Sillas Lee

Led through the old growth trees
Earthen wire, spools of green wool
Pointing through fog - through muck
To true north

I sit in an old pew in a new church
There’s an old man ahead of me
I’ve been here most of my life
starlight, sunshine, rain

I sit in an old pew in a new church
I have questions with no answers
I’m told to be quiet now
Sleep, hurt, tired eyes, sun

I sit in an old pew in a new church
I’ll beg god on my knees tonight
Wish for a better sunrise
Dissatisfied, wake

I sit in an old pew in a new church
Do you too think god cares for us
The preachers lie on sunday
Listless, bitter, foul

I sit in an old pew in a new church
I don’t know if god can forgive
There’s tears to be cried tonight
Guilt, repentance, hate

I sit in an old pew in a new church
There’s a tickle and scratch at my throat
The old man has passed away
Unusual, shift

I sit in an old pew in a new church
I don’t know if I believe this,
But I see horns and a tail
My seat burns my hips.

Weeping dawn 
Lays across the way, 
But high up on that rock -
It all comes to a stop.

Wrists bound tight, dried grain beneath thine heels
Pointing out like splinters, layered like cumulus clouds,
Old oakwood tree - stripped of its bark, dignity
Tortorous their instruments, silent our mouth,
When it all turned south.

I see that stick raised high, pious man, 
Whose wife saw,
His holy wand,
Torch, waved above their head - not for long

The people gather round, teeth flashing with barbarous joviality
They rage and blame-
Say their convulsing sons are due to mine own deal with devilish zeal,
That cinder spark, lemon yellow light touches dried bark -
Would hanging save me this agony - When it sparks -
And into flame it Roars
Glutting jaw, distorted, wailing, Mourning

Fluttering butterflies, twisting body within the cocoon,
Wriggling, spindling, convulsing,
Ripped open too soon - 
The sky is dry up above, the dawn lit gold in this gloom,
By the wrestling, encasement of elysia
In my tawny, tinder box tomb.

I’m burning.

In the infinite supernova of the universe - the planets feast when they collide
They linger in the crucified plunge of the divine - awaiting their cosmic chance at penance
Their pursuit of redemption is their asphyxiation as their doctrines unravel, their bodies tossed to the rabble. 

In destruction where they only find repentance in their stricken belief they belong - their compulsive, delusionally embraced dream - 
The destruction of a universe - holds dear the concept of holy proclamation - where all things splitter and die
But at the lingering horizon of the night when it lays across the sky - the ethereal the gates of heavenly blight will be shut from them
For their crimes were not victimless - 
And the gallows sit and wait - for the last star to die.

Too young
Too young to be crying along the bathroom bathtub
The floor is cold time beneath your cheek
Your eyes swollen and bloodshot

Too young 
Too young to be staying inside locked behind glass
Fearful of the doorway
Hoping day after day they won’t appear like a dark shadow -
To steal away your hope and light - 
While they take away what little is left of your fight

Too young 
Too young to be unable to speak -
Your airway restricting
Black bile curls beneath your tongue -
Floods up your throat and fills your lungs
Until it dribbles over like spittle
And turns against you 

Too young 
Too young to feel pain, too old to cry
Suck your tears back in, your eyelashes brittle
Ungrateful child, vicious adult - black sheep, monster, feeble 
Fabled battle - life and death

Too young 
Too young to think of a hanging cord, too old to not know better
Feet against a cold floor, the roughness of a rug
Hanging pendulum - once and done - a thousand times more
“Oh how could this be” - they say
But they pretend not to have known what was going on -
Behind that big oak door.

There’s a companion of mine,
They’re quite important, all consuming, dripping into the crevices of shattered glass
They’re unwell, inherited, causation, mistreated
The stigma around them is quite terrible, can you see why?
Type 1 or type 2, do you know mania?

There’s a companion of mine,
They’re quite important,
They’re rushing waters filling in a dark crawl space rapidly
Joy is bittersweet, overwhelming and devastating
Ecstasy or happiness, one of them is unfamiliar, unseen
The intensity of them is as tall as redwood trees, as vast as the earth is round

There’s a companion of mine,
They’re quite important, quite bittersweet,
They can’t see, they know everything and nothing
Fine one moment, tripping over their feet the next
How syrupy, sweet, sticky - unwelcome.

There’s a companion of mine
They’re quite important, a lack of a single line
They’re the lie detector needle
Zig zag, ring. Liar, deceiver, a broken bird’s wing
They’re hopscotch of emotions, rapid and fluttering
A jump rope ting before the rope even hits a full swing

There’s a companion of mine
They’re not too important, they’ve burrowed beneath my skin, made an old cottoage home and used my bones to make a windchime that spins
They’re a swing on a good day, floating back and forth. They hold reins in their hands that dig into my tongue
Drip, drop, bleeding
An episode, I’ll call it, words like bile in the back of my mouth, sticking to my tongue like blue raspberry dye
Do they know the stigma around them? 
Do you know mania, despair, a mood drop, skip, jump, dive?
It’s a high, it’s a low, it’s overwhelming, it’s anxiety, it’s ecstasy, it’s fear
It’s choking on grief of a friend who hasn’t died, the spilling of guts of people i’d rather hide

Do you know them
Do you know me?

