due to his injuries?
It took five long hours as the tutoring session dragged on, mathematics and Ventian blurring together in a haze of rote learning. But when my uncle asked me to stay behind, a knot formed in my stomach. I knew what was coming.
"Your mother tells me you've been fighting," he began, his tone falsely understanding. "And over a girl, no less."
"That's not what happened," I protested, but the words felt hollow even to me. My uncle's eyes narrowed, judgment written across his face.
"It's wrong to let that girl disrespect your mother," he continued, "even if you have feelings for her."
Frustration bubbled up inside me, hot and insistent. Why wouldn't he listen? Why did he always assume the worst?
"You're going down the wrong path with this thuggish behavior—" he started, but something in me snapped.
"Why don't you ever try to understand me?" The words burst out, surprising us both. I'd never spoken to him like this before.
His face flushed, but I couldn't stop. It was as if a dam had broken, years of pent-up resentment pouring out.
"You don't get it," I continued, my voice rising. "I don't like that girl. I was the one who was attacked!"
"Enough!" he roared, his facade of understanding shattering. "You have no injuries. How can I trust your words?"
He was right, of course. The mysterious healing had left me with no proof. But the unfairness of it all burned in my chest.
I watched, heart pounding, as my uncle retrieved a large wooden ruler. His face was scarlet with rage as he approached.
The first strike stung, but it was nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. "This is for your disrespect," he growled, bringing the ruler down again and again.
Suddenly, he froze mid-swing. The color drained from his face, leaving him ashen. He stumbled backward, hands clasped over his mouth, muttering prayers.
"What's wrong?" I asked, confusion overtaking my anger.
His eyes were wide with fear as he pointed at me. "The snake..."
Ice ran through my veins as I realized he must have seen the tattoos.
My uncle's face contorted with fear. "Get out," he whispered, then louder: "Get out! You're not welcome in my house!"
I stepped toward him, confused. "Uncle, what are you talking about?"
He flinched, pressing himself against the wall as if I were contagious. He opened his mouth to speak, but covered it quickly to not throw up. He almost fell to the ground. With his free hand he pointed to the door. What else could i have done?
The walk home was a blur, my mind racing to make sense of his reaction. What did the snake tattoos mean? Why was he so terrified?
I got home and changed my clothes, but my father's heavy knock interrupted my thoughts before I started my prayers. "Dressed. Downstairs. Now."
When I entered the butchery, the air felt different—charged with tension. My father stood at the grinding wheel, sharpening his knives with unusual force. Sparks flew from the blade, his movements aggressive and deliberate.
"Take a knife," he ordered, nodding toward a metal table. "Start with the pig." He was strangely forceful today.
The carcass lay splayed before me, its hair already removed, blood drained. I barely even knew what I was supposed to do and I feared I would anger him if I made any mistakes. I hesitated, then cut down the middle.
"The head," my father growled, appearing suddenly beside me. "You didn't remove the head first."
"The saw is too heavy for me—"
"Do it."
My hands trembled as I picked up the bone saw. It was a contraption my father made himself by imbuing metal blades in the large femur of a large bull. The teeth caught and skipped, sending bone fragments scattering across the table. Each jagged cut felt like a personal failure, my father's breathing growing heavier behind me.
When I finally separated the head, I returned to the knife. The blade slid unevenly through flesh, creating a crooked line down the pig's belly. Worse, it punctured the intestines. Foul-smelling fluid spilled onto the meat, contaminating it.
My father moved with terrifying speed. His hand clamped onto the back of my neck, and before I could react, he slammed my face into the table, right into the new puddle of blood my failed cuts had created. Bone shards pierced my cheeks, and pain exploded behind my eyes.
I screamed, but his roar drowned me out.
"Useless!" he bellowed, yanking my head back to force me to look at him. "You've wasted an entire pig!"
Blood trickled down my face, warm and sticky. My father's eyes bored into mine, his disgust palpable.
"I don't care who you fool around with," he hissed, "but I won't have an incompetent son." I wasn't sure why he even hated me so much. In the past he used to deny me access to the butchery and now suddenly I have to prove my skill? I have no practice. Why are the results a surprise?
His hands went to my apron, and for a moment, I thought he was going to tear it off. Instead, his expression darkened further.
"This," he said, gesturing to the blood-soaked fabric, "you'll wear it. Three days. No removing it."
