Scented Blood

1

Why do I have to be born. When everyday, the world tries to kill me, anyway.

“You killed them.”

No. I would never!

A deadly silence traveled fast suffocating me in the spaceous living room. He stood defeated in his military uniform he should be proud of, facing his back to me.

Savant, how easily he hated me, since I arrived at their home. And now, I think I just justfied all of it. Yet there are fleeting moments when I felt that in between those anger towards me, he might have liked me. Even just a little bit.

Van, he’s always been coffee, tension and unrest.

You killed them…it echoed in my mind like I didn’t hear enough the clarity of harsh accusation inscripted in those words.

I hear the rhythm of my heartbeat, mirroring his, ringing strong and unorganized. I instinctively held both my hands, my head on the ground and I prayed as if it could save me from the situation I am in.

But the way his broad shoulders hang loosely and his ragged breathing that I can clearly hear, the muscle tension in his arms contracting effortlessly, the grip of his fist, like he wanted to punch something, to inflict the pain he’s feeling, I felt threatened.

It’s been a month now yet the guilt is still fresh. And the wound still felt like the first time I felt pain.

Would you believe me if I told you I felt the same. That I wanted to be the one lying on the grave instead of your parents.

But my mouth felt dry, and the words, to atleast defend myself, was gone. I could not say a thing because I’m sure whatever comes off my mind is nonsense, for you already concluded the end of the story without hearing my side.

I know you very well not to speak a single dumb word.

Maybe you wanted to kill me. Why not? I was the root of their demise. You probably blamed me so much and was asking why am I still alive.

Oh, so this is the day. The day I finally met your long time anger towards me. Without no one to stop you and tell you to treat me with respect because I am just a girl, weak and fragile as the old tales.

I’m so used to seeing Van’s hateful eyes since we were still young—me, ten years old and you one year older. But that fact wasn’t even enough to comfort me from his present decisive blank stare now.

And Van, he is coffee, volcano and rain.

“You killed them,” he repeated in a what seems like a whisper without looking at me again, the hurt so visible in my pitch black eyes if he could just, in a second, glance in mine. But then he left.

I wiped the tears that immediately poured without my permission when I realized I’m alone again.

Mom. Dad. Your son is already home.

Yes, he’s still rude and handsome. If you were here, you’d be so proud of him. He’s got what he dreamed of. Only you weren’t here to show him how proud you were.

Why do you have to leave me? Why can’t it just be me that was six feet under now. I don’t want this life anymore.

Ah…yeah, I don’t have the right to call them Mom and Dad anymore. I couldn’t protect them. I was supposed to protect them not them dyin just because of the stupid creature I happen to be.