I hate that their eyes shimmer like moonlight, that it disappears behind heavy clouds at the drop of a hat
I hate their nails raking into my skin, the blood dripping down to my fingertips like a sin
They’re a companion of mine, something gifted down the family line
They’re pearly white teeth of an open maw
Crippling despair in a bright sunlight field
They’re memories and sickness, combined into something wholly unfair
They’re friends finding you unstable, unreadable, like a fine hair that splinters and tears

They are inconsistent, a brush stroke, a put out light bulb
They’re a line of christmas lights, every color a different feeling, sensation, scandal
They’re the videos of mold growing sped up to only a few seconds
Here and then gone again
Do you know them, their hair interwoven with lilies that grow and wilt interchangeably
The candle flames of their fingers, of singes along imperfect skin
They’re the blankets draped over a lonely figure in the middle of summer, of winter, of fall ands spring

My companion is a shade of yellow, no green, no blue
They’re a rainbow turned into a noose.
Do you know them, do you know you?
Do you know their unforgettable, miserable sensation, their riding crop in the left hand and a preacher book in the other
Do you know them as I know you?

What’s a bigger monster
Creatures or me?

Humanity is cruelty, inherent evil
Some are kind, but they crush their bones and used the sand as face powder
My blood makes rouge
My eyes make gems
They may not be blue, green nor hazel, but they shimmer with honey in the sun

My fingernails are the encasement of lightbulbs
My vocal cords are use to string up plants
I’m considered monstrous, inhumane, insane
But my bones make chandeliers, my tears fill the sea
My blood will color your drapery

If you dry me out with salt, i’ll be jerky
My teeth make fine jewelry
My tongue is a delicacy 
You’ll use my guts to make cello strings
My spine will make the legs of chairs, a centerpiece
Use my splintered ribs as hair pieces and pins
Sewing needles and thread made from fine hair
I am a leather seat, a bookcase and the railing of stairs

If you take a bite of me, can you taste my humanity?

My childhood was a candle flame against a raging sea
The sound of running water wakes me, i pray for rain
My bedroom is etched into my mind’s eyes, a reminder of the past like stretch marks - scars

My childhood was gasoline and suffocating silence - choking on the fumes
I carried my bird size heart in the middle of the night, convinced the dark was home, safety
I drowned part of myself. Their blood turned the water awash with red as they choked, spat and bled.
I sat with the other half. They stumbled on the way back down and tripped, snapped and shattered.

Two sides, one, a thousand glasses cracked into a million shards
One side was a scream, the other a lit match
How they amused each other.
One was a smile, one was a baring of teeth. I was ashamed. 
Kinder, smarter, better, failure - not enough air to speak.

I was a child screaming of injustice no one seemed to believe - ignored, inconvenient, needing to be “grateful”
She did not have to take you in, they told me - I was not her burden to bear
But the scars left on my very soul are from her
Verbal, trapped against a wall - Eyes full of vitriol -
They were a sore throat, ragged from screaming - and I was the aftertaste

“There’s a monster in the woods, you know.”

“I’ve heard.” Prince said back dryly. 

“But you still walked into them.” The man said. He had long black hair that stuck out in odd places and the oddest shade of purple eyes. His bangs fell around his pale face and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. 
“That I did.” Prince muttered. He tilted his head down slightly but his eyes remained on the man. He licked his lips to wet them. “I don’t believe much in rumors.”

“I’m sorry then, for what’s going to happen.” The man said. He was standing by a long table with an array of tools on it. The room smelled wet, like the foundation was rotting. The man was dressed in a black t-shirt, sweats and had a tan apron neatly tied around his waist. The apron was stained in places.
“Not even going to give me a name?” Prince asked as he leaned back, his back bumping against the wall. He frowned faintly, disliking the way his long, pastel pink hair caught on the rough stone of the man’s basement. Everything was made of cement down here besides the dirt floor and the room was small. Prince suspected it was a side room. Prince's black eyes drifted towards the doorway before they returned to the man. “If you’re going to kill me regardless, I should at least get to decide which gods I’ll curse you out to. That’ll work better if I know your name.” He said, his voice rich and smooth.

The man’s brows furrowed and his cracked lips turned into a faint frown. “Lucien.” He said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it.

“Last name?” Prince requested. He leaned forward, his shoulders twisting with the uncomfortable movement. Ah, Prince thought, my hands are tied. His long, gangly limbs had all been tied up. Prince glanced down at his polished black shoes. The shiny surface was scuffed and Prince glanced up at the man. He scuffed my shoes. Prince thought bitterly.

The man, Lucien, stared at Prince oddly, confused. Then, he set down one of the tools he’d been fiddling with. He turned and strode towards Prince, crouching down in front of him. The man wore high platforms but Prince was sure he was taller than the man. Certainly not broader though, Prince noted. Prince took after his mother in the regard that he was tall and slender. “You’re weird.” Lucien muttered, his voice deep and rough. Prince wondered if the man had difficulty sleeping.

