by Leon Logos
“Like the big man said, I know much less than you’d expect,” said Patrick. “Your father was always a secretive man.”
“Surely some of those secrets were disclosed to you,” Desmos said.
Patrick scoffed, looking at them all in fascination.
“Are you children trying to get something out of me? Because I’m doing the same thing. Right now, it’s all mutual! The distrust, the presages, all of it!”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” said Desmos passively.
“I’m not an idiot, Desmos. Don’t act. It doesn’t suit you. First, the attic, now the basement. What’s next? Huh?!”
“He knows everything,” Serenity whispered to Kyler, next to her.
“What was that, girl?!” Patrick snapped. “You say something?”
Serenity shook her head, taking a sip of water and pretending to eat. Patrick was on to them. She had ugly presentiments that unsettled her. Whatever was about to happen next, she had to be ready.
“You ready to confess, Serenity? To admit your wrongdoings?!”
“Calm down,” said Desmos. “You’re overreacting.”
“Am I? Then what’s this!” Patrick spat, viciously setting down two things on the table.
First, the Aurelian knife Cackle had found in the attic. Desmos glanced at it expressionlessly, probably thinking to himself how poorly he had hidden it. Cackle shook his head in disbelief, slamming his fork down.
The second thing was something that took time to recognize; but when it registered in her head what it was, her stomach lurched in dread: it was a black thread of wool, clearly detached from her black wool sweater she was currently wearing now and when she was down in the basement. Patrick must’ve found a strand of it on the floor, testifying her presence there. It took the others only a few seconds to figure out the pertinence of the thread. They gazed at her sweater in disgruntlement.
“No words, eh?” Patrick said fuming. “You think I didn’t know?”
“Fair enough,” said Desmos, his fingers steepled. “I apologize for both. The first time, my brothers acted behind my back and decided to go up into your attic to have a bit of fun. The second time, it was the same, except only Serenity was involved.”
“I know that! What ticks me off is how you all lied about it!”
“Now that you know, I’ve got a question of my own,” Cackle interjected. “What’s an Aurelian weapon doing in your house?”
“You don’t have the right to ask questions, silence!” Patrick barked.
“Cackle’s right,” Desmos said confidently. “Elaborate, please.”
Before he could answer, Helena started to cough and wheeze once again. Serenity knew it was time for Helena to return to the basement to take her medicine. If not, she would turn right in front of them all.
“Go on, dear,” Patrick told her. “I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
Helena hurriedly shambled out of the kitchen, spluttering the entire time. Now that Patrick knew she had been in the basement, he must’ve known that she, and everyone else, was aware of Helena’s sickness.
“Very well,” said Patrick, vexed. “Knowing your animosity with the Aurelians, I shall tell you to placate you all. That knife belonged to an Aurelian. Twenty years ago, one of them was in this house. Needless to say, we had a fight. I killed him, hid his knife up in the attic, and his corpse down in the basement closet.”
“Rather than keep it in the house, why not dispose of both?” Desmos asked logically. “Never thought of that?”
“Of course, I did. The knife I forgot all about. It caused no harm, and I didn’t mind keeping it in the house. Before now, I haven’t seen it in twenty years.”
“I suppose we have no right to reprimand you for that, considering what we’ve been doing,” said Desmos.
“Absolutely,” Patrick agreed.
“And the body?” Garen asked. “Why the hell do you keep that?”
“That you don’t need to know,” said Patrick mysteriously. “And that you don’t want to know, trust me. It’s of no consequence.”
Serenity wanted to disprove this statement. Forget the knife; the context behind the corpse was what mattered. What sane, valid reason could Patrick have for keeping that foul thing? She nearly opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. It wasn’t in her place.
“So, what happens now?” Kyler asked forthrightly. “We’re not going to be here any longer anyway. Will you give us any penalties?”
“No, now that we’ve compromised and have come clean,” Patrick said. “I cannot say the same thing for the girl. She’ll be penalized.”