"Father, plese-" I begged, clutching his own apron. It would be a kind of humiliation I would never recover from to wear this thing. But instead of listening to my please, he didn't even let me finish, but grabbed me by my collar, gave me a hard slap across the face before pushing me back into the table. I'm surprised I managed to keep my balance.
The apron clung to me, heavy with blood and viscera, already beginning to smell in the warm shop.
"Live with your shame," he spat. "Now get out."
As I stumbled from the butchery, the weight of the bloody cloth felt like chains. It was heavy. Each step felt suffocating.
The tattoos beneath my shirt seemed to make my skin itch and I was beginning to wonder what kind of curse I had stumbled upon.
In my room, I sat on the floor, exhausted. Frustrated, I went to the drawer and gripped the revolver. In those dreams that Emily says they are the future I was a killer. I was the kind of person that swung at the world to punish it for any insult. A thought gnawed at me. Could I have even killed my parents between all of those screams I heard? Was I really that kind of person?
My head hurt as I clenched my teeth, trying to suppress the anger I felt. Everything was Emily's fault. This only happened because she appeared and cursed me.
I glanced at the mirror and then back to the gun. To kill my parents… I would never do that.
The door flew open, slamming against the wall. My mother stood there, eyes blazing with fury. I barely had time to shove the gun under my pillow before she stormed in.
"You ungrateful wretch!" she snarled, grabbing my ear and yanking me to my feet. The pain was sharp, immediate. "First with me and now this? How dare you disrespect your uncle?"
I stumbled as she dragged me, the blood-soaked apron heavy and sticky against my skin. "Mother, please—I didn't—"
"Silence!" She pulled harder, forcing me down the stairs. "You'll learn respect if I have to beat it into you myself."
We reached the altar room, its air thick with incense and the weight of judgment. The statue of Saturn loomed over us, its empty eyes seeming to mock my suffering. I always wondered whether with the souls of the dead and the crops, our grand Deity would harvest the souls of the weak, ill and suffering. I never received such mercy from him.
Mother snatched up the mallet, seemingly glowing from her malice. "Kneel," she commanded.
I hesitated, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I said, kneel!"
The first blow caught me across the shoulders, pain blossoming hot and fierce. It hit me where my uncle first directed his ruler earlier, a kind of mocking reminder. "This is for your disobedience," she hissed, bringing the mallet down again.
"Mother, stop!" I cried out. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," she spat, punctuating each word with another strike. "You're. Weak. Disrespectful. A disgrace." I couldn't help but shiver from her words. To call me weak? Did she talk with father about what happened?
Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the dried blood from the butchery. I had also not managed to clean my face from the bones, the shards still embedded into my skin, making my cheeks hurt from every tear. I looked up at Saturn's statue, silently pleading for mercy, for understanding. Its stone face remained impassive, almost amused by my torment.
Finally, Mother's arm was tired. She stepped back, breathing heavily. "Get out of my sight," she said, her voice cold. "Go to your room and think about what you've done."
I scrambled to my feet, biting back a whimper as new bruises made themselves known. As I reached the door, her voice stopped me.
"And Kassius?" I turned, seeing no warmth in her eyes. "If I hear so much as a sniffle from you, I'll come back with the mallet. You have no right to cry from how you sinned."
I nodded mutely and fled.
Back in my room, I collapsed to the floor, sobs wracking my body. Every instinct screamed to wail, to let out the pain and frustration, but I forced myself to be silent. Tears fell freely, but I didn't dare make a sound.
Slowly, painfully, I dragged myself onto the bed. My hand found the gun beneath the pillow, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of my tears. I clutched it to my chest, as if it was a lifeline in a storm of misery.
As another wave of silent sobs shook me, a treacherous thought wormed its way into my mind: Would I really kill them?
The gun felt heavier in my hands, laden with possibility and horror. I thought of my father's rage, my mother's cruelty, my uncle's fear. I thought of Emily, of her impossible strength and talk of other realities.
"I can't," I whispered, so softly even I could barely hear it. "I can't... but gods, I want to."
The silence of the room pressed in around me, broken only by my ragged breathing. Outside, life in Genova continued. Did I even have any rights to complain? I thought to myself, there are many others suffering even worse fates.
Even then, I couldn't help it. I clung to the gun like a child's toy, torn between the comfort of its presence and the terror of what it represented.
Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and filled with nightmares of snakes, blood, and the endless, mocking laughter of Saturn.
-
-
DATE:8th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
The next day I saw in the mirror that the tattoos were gone. In their place were scars, but not the kind I would have suffered in my life from a mallet. They were marks of claws and knives. The kind of marks only the most horrid of criminals have at the end of their decade long careers. It made me feel nauseous, looking in the mirror at this vision of a man covered in blood as I kept remembering All of those voices calling me a killer. These vital fluids from a dead animal, was it some kind of joke?
The normal routine followed, except I kept wearing the bloody garb just like my father instructed. Even after I cleaned the blood and bone shards off my face, the students kept taking surprised and distasteful glances and I could hear gossip in the distance about how I stink of carcasses and what I could have been punished for. Some even talk about the fight that happened on Friday and this is where things got stranger. The narrative was totally changed.
From what I pieced together Matteo told everyone that I was secretly trained by my father in the arts of killing and that I beat all the boys up to impress the foreigner. I suppose my current dress didn't help those rumours.
My teachers also mentioned throughout the day about how I stink, but surprisingly didn't ask me why I was wearing it and neither about what happened on Friday despite how widespread this discussion was. They looked at me with expectant eyes almost as if observing my reaction. Did they think I would fight them like I did the boys? I hope I was wrong because it would be preposterous for a student to fight with his teacher.
Emily this, Emily that. Everybody spoke of her, be it in good or bad terms.
My life has turned for the worse ever since I realized her existence. Ever since I first saw her. I hate it…
But as I stood in my seat during the self-reflection throughout the unified alphabet class, I came to a realization.
It wasn't her fault.
Surely most of these events did happen because of her and how she interacted with me, but it would be immoral of me to place the burden of fault on her shoulders.
Yes, those nightmares make this even more evident. How could I ever point to her as some sort of evil influence?
Was it her fault that a boy was somewhat wastefully beaten up in our class and she decided to stop it? Was it her fault that the bully felt emasculated and attacked her afterwards, only embarrassing himself further?
Are the rumors and hate spread around me her fault? No. It was Matteo who spread most of them.
So was it her fault that Matteo and his clique beat me up? No!
In what world is it normal to have such hate for a woman? In what world is it normal to attack someone like he did to me just because I was seen with that very woman?
So then was it her fault that I was beaten by my mother when I came home late, or that my uncle and mother think I became a thug who is only interested in gals? Also no.
How is it normal for them to just believe rumors? For proper adults I respected all my life… Is that not childish? Isn't it immature?
I looked underneath my shirt and saw the swelling skin covered by scars of claws and daggers. How is it normal that I was beaten to this state for something so little? Speaking of it, how come I am even moving? How come I never had my bones broken from being hit at full force with a mallet? It's not like my mother is weak. She is pretty strong for her stature. Have I just gotten used to this? No. How is it normal? It doesn't make any sense.
To say that I disrespect them just because I don't accept the rumors… And then I came to another realization.
What kind of society is this?
I looked around my class and I saw people preparing to become such wild creatures just like my parents and family.
How is it normal for people to exist like this? To call themselves developed, the inheritors of the ancient forefathers of civilization, the Ventian Empire. Were they also this horrid? Is that why they fell?
How are we any different from animals?
Why does everyone blame others for what is happening to them?
And to think that I was one of them. That I thought the same. Even yesterday I kept blaming Emily for what she did, for involving me… to say that she even cursed me… how could I have been so selfish?
I felt horrible.
I had to make things right.
On the meal break at noon, I followed her outside and observed from a distance how she went with her leather briefcase towards the oak tree and sat down. She was alone.
I saw that even the girls went out of their way to avoid her.
They must think that she is some kind of whore who goes for every man she sees.
I saw that Emily opened the briefcase and started tapping inside it. I wasn't sure what. Her gestures made me really confused. She was very focused. She had that kind of look where she seemed to be sure of everything. How could she not be affected by the rumors?
I felt lost in her gaze, but I summoned my courage and approached her.
It wasn't anything grand. I didn't do a flamboyant nor bold entrance.
I walked towards her with quiet, lonely steps And crouched to get on her level when I got close without saying any words. I used my hands to prop my head and only looked at her eyes. She was so engrossed and I wondered if I appeared invisible to her. We were only 3 meters apart.