“I don’t think you get to call me weird, Lucien.” Prince said, Lucien's name flowing off his tongue like gasoline.

Lucien’s lips pressed into a firm, displeased line and he stood. His boots were scuffed to hell and Prince idly wondered if the man wore those in his everyday life or just when he was working. “Don’t call me casually.” Lucien muttered, his voice quiet and disgruntled. Lucien spoke with a low, mullish tone that came off as moody.

“I think I will.”

Lucien glanced behind him and if looks could kill, Prince would be dead six times over. “You know I’m going to kill you, right?” Lucien asked. The words filled the room and made the damp air feel stifling.

“I could gather that.” Prince said.

“Annoying your murderer doesn’t work, you know.” Lucien said dryly.

“I’d guess not. Maybe I’m seducing you.” Prince said with a shrug. His legs were half sprawled out, one knee raised higher than the other and skewed to the left. His ankles and wrists had been tied. His lithe fingers brushed the rough rope tying his hands together. The knot was poorly made.
Confusion bled into Lucien's expression and his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re doing a bad job.” Lucien turned towards the man tied up in his basement and crossed his arms, leaning back against the table behind him.

“I don’t know, I haven’t started yet.” Prince said. His smile was thin and relaxed. It would have been charming if it wasn’t oddly eerie.

“You’re creepy.” Lucien said, his voice filled with displeasure.

“That’s because I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to get me into your basement.” Prince said, his voice nearly playful. Prince tipped his chin down, watching Lucien through his lashes. But, those obsidian eyes that glimmered like the black sea made the hairs along the back of Lucien's neck stand up. “You scuffed my shoes.”

Lucien stared at Prince, momentarily thrown off. His eyes darted down to Prince’s relatively glossy black shoes. His brows furrowed and he looked confused again. “Oh. Sorry.” Lucien said stiffly.
“An apologetic killer is a bad killer, Lucien.” Prince said. His smile faded and his lips twisted into a faint frown. “Now, how exactly did you get me down here?”

“I carried you down.” Lucien said mulishly, as if the answer were obvious. Lucien picked up a knife and turned his back on Prince. He grabbed a sharpening stone and ran the blade carefully along the wet stone. Lucien had certainly done this before, Prince could gather.

“Before that, in the woods, what did you do?” Prince asked. He tilted his head, trying to get a glimpse of Lucien's face. For a killer, this guy seemed oddly soft. Lucien's lips parted to answer, but Prince cut him off before he could make a sound. “Specifically.” Prince’s fingers caught on the knot, his blunt nails digging into the rough, old hemp.

—

Lucien glanced back at the strange man that he’d stolen from the woods. Huffing, he quietly turned back towards his knife where he continued to carefully sharpen it into a fine, crisp point. “I hit you over the head.” Lucien muttered.

“That’s all?” The tied up man asked. He sounded confused, perhaps a little bitter. The tone reminded Lucien of stubborn old men when they were told they’d lost a bet. Those old fools always carried a note of disbelief, like they couldn’t believe their own folly.

Lucien glanced back at the man dubiously, his lips twisting down in befuddlement. The man had long, pastel pink hair and eyes that reminded Lucien of a seal with how big, glimmering and wet they looked. “That’s all,” he confirmed. “I slung you over my shoulder and carried you here.” He said. “You were heavy.”

The man nodded faintly, tipping his head back until it quietly knocked against the brick. Lucien cringed for him. His head must hurt already, Lucien couldn’t imagine that it would help to knock his sore head on the old stone. Lucien had once knocked his head against the stone by mistake and been left curled over in pain.
“So, you’re the type to go for random victims. Do you always choose random passersby in the woods.”

“Only the ones that trespass.”

“It’s a bad idea to get rid of people on land you own, Lucien. Besides, you don’t own the whole forest-”
“What’s your name?” Lucien said, interrupting the man. The man looked surprised before his brows furrowed and his lips twisted into a near pout, or perhaps it was a grimace. Lucien wasn’t quite sure.
“Prince.” The man answered.

“Prince?” Lucien asked. He didn’t believe the man for a moment. Feeling bitter, Lucien added, “Prince is a weird name.” He turned away, feeling a small, smug smirk tug at his lips.
“My mother says it’s because my father was so bad at giving me a name, that she decided on Prince.” The man said.

“What was your mother’s name?” 

“Suddenly curious about your victims?” Prince asked sarcastically.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

“Vylian.” Prince answered. Lucien heard faint shuffling behind him and supposed that Prince was shifting around to either get comfortable or try to escape. He wouldn’t succeed in either, Lucien had been taught how to tie knots when he was young and the dirt floor was uneven and uncomfortable. Escape and comfort were impossible.

Wait, vylian. Hmm, that name rang a bell. “My dad knows a vylian.”

“It’s somewhat popular.” Prince said dryly. 

Lucien gave him a sour look over his shoulder and Prince smiled sardonically. It didn’t reach those glassy black eyes. Lucien shook his head and looked back at the tools strewn across the wooden table. There was an assortment of knives, two saws, a few hammers for afterwards and pliers.