“Huh?” she said bemused. “Why me?”
“You lied to my face,” Patrick said simply. “And them, I respect to a degree. But you? You will benefit from this.”
She looked around at the others. They didn’t make eye contact, filing out of the kitchen. Only Cackle met her eyes, grinning callously at her. It was only to be expected. She wasn’t about to break down in tears, pleading for mercy. Patrick motioned for her to follow him.
He led her out into the living room. They exited through the front door, walking off the veranda, and onto the rustling grass. It was wintry and dark, the moonlight irradiating the ground. He directed her to an immense oak tree, reposed a dozen yards from the house. The trunk was massive, disproportionate with the branches above. She shivered, sheltering her hands in her pockets.
“Get on your knees, by the trunk,” Patrick commanded.
She did so, awaiting the next order. He began unbuckling his belt, pulling it off his waist.
“No…you’re not…?” she said slowly, aware of what was happening.
“Wrap your arms around the trunk and hug it tightly,” said Patrick, his face barely visible in the darkness. “Take off your sweater.”
Serenity gaped up at him. This man wasn’t even her father, shared no relation, and had not even known her for a complete week. Yet he still felt entitled to do this to her? No wrongdoing of hers could morally justify this.
“You’re joking, right?” she said anxiously.
“Take off your sweater!” he repeated forcefully.
“But it’s cold!” she said defensively.
“The quicker you get it over with, the quicker you get to come inside,” Patrick said adamantly. Serenity complied, lifting her sweater and taking it off. The cold air immediately attacked her, amplifying her discomfort level. Now, she only had a tank-top on, her arms fully were exposed and unprotected.
Hugging the tree tightly, as Patrick ordered, Serenity kept her head facing forward. Shaking compulsively from the cold, she braced herself for what was inevitably coming, closing her eyes. She didn’t have to ask how many lashes she was getting. It didn’t matter. The lashes arrived promptly, excruciatingly breaching the limits of her endurance. Each lash stung unbelievably, progressively intensifying and subjecting her to unadulterated anguish.
She began to yelp after the third strike. Repressed but indelible memories resurfaced, depicting an analogous scene to the situation she was currently in; the traumatic images revealing her years of encounters with a whip, punished at the hands of her only parent. Her plaintive cries pierced the night, rendered inaudible by the howling wind and cawing of crows. Serenity’s mind went blank, heart and soul solely focused on getting through the night, and thereafter escaping this home. This residence that her disenchanted self previously regarded as congenial.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At the time, the possibility of comfort seemed far-fetched. It felt intangible, tantalizing, and inconceivable. It was like she had forgotten what the definition and feeling of “comfort” was. But it was all over earlier than she would even care to anticipate. Without a single word, Patrick had left her outside, taking his belt with him. She hobbled after him inside, after a minute or two of recovery. The pain was terrible, but the cold hit her worse.
Kyler was waiting for her by the stairs. She would’ve preferred them fast asleep. But trut
hfully, it could’ve been Cackle or Garen awaiting her return, mocking and jeering at her suffering. Serenity didn’t stop for him, continuing to make her way towards her and Cackle’s room. The door was closed and probably locked. She felt disinclined to knock on it, knowing Cackle would greet her on the other side with his annoying, deriding remarks and his ugly sneering face.
She momentarily considered sleeping on the couch downstairs, but she eliminated that possibility, repelled by the likelihood of meeting a deranged Helena.
Ultimately, Serenity was fed up with this place. She wanted to leave more than the brothers.
“I heard your screams,” said Kyler bluntly. “Was it your back?”
“I swear, if you say, ‘I understand how it feels,’ or something like that—” she said tetchily.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Kyler said. “More like, I’ve experienced far worse. And you have too. I saw him come out of the house with his belt in his hand. You’ve faced the whip before. It’s far more brutal.”
“I barely felt the difference. Just go to sleep.”