It took a while for her to even notice my presence, and when she did she almost jumped in the air from surprise. A blush formed on her face while I couldn't help but smile. It was the kind of instinctual smile where you think of nothing else but the person in front of you. This was a very strange sensation for me, something i could only picture in books.
"Listen, Emily," I began, forcing myself to look forward instead of at her. "I'm sorry about how I acted on Friday. I was wrong. You're not at fault for anything that's happening to me."
She shook her head, her voice gentle. "You don't need to apologize, Kassius. I'll always forgive you."
My hand found its way to the patchy December grass, fingers idly tracing patterns as I tried to keep my composure. My heart raced, an anxiousness I wasn't familiar with building in my chest.
"Why..." I started, my voice catching. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Why do you care so much about me?"
Her hand covered mine, warm and soft. I froze at the contact, my breath catching in my throat.
"Oh, Kassius," she sighed, her voice filled with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "I don't know how much you remember, but you're someone very special to me. We're connected, you and I."
I didn't dare look at her face, afraid of what I might see—or what she might see in mine. "Connected?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper. "What does that mean?"
She squeezed my hand gently. "It means that no matter what happens, no matter what you remember or forget, I'll always be here for you. We're in this together."
The weight of her words hung in the air between us. I swallowed hard, my mind racing. "Emily, I... I don't understand. All of this—the nightmares, it doesn't make any sense."
She shifted beside me, and I could feel her gaze on my profile. "I know it's confusing," she said softly. "But it's something that you wanted. All of this. You never explained, but I'm sure there was a reason."
I felt myself losing control of the situation. My breath came in short, erratic bursts, and my thoughts scattered like leaves in autumn wind. My brain couldn't process what was happening, and my body seemed equally confused—heart racing one moment, frozen the next.
I needed a distraction before I completely unraveled.
My eyes darted around, eventually settling on her briefcase, now closed beside her.
"What were you..." I gestured toward it, my words half-mumbled through the emotional fog. "What were you working on earlier?"
Emily's smile bloomed like a rare flower, genuine and warm. She pulled the meticulously crafted leather case onto her lap and opened it with practiced ease. Inside sat an object unlike anything I'd ever seen—sleek, with a reflective surface and strange symbols etched onto small squares.
"It's a computer," she explained, her fingers caressing its surface with familiar affection. "I'm researching... things that might help us."
I stared, bewildered. Computers were whispered about in Ventia, but rarely seen. The priests warned us that electronics were inventions of evil spirits, tools of corruption from beyond our borders.
"May I?" I asked hesitantly.
Emily nodded, carefully transferring the device to my hands. I quickly spread my handkerchief across my lap—the blood-stained apron still hung from my shoulders, but my pants were relatively clean. The computer felt surprisingly heavy, solid in a way I hadn't expected.
"Here," she said, leaning close. Her scent—that strange mix of something artificial beneath floral perfume—enveloped me. "Press this button to turn it on."
The screen illuminated, casting a soft blue glow across our faces. Emily guided my fingers across what she called a "trackpad," showing me how to navigate through strange windows filled with text and images.
"This is the internet," she explained as colorful pictures appeared. "A network connecting information across the world."
I nodded, though I understood almost nothing. What mattered wasn't the technology—it was the feeling. For thirty minutes, huddled under that tree with Emily, I experienced something entirely new: freedom. No expectations, no judgment, no consequences for failure. Just curiosity and gentle guidance.
"You're smiling," Emily observed softly at one point.
I hadn't even realized. "I guess I am."
When the school bell rang, summoning us back to class, reality crashed back into focus. I suddenly realized I hadn't gone home for lunch, hadn't eaten anything all day. Yet hunger was the furthest thing from my mind.
As we closed the computer and Emily returned it to her briefcase, I found myself struck by a simple truth: I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt genuinely happy. Not until today.
"Emily," I said as we stood to leave, my voice steadier than I expected. "Thank you."
She tilted her head, green curls catching the sunlight. "For what?"
"For showing me something new."
Her smile then—soft, knowing, almost sad—made me wonder what else she could show me, if only I were brave enough to follow.
Next thing I knew I was back home. The day had passed. I wasn't sure if this clouded mind of mine was too concentrated on what happened, but I went back instinctually, as if I wasn't even aware of what was happening. My body moved by itself and my head was empty.-*-*-*-*-*