“Who’s your dad?” Prince asked, sounding curious but contemplative.

“Curious about your killer?” Lucien asked, mocking Prince’s prior retort. Prince snorted quietly, amused by his sass and Lucien felt an odd rush that he’d made the strange man chuckle. But, his smile faded as he thought of his father. He didn’t get along with the man. Lucien had taken in his youngest brother when he was barely an adult due to that bastardization of a person. Lucien’s other brother, who was only a few years younger than Lucien himself, lived with his own older half brother rather than with that vile man. “Kenny.”
“Kenny…” Prince said slowly. Something in Prince’s tone was different, more thoughtful and contemplative. An odd chill raced up Lucien’s spine, like a thousand needles stabbing into his skin.

He tilted his knife to catch the reflection of the man’s handsome conterance.

Lucien froze. 

Prince was half crouched, half standing. His left hand was braced on the wall and he was pulling the last of the rope from his ankles. His dark eyes flickered up, catching the sudden tension in Lucien’s posture. Those dark eyes widened slightly before narrowing into thin slits. A slow, thin smile stretched across Prince’s features. “Oh dear. It seems I’ve been caught.” Prince said with a low chuckle.

Lucien jolted back into himself. He clutched the knife so tight his knuckles turned white as he whipped around and brandished it in front of himself. His eyes darted down to the rope, seeing it was still fully intact. His purple gaze darted back up to Prince’s dark eyes and he wondered how the hell the man had gotten out of those ropes. Lucien had killed over a dozen people, but none of them had slipped out of those ropes as easily as this tall, spindly man had. “How did you-” Lucien began, his voice cracking slightly near the end.
“I have an odd question.” Prince said, cutting him off. Prince’s top half was shadowed and only his shoes and black pants shone in the light. “Is your father Kenny Paccioretti?” Prince asked.

Lucien’s blood froze in his veins before it turned into rage. His grip on the knife tightened so much he felt his bones creak. He pointed the knife at the man with fury burning in his eyes. “How the fuck do you know that name?” Lucien hissed. Lucien preferred not to swear, but everything about this situation felt wrong. 
Like a set up.

Prince smiled but it was humorless and didn’t reach the pool of his eyes. “Ah, so you are…” Prince’s tongue peaked out to wet his lips. “I hate that.” Prince brought his hands up and then clapped them once, the sound echoing in the quiet, small side room. Lucien’s eyes snapped towards the movement. Lucien’s heart was beating so loud he could barely hear the dripping noise from the old pipes anymore.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Prince said. Knob by knob, Prince slowly stood to his full height. Lucien’s spine tingled with unease at how the other man completely towered over him. His proportions looked slightly off and as beautiful as the man was, his face looked completely shadowed beyond the faint light that caught his ink black eyes.

Run, whispered something instinctive in the back of his mind. Run or die, it hissed. Lucien disorientedly wondered why his urge to run sounded like his father.

“You’re going to run,” Prince said softly. It was disconcerting when paired with those indifferent eyes. “Then you’re going to try to get my brother, Kazui, on the phone.” Prince said. Kazui was Lucien’s half brother. The hairs on the back of Lucien’s neck stood on end.

His brother, Lucien wondered half hysterically.

Prince smiled. “If you can, I won’t kill you.” Prince said as he slowly unclasped his hands. A silent countdown started in Lucien's head as he watched Prince’s hands. “Fair deal?” Prince cooed, his voice turning sickeningly sweet. Lucien’s gaze snapped back up to meet the man’s. He couldn’t pick up a glimmer of remorse, mischief or anything beyond a shallow glint of brutal truth in those dark, pitch black eyes.
Oh. The knife slipped from Lucien’s trembling fingers. Lucien was reminded of vultures, tigers and venomous snakes. With a bone deep certainty, Lucien realized something about the man in front of him. This man is hunting.

Prince took a step forward.

Lucien took a step back - and ran.

The wooden door to the side room swung open and Lucien ran through the musty, rarely used basement. He heard the low sound of the man’s laugh from the basement. Lucien’s feet pounded against the old, uneven, wooden stairs. Just as Prince’s polished shoes passed the threshold of the doorway, Lucien ran out of the door to the basement and into the kitchen. He slammed the white, paint chipped door shut behind him. He scrambled with the old sliding lock, messily shoving it into place.

He took a step back, panting. His house was dark, nearly pitch black and only the silvery blue moonlight crept into his partially closed curtains. The first step at the bottom of the stairs creaked. “That’s not far enough, Lucien.” Prince said, his voice muffled by the door. He sounded like he was at the bottom of the stairs. “You’ll have to go further than that. I said to try getting to your phone, didn’t I?” Prince said. His voice was now somewhere near the middle of the stairs. “So get running, Lucien. I’d hate to accidentally get rid of that snake’s bastard.” The last word came out like a low snarl through the old wooden door.
Lucien bolted. The sound of the basement door jingling felt too loud in the silent house. Lucien turned the corner, a chill racing up his spine. He sped past the living room, photos of his family and brothers blurry in his peripheral. The tv was playing an old horror movie that it must have switched to while he’d been downstairs. The fireplace was put out but the cloying, remnant smell of smoke burned Lucien’s lungs regardless.