“Let me see your back,” Kyler said.
“No.”
“I just want to gauge how bad it is.”
“I said no, Kyler! I’m fine, okay?!” she said angrily.
Kyler paused for a moment, staring at her quizzically.
“All right, then. Good night,” he said, walking over to his room. “Hopefully, you haven’t acquired any new scars.”
As expected, Cackle laughed at her as she entered the room. He fired a barrage of questions at her. She ignored them.
Serenity turned off the lights in the room and got into her sleeping bag. Her back tingled as it pressed against the floor. Granted, being lashed with a belt did hurt—but the whip was far worse. Her previous bouts with physical agony prepared her for tonight. But it had been a long time since she had been subjected to lashes.
“All jokes aside,” Cackle said. “What did he do to you?”
“Forget it,” she murmured broodingly.
“It wasn’t anything bad,” he continued. “You’re not too emotional. Usually, if it was something serious, you’d be moping and mute.”
Serenity rolled to her side, facing him.
“Since this family is so damn screwed up, being beat with a belt is no more ‘serious’ than being scolded for spilling milk,” she said acidly.
“Even regular people whack their kids with belts, it’s nothing bad,” said Cackle. “Don’t be such a softie; you had it coming.”
“Says the kid that broke into the attic.”
“That attic wasn’t even locked, it was inviting me in,” Cackle snorted. “You, on the other hand, broke into their bedroom! Privacy, man!”
“You’re not going to lecture me about invasion of privacy!” she said, disgruntled. “You of all people. Don’t even.”
Serenity contained her fury, turning the other way again. She wasn’t going to engage in conversation with this boy. It would naturally precipitate an argument.
She awakened in semi-darkness the next morning. There weren’t any windows in the room, so it was always dark. Daylight seeped into the room, from the crack underneath the door that was slightly ajar. Serenity crawled out of her sleeping back, whimpering at the throbbing on her back. She went out into the hall, peering down over the banister, surmising that everyone was downstairs.
After changing and washing up, she walked downstairs with her rucksack and duffel bag. Sure enough, the others had all their luggage clustered by the front door. She dropped her bags with the rest of them and strode towards the living room where the brothers were present. Desmos and Agno were drinking tea, taking gulps rather than sips. Helena could be heard working in the kitchen, the faucet running, and sponge scraping.
“Bring your stuff down,” said Desmos, without looking at her.
“I already did,” she replied, taking a seat on the sofa next to Garen. “When is Father coming?”
“Don’t know. Soon, if we’re lucky.”
They’d be lucky if Gunther even showed up at all. There was no reason why his return would be concretely on schedule. Anything could happen. Another delay? A change of plans? An unforeseen predicament?
“Kyler, has your fever died down?” Desmos asked.
“For the most part, yeah,” said Kyler. “I’m ready to scrap again.”
“Good. Otherwise, you would’ve been a bigger liability than Serenity.”
“That’s impossible,” Agno chortled.
“Oh, hello, Serenity!” Helena greeted, shuffling out of the kitchen with a tray of freshly baked biscuits.
She set the tray down on the coffee table. Cackle immediately indulged himself, taking three at a time.
“You missed breakfast, but would you like me to make something?”
“No thanks,” she said, taking a few biscuits before Cackle ate, eat them all. “I’m not that hungry, but these biscuits will do.”
Helena nodded in approval, walking back to the kitchen while wiping her hands on her apron. Serenity watched her go in thought. This was the last time she would see this woman, and she still didn’t know what exactly was wrong with her. It would gratify her curiosity to be divulged, as any enigma required solving. The others were thinking along the same lines as her.
“It’s a shame we’re never going to know why she goes psycho during the night,” said Cackle, his mouth full and cheeks enlarged.
“I’m kind of hoping she does before we leave,” Agno said. “I’ll get it on film this time around and put it on YouTube.”
“Why don’t you guys just ask her, then?” said Garen, who was the only one who hadn’t seen Helena in her “true form.”