Thud, thud, thud. Lucien jolted at the loud crunch that followed as he heard the wood of his basement door splinter and snap. What the fuck had he let into his house?

He ran up the stairs to the second floor, his heart beating heavy and fast in his chest. He kept his phone in his room when he was working and the phone in the kitchen didn’t work. Lucien kicked off his heavy, loud shoes. He heard them clatter down the steps in sync with his heartbeat. He ran into his room, closing the door as quietly but quickly as he could and locked it.

Downstairs, the volume of the tv grew obnoxiously loud until it made Lucien's head throb with pain. He couldn’t hear Prince anymore. He couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t hear him-
Lucien scrambled towards his bedside table, grabbed his phone and tucked himself into the too small, wooden closet. Every brush of his shirts and sweaters hung inside made him jump. He tucked his knees in so close that they dug into his ribcage. He shut the doors carefully and completely, surrounding himself in pitch darkness.
Lucien pressed the on button of his phone while he used his other hand to cover his mouth. His breaths were ragged and Lucien struggled to keep himself quiet as his hands shook. His phone light blinked to life, lighting up the dark closet.

3%. He felt sick. He tapped the phone icon and quickly swiped through the list of useless names.
Kazui Ferri blinked back at him as he pressed the call sign. He brought it up to his ear, begging any gods that existed that the ring of his phone wasn’t as loud as he thought it was and that the tv noise from downstairs would cover up his ragged breathing.

The obnoxious, loud noise of the tv suddenly cut off. Ring. The sudden silence felt deafening rather than comforting. Tears beaded along Lucien’s eyelashes and he wondered if this was his repayment for the people he’d killed. How was he supposed to know who that man was, that he wasn’t just another person on trails he shouldn’t be at night-

Prince had been facing the opposite direction of where most hikers were headed at that hour. Ring. He’d had a bag with him that Lucien had left behind when he'd decided to make the man his next victim. There’s a monster in the woods, Lucien remembered having been told by his father. His father was as sly as a fox and as slippery as a snake with a hand in things Lucien wouldn’t dig up at gun point. I’m the monster in the woods, Lucien had thought back then. Lucien was new to the area, he’d moved in six months ago. 

Ring.

The third ring of his phone echoed loud and volatile in the room.

Prince had known his father’s name. He knew his half brother, was related to his half brother. Lucien’s father knew Prince. Kenny had warned him about a monster in the woods. Lucien recognized his father was a monster afraid to be eaten by something worse.

Lucien remembered the lock on his door was broken.

The closet door opened.

Lucien met the monster in the woods.

Gods don’t love men.

Nori, a small woman with hair as black as night and large, bottomless eyes as dark as ink, stood in the hallway of the traditional house. They were far into the mountains and woods, hidden away like a prized bird. Her robes were heavy and covered with embroidery full of birds in flight and mountain creaks. It was dark. Every three meters had a well placed oil lamp which made the smooth, dark wood gleam like gold under the warm, liquid light.

The light didn’t reach far enough to warm the passengers of the hallway, it never did, never could. The manor housed detached traditionalist ideology, the design as cold as it was beautiful. Each wing of clay slates faced each cardinal direction. The people who passed by here were less human than snow and ice, so they fit in perfectly with their dark eyes and blacker hair.

The people who washed up on shore, foreigners who thought they could pretend to be lost, sometimes described the inhabitants as angels. Nori knew the truth though. Angels were ugly things and the creatures that wandered these halls were too beautiful to be anything so pure and detached. The foreigners always found that out the hard way.

Nori walked through the maze like hallways. No matter where she went, the walls all looked the same besides a differently placed plant. It didn’t feel lived in besides the faint wear along the wooden floor. She missed the open plains where she’d grown up with a mother who she thought must have been gentle. The woman’s face had blurred with time.

Six steps, twelve, three. She had tried once to rush out of one of the sliding doors when she’d first been forced into this hollow house. She hadn’t made it far. Her husband had grabbed her wrist so tight the bone had nearly splintered. Hell was out there, she had been told. 

Hell was in here, she had thought bitterly.

Nori’s head tilted and she peered at down a long hallway that stretched for what felt like miles and warped at the ends. She used to pray to the gods until she met one.

Her tongue laid heavy in her mouth, an instrument she couldn’t play. Mute, a trait beloved by some and found tedious by others. She followed the warn fingerprints along the wall from a thousand too many hands touching the old, polished wood. She didn’t touch it, she didn’t want her fingertips worn into the old house which housed more suffering than any church.

If she wished hard enough, she could imagine that she’d fade into obscurity. She’d rather be forgotten than become another grave buried on clan land that she had no desire to be tied to. She wished for there to be nothing left to tether her to this place. Not even a corpse.

She turned left. Left, left, right. The old door slid open on well oiled hinges and she missed the creak of an old cottage door that used to make her teeth grate. This place was all too silent for a place that should have been filled with music and dance. She counted her steps as she walked. It was the same number each time in every room, from heel to toe. 1, 3, 6, 9. Each plank of wood was 34 hands long and to the 2nd knuckle wide.
Her hands were small.

Nori stepped into the dark, unfamiliar room. Everything was perfectly placed, just like Yasu kept everything. She walked further into the room, her light steps barely making a creak along the old floorboards. Most people would do this out of hate, but nori held no hate for Yasu. Yasu was not a kind woman and she hated her, but nori had no reason to resent the woman who’s dream had been snatched out from under her.

Yasu was a first wife, an arranged marriage - Nori was a girl distantly related to the bloodline, her father a scholar and a too weak grasp on power. Nori was a second wife to the devil.

Nori knelt before a well made dresser and slid the gleaming wooden panel open. It creaked and the shiver that crawled down her spine was gratifying. What happens when god hates someone? Nori knew. She knew because god was a tall man whose skin was the color of burnt umber wood with wavy, graying black hair that brushed his hips and phoenix eyes the color of the moon. Her spouse, her husband, both god and devil-

God loved her. Nori hated god.

Nori’s slender hands looked pale and sickly in the light of the moon which spilled in from the flower painted shoji door. Birds were painted on her own and she found a cruel irony in the symbolism for both of them. Yasu was a woman who should have been a respected first wife, who should have bloomed like the trees in the courtyard when the weather was warm. God had cut her roots instead.

The very same man had then painted her own door in birds when she could neither speak nor fly.
She picked up a round, brass container within the drawer and slid it open. The powder inside was as white as snow. Nori reached into the folds of her robe and retrieved a small vial. She felt cold sweat drip down her back but her expression was as indifferent as snow as she uncorked it. She hoped she could be more like the winter and less like spring. She sprinkled the contents of the vial into the white face powder. Poison. She placed the lid back on top and reached for the smaller bowl of rouge. The powder melted on the pinkish red of the paste inside. She considered licking it before thinking better of it. She didn’t want to leave her son behind, even if she ached for open skies.

She closed the container and placed it back in the drawer where she had found it. When she stood, she took one more glance back at the room of a woman who wished for her damnation.

Nori turned towards the door and walked towards it. The wooden door slid open under the soft touch of her hand and she stepped out of the room. She closed it quietly behind her and turned towards the door. She bowed low, her hair falling over her shoulder before slowly standing upright. The door was innocuous in the room of identical doors with near identical rooms. She turned away. Six steps, twelve, three. Six years, twelve days, three months.

Nori couldn’t kill god, but she could poison his garden.

Choke on me.

There are many people in the world and the first time you bump into someone and brush curious fingers against someone else is a universal experience. Humanity, as they are, seek out people who are similar and familiar to us. Among hundreds of thousands of people you pass by, there are very few you keep. People are cruel, it’s a fact and a lesson which is learned on repeat. I am terribly lucky and unlucky though, to have deeply learned my lesson and yet not at the same time.

My first lesson was as a child. I was bright eyed, warm and curious to a fault. It would take me years to realize the glances directed at me were tolerance and annoyance, barely concealed disgust. But I would not forget being being left out, told to play subservient roles, being made to dance the part of games where I was the most disliked and unwanted. I remember asking to play and being turned away only to see someone step forward next to ask and be received gladly. Like a beaten dog, a child will try again and again until the lesson is forced to stick and turns into distrust.

I was a strange child - I had to of been. I went up to new people, stuck out my hand and easily declared “Hi, my name’s Sillas!” I did it in first grade to a boy hiding behind his mother. I’d learn 9 years later that he was violently abused and bullied others besides me. I would do it again in 6th grade with a new boy sitting by himself and invite him to sit with me until he eventually found his own group. Humorous, how that boy befriended the first one. I would learn he was not kind, but he always was to me. I had a strong sense of justice, then. I had an innate hate for the intolerant and a kindness that outdated me. I’d get in front of other children and loudly tell them off when they were unkind.

But no one truly liked me. This was a bitter lesson of many.

I saw it in the gazes of teachers, of my classmates and other people's parents. I was weird, a little off and inhuman. Perhaps I was unsightly with my hair swept back in a half updo with those terrible ties with two bulbs on them that clacked against my head obnoxiously. Or perhaps it was the way I asked too many questions and copied those around me. 

In 4th grade, I copied an unkind joke another student did, exactly after seeing him do it. I was brought the next day inbetween my two 4th grade classes and talked to viciously. They refused to acknowledge the reason i gave - I did what I saw - and I was the only one punished. That happened quite often, with people believing I was rather dull and never believed my honest reason for doing things. I was a child who would repeat the thousands of things I saw but be the only one told I was at fault for it.

It’s not hard to notice the dichotomy, whether it was something innocent or mean, it only mattered who had done it.

I learned this when I, who was Aromantic without a word for it yet, was forced into giving a random name for a boy who I didn’t know and “confess” to feelings I didn’t have.