“Helena’s not aware of it,” said Desmos. “If you guys want, ask Patrick. He most likely knows that we’ve seen it, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m not gonna remind him that we broke another rule,” Cackle said cautiously. “He’ll take his belt out on me, then.”
Desmos gave her a cursory glance at this comment; it was obvious that he already knew the nature of her punishment, without having to be a witness to it. She scrutinized his reticent face. Nothing. Minus the authority, Desmos was another Kyler. These two, even as the youngest and oldest, resembled each other uncannily.
“Where’s Patrick?” Kyler asked. “I didn’t see him once this morning.”
“He went out,” Garen answered. “Said he had work to do. I’m not sure if he’s coming back, though. After yesterday, I doubt he’d see us off.”
“No, we’re probably going to see him again. Father would want to deliberate with Patrick,” said Desmos.
“Yeah, they’re long-time pals,” Agno said. “Catch me eavesdropping on their conversation. We should hear plenty of—”
“Nothing,” Desmos cut him off sternly. “Their whole background is confidential, and it’ll stay that way unless Father is willing to share.”
“You can be such a suck-up, you know that?” Garen remarked.
“It’s called loyalty and obedience. Remind yourself that you’re one of Father’s sons as well,” Desmos asserted.
She wholeheartedly agreed with Garen’s comment. As long as Gunther was alive, Desmos would never grow up to become an independent man. He was already almost fully grown, approaching the age of twenty-one. He wasn’t the leader, but Garen’s suggestions often appealed more to her than Desmos’s questionable decisions.
After about an hour of vegetating in the living room, she already began to grow impatient. It was past noon now, and there was no sign of Gunther. True, he never specified when precisely in the day he’d show up. But she was hopeful that it would be early in the day rather than in the evening. Helena served tuna sandwiches, food that Cackle and Agno spit out after one bite. She devoured hers with no complaints, acclimated to the poor-quality meals that Helena made for them. It was still edible food; some of the others were exaggerating dramatically, making it seem like they were eating rodents.
&nb
sp; Patrick had still not returned from his “work.” The others were making lame jokes about where he could be. The tasteless, derogatory jokes ranged from “banging the neighbor’s wife” to “grooming children.”
Eventually, she walked out of the house, to the veranda, her ears sick of the dark humor. She didn’t like Patrick anymore; however, some jokes were too coarse for anyone to make, for even someone like Cackle.
There wasn’t a person in sight, as usual. She was half-expecting Gunther to come pacing out of the trees, his cloak-like coat trailing behind him. If this were to happen, she wouldn’t want to be the first person he saw. Better to hide behind the others and let them do all the talking. Opening her mouth in Gunther’s presence was a recipe for a beatdown. She could say anything, and it would be deemed either inappropriate, invalid, or inconsequential to the degree that her mouth had to be shut through coercive measures: punishment.
She sat on the last step of the veranda, arbitrarily picking out the weeds nearby. The cool breeze was refreshing, gently brushing against her skin at infrequent intervals. This was a naturally moment for contemplation. Sitting alone outside usually put her in a pensive mood.
It was evident that her life would be taking a dangerous route, involuntarily embroiled into something she truly wanted no part of this insoluble war with the Aurelians, the enemy she knew nothing about. With all this in mind and the underlying ramifications of partaking in this feud, living in Patrick’s house wasn’t as horrifying as she believed. Food (although, not so delicious) was served, they had a roof under their heads, and a sense of security. This was the perfect hiding place, a house isolated in the center of a forest in England. Wouldn’t they be safe here?
Reflecting on the future never did her any good. Her imagination usually went rampant with false hopes, dreams, and unattainable fantasies.
“Come inside,” a brisk voice said, breaking her period of pondering. “Desmos has a task for you.”
It was Agno. She returned inside. The brothers were still relaxing lazily in the living room. Desmos noticed her coming in and gave her an order.