The whole cafeteria laughed at me. 

Oh to be a confused 4th grader with a teacher holding up a ripped up letter with hate in their eyes and lips curled back in a snarl and the perimment imprint of a cafeteria of laughing faces. In retrospect, it’s rather bizarre why that teacher was so angry at an elementary schooler’s supposed crush. More pressingly, I wonder still what made her think holding up a ripped up letter to a child would be a good thing. That same teacher would continue to dislike me so deeply, that my nana would need to have a conversation with her when my younger siblings joined her class. She hated them simply for the association and yet the few things I can remember doing “wrong” were all things I learned from other people or a lack of social grace.

I was a child.

The isolation got worse after I gave that stupid letter (a suggestion from a supposed from friend in the first place), and so I turned to a series of books my neighbor and friend at the time suggested - warrior cats. I fell in love with it, obsessed over it and fell into media which allowed me to escape my life. Anime, novels as thick as my palm, they all became something I greedily devoured whole one after another.
I don’t necessarily regret the isolation as it became a love for media, openmindedness and a desire to understand others even more deeply. I advanced swiftly after that, but everyone would always continue to look at me like I was terribly dense, stupid and ignorant.

Often, I was right and it was the other person who didn’t know as much about the topic as I did. But, I am still terribly afraid to say something incorrect.

That same 4th grade year, a teacher who I believed to be kind snapped at me in front of the entire class. She was sick of hearing about my special interest as a child - wolves - and decided to take it out on me. Parents, teachers and peers are often a person’s first bullies. I sat back at my seat with tears in my eyes and tightly pressed lips as I rewrote my entire story, praying no one would notice my upset. They didn’t.

Humiliation is a terrible tool against autistic, neurodivergent children with hearts too soft. There is only tolerance when someone is aware of what is wrong, and hatred towards those that people don’t immediately know are autistic or neurodivergent. Often, those traits are viciously bullied out of children that were born girls. Tolerance is not kindness and it is not as forthcoming and genuine as people think they’re doing a good job of playing pretend at - and I am no longer a girl.

During my time at school, I would continue to be mistreated. My relationship with academics would be a bad one over and over again. I remember the faces of teachers and students alike, their faces over their names, and I still spiral in wondering if it had something to do with something inherently my own. Like nails clawing at a stone wall, each act of cruelty would be one scratch and by the end, my walls would be covered in deep grooves.

School gave - gives - me panic attacks. I don’t cry anymore when I feel like I’m dying, but they’ll be persistent and terrible whenever I make a mistake or am too open with people who dig shovels into old wounds. 8 years and counting, the anxiety never ends.

A child should not wish with their entire being not to wake up the next day or bawl in fear and anxiety when they cannot finish an assignment despite wanting to. And, through it all, no matter how pristine my grades were, how much of a “pleasure to have in class” I was or how quiet and well mannered I behaved, everyone would always think I was a bit stupid.

In 6th grade, no one in my math class remembered my name besides “book girl.” I had straight A’s and would pull out my book, that I always kept in my desk, inbetween notes. My reading score shot up, and my social skills continued to wither from where they’d barely begun to grow. I skipped seventh grade English and went into an advanced class, but I would struggle and be left behind as I was tossed into a new room with rules I hadn’t learned. If I asked a question about how to do something the others were learning that year, I’d get a look from a teacher and told “you did it today in class” and dismissed. When I asked someone near me, they’d look at me oddly, vaguely explain it and then I’d struggle to fill in the blanks. My entire life feels like filling in the blanks.  

Straight A’s and poor social skills, I ran into someone in 8th grade who had sat besides me for two thirds of the year and didn’t remember that we shared the class. I was forgettable.

I wouldn’t learn until 17 years into my life that it wasn’t a “motivation problem”. The teachers that always said “you know how to do it but aren’t submitting assignments” weren't quite right. I could see their annoyance, interlance and distrust in their eyes. I lost assignments, teachers did too, and I’d be ignored. How can someone ask for help without knowing they need it? Rather, I learned that I was stuck in executive dysfunction. On july 11th 2020, after fighting for two years to get tested for ADHD and brushed off, I got my diagnosis. For a small, shining moment, I thought it would help. Instead, the 504 head at my school said to me “You made it this far, so I think you’ll be fine.” I hated those words and I do now. 

If a child cries in severe panic, wishes for death over being looked at with disappointment from an authority figure again and is in a school so big they never see their friends while their grades plummet from straight A’s - perhaps they’re not “making it that far” and won’t be fine.

For a second time, I think that it is exceedingly lucky those things happened to me and not someone else. I think they’d have drowned.

I learned a few things since then and from those moments. A child without enough play often experiences depression, reduced self regulation and poor resilience. A child who doesn’t know how to socialize is often outcasted and seen as weird. When you pair that with the effects of emotional abuse - you get a very unhappy child who internalizes those ideologies. I was a child with a heart three sizes too big, and numbness was a terrible plague. Numbness is often a result of feeling too much for a body to handle. Most of all I learned that people are cruel. Children, adults, all of them. Adults play at knowing what they’re doing, but they don’t. They pretend to help, do things they think may help, and then believe the problem is smoothed over. 
Adults turn away a child who comes to their guidance office asking for help and asks them how seriously they need that help - and turn them away when the child undermines their problems.

My dislike for authority sparked and grew. People think authority issues are born from nothing, but they’re wrong. For someone to hate authority, it is often because a system around them has failed them.
I was lucky to be sent to therapy so early due to outside reasons, but that isolation would remain my entire life. What does it mean to exist if others cannot stand it? I am still unsure how to behave and react despite noticing behavior that people think they’re doing a good job of hiding. People are not as clever as they believe they are, but I have little patience for guessing games.

No good things come from it.

So then, what does it mean to be tolerable? I twisted and bent myself but I was passionate in everything people told me not to be. I loved anime, books, escapism, and delved so deep into my own head I discovered another layer of clouds you can’t see. I fixated on psychology, anthropology and sociology, hoping it would explain to me why I was the way I was and why others were the way they were. I analyze so much I overwhelm myself. I understood what led to my abuse, why I get short of breath at the slam of a door, why people fear what they do and behave the way they do. It did not save me - it never will.

From that all, I realized two things: I am not easy to swallow - and that I dislike others.

My childhood was a religious experience of desperation in understanding the science of my isolation. I fell like lucifer into the flames of hell and asked what I’d done wrong when the blame didn’t lie in my tongue but my clipped wings. If an angel questions too much, they fall - but how do you decide on that line. Is a demon cruel simply because they’re no longer an angel, or do they blacken until soot remains where their heart once stood and that’s their downfall. I don’t exactly have an answer, but I think I flew close to it like icarus did the sun. Empathy without limit is foolishness, cynicalism with no gentleness is violence, an unloved child is fascinated with a flame for the warmth it gives them, and winter is coldest when it’s harbored in your ribcage in the middle of summer.

The lessons learned from society and one’s own culture are as important as learning not to touch a hot stove. There is a possibility to learn the hard way for both things, and not all lessons stick unless they flay skin.
There will be thousands of people I’ll meet, hundreds of names I’ll hear in passing or never learn. I, like all people, will seek out safety in numbers with people like myself. But, I’ve found rats among foxes and vultures among crows. I tried to befriend snakes and was surprised when they bit me. Life is an ever evolving understanding of the world, and the less I’ve been able to trust people, the more I’ve acknowledged the way their eyes betray them. I used to believe that the saying that eyes were the window to the soul was foolish, but I think it’s because people have secret codes in how they speak and ignore obvious signals that are repeated by the masses.

I am a cynic and yet I am optimistic, I am painfully empathetic until something in me frays and I can’t be. I am an unloved child with a love for arson and have housed winter in the summer as well as been a greenhouse during heavy snow. People are contradictions, it must be a fact that’s learned and stuck to your teeth so you can remind yourself by running your tongue over the back of them. The lessons in my life were not easily learned - but like a stubborn rock shore against the sea, one thought remained with me.
What was wrong with me?

Everything, nothing, some pieces, most things - I implored the people closest to me in a desperate search for that answer. Only one of them, my therapist (unsurprisingly), made me realize something. 
He said to me with a firm honesty that I prefer, “I don’t think you’re intolerable.”

.

.

.

Those words struck me more than they should have. “Why do you care so much about what they think? You don’t even like them, they’re not good people.”

How many times have I wanted simply to be acknowledged as something not being horribly wrong with me. I used to think I was like an apple that if you bit into, you’d find the core rotted. Why else would people hate me, after all, unless I deserved it? Especially my entire life.

I dislike the saying “there wasn’t something wrong with me but them.” 

But, in my conversation with my therapist, who has worked with me since I was in 7th-8th grade, I acknowledged there was a kernel of truth to it. I will always acknowledge my actions and try to smooth the jagged, sharp edges of my pain, loneliness and trauma, as I refuse to perpetuate what has been done to me - that is simply my nature - but sometimes, hate from the masses is not about wrongness. 

It’s about -  “cowards.”

—

Two adults sit across each other, one worn from age and the other young but with eyes that still shine despite their darkness.

“Cowards…” They - I - startle as the word slips off my tongue, a repeat of what the man before them has pointed out. The man, Ara, nods. 

Yeah.

“Really, how?”

“Because if they can’t handle you, that’s not a you problem. It’s them.” He speaks of empathy and kindness in the other person, a tendency to be too permissive with imbeciles. He is relieved when they bite back against the hands that strike them with sharp words where they are due. Do not tread on me, he wishes them to express more freely, or I will leave.

The words are a balm, an acknowledgement of not being inherently rotted. This is a person who has seen a kid cry, seen their anger and resentment, their despair and how they splinter and then snap and crunch under the pressure. He has watched their tendency towards lashing out and read about their panic attacks. But, he has also watched them grow, smooth their jagged edges and unclench their jaw even as their tongue bleeds. If an open wound is not the fault of the bearer, this man knows.

So, yeah. With a life represented by the tower and the chariot - 

Fucking cowards.