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heartshapedbubble · 1 year

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YOU GUYS WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST FINISHED⁉️⁉️

(jokes aside this chapter is heavy and when i say heavy i mean HEAVY it's the heaviest chapter ive wrote for now please read the tws and take care mwah)

childhood friends, a d.m. fanfic🐍// chapter 3

TW // descriptions and mentions of abuse, death, blood n gore (can get graphic so be careful), gender of reader not specified, sulphur hater community gonna go wild after this one, im inconsistent as fuck with the writing and the lore god save us, no proofreading we die like men, literally angst/trauma then fluff then i proceed to wreck incredible trauma upon desire, put your seatbelts on for the last part because oooh boy, teen desire angst mhm, desire needs therapy, me when i ignore the canon (sigma)

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A crumpled diary entry, the sides messily torn off and a lot of words aggressively scribbled over. The handwriting starts off neat and in a posh cursive, yet as the writing progresses, it turns to a manic, almost deranged shaky hand, a mix of unfinished sentences and unknown keywords, the paper wobbly and the ink blotchy due to the fact that it was sodden with the author's tears. The date is unreadable.

Today, it's my 17th birthday.

Today, it's also 6-years-and-something of my confinement inside the house. I stopped keeping serious track of time a while ago - I realized that thinking of it made me feel even worse than usual.

I still clearly remember the day when it all started. When i started descending into madness as all of my thoughts began to be blocked off one by one by hardcover books and the well-maintained white walls - I still harboured the fading pink scar on my palm. Yet, the worst scars were the ones on my psyche. They were like scabs - instead of forgetting what happened and letting myself heal, I did the exact opposite. I kept tearing apart the healed wound, reliving what I knew I should forget and what I can't fix. It fueled me, such bland and dull anger. I would scream, shout, dig my nails an inch deep into my skin upon the resurfacing memory, shunning my younger and my current self, while being fully aware I could never escape the situation nor now nor then. It's the worst kind of anger, the one that both riles you up and leaves your chest aching at the same time. It's not even the anger - it's the feeling of inevitable helplessness that you try so hard to hide. Beneath my thin veil of teenage angst and aggressive outbursts, I knew what i truly was. I saw the real me every night, hearing myself break down the second I locked myself in my room.

Even if he took my freedom, even if we had dinner together, even if I spent 10 hours a day studying thick textbooks that he spent thousands on, I could never see him as "dad". He never was one to begin with, so his countless attempts to make me consider him one were fruitless. I quickly forgot the burning feeling on my hand when he first hit me since he quickly resorted to physical violence as time went by. Cursed him under my breath as he passed by? You could bet his hand was tangled in my hair and my head was about to become one with the cupboard. Yelled back at him as we went for a walk together? His hand clenched my wrist with all its might and I felt like my bones could burst through my fingertips with each second he held it.

I looked out the window as I recalled. It was a sunny day, the beautiful flowers reaching over the fence from the neighbor's - their - garden. I opened the windows to soak up the sweet scent of lavender and lilac that the wind rolled over and waved around from side to side, north to south, east to west. As I savored the fresh fragrance, I caught a glimpse of my face in the surface of the glass. Two bright blue beads staring back at me and my uncombed hair framing my face. Nothing much has changed in my appearance, except my once chubby face thinning and sharpening with time and my shoulders growing wider. I was never lucky with my teeth, though - one of my canines grew over the incisors and made it look like a clumpy fang of sorts, as if I took a sucker punch to the jaw. It was a big insecurity of mine present even when I was a child and would spend hours in front of the mirror sometimes, making grimaces and running my tongue again and again over the bulging mass of teeth. I've kind of started ignoring it while growing up, but I can't say it's something I like about myself either.

After getting dressed, I headed towards my father's office. The hallway of our villa was long and quite plain for such a big, fancy house. Most gilded decorative motifs on the cupboards faded and a lot of paintings were removed, leaving behind rectangular grayish stains and nail holes. My footsteps were now muffled by the thick dark blue carpet spreading itself from the entrance to the small altar at the end of the hallway. "Altar" is how my father calls it, yet to me it was just a worn-out vanity with empty photo frames scattered on the desk, its drawers locked and the mirror dirty. I swore I saw him inspecting something in front of it, but maybe I was just imagining things.

At 11 a.m. I was already knocking at his door and inhaling the smell of printer paper, disgustingly expensive coffee and polished wood. Although the sun was shining and the window was open, he remained sat at the edge of his table, the shadows looming not over him, but with him. Knowing what follows next, I went and sat myself across the table. As I pulled my chair closer to the edge, I heard him whisper:

"No no no, come sit over here. We're going to do it a bit...differently today."

Not moving a bit, he just nodded towards a leather chair to his right. Taking my time, I scooted over to him and forced myself to look into his eyes.

"Did you eat today?"

"Not yet. I kind of slept over."

"That's no good." He stared into the textured glass of the cabinet door. As I grew up he started to get worse at talking to me. Eventually, my daily visits to his office became unavoidable small talks.

"Your exams?"

"What's with them?"

"You passed all of them?"

"Yeah."

"Wonderful to hear. Great." It was, as always, insincere. Whenever he complimented me there wasn't a change of tone or mood, he said it just as flatly as he said everything else. In fact, he kind of treated it like a chore.

"What's next?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, what's next after high school? I already passed everything in advance. Am I going to receive college education at home?"

It seems like that triggered a spark in him - he leaned forward, our faces now at equal height.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about that today. I already thought about that and, well, the answer is quite clear. You'll be inheriting my business."

And that's when it hit me - at that moment, I realized that in my 17 years of age I never thought about what my father does for a living. He had a lot of fancily-dressed people over often and he was rich, so it was clear to me that his job paid well. What he worked on, I never researched. When I was younger, I used to lay down on the staircase and watch over him from behind the balusters. I saw his men bring in various oil paintings, collections of coins and stamps, marble busts of emperors and philosophpers, ceramic medallions and other artistic pieces that I thought of as simply luxurious and over-the-top decoration. What I do remember clearly, though, is that whenever the two of us would go outside together he had to run some errands in the museums or galleries. From my cut-up memory I deduced that my father was some sort of curator.

"What business? You never really... talked about your job. Besides, you're not that old! I don't understand why you would retire at fifty-something. And even with my advanced education, I don't think I have the qualifications."

"Showing you the ropes is the easiest part."

"I barely just finished high school. You really do have high expectations for me, huh?"

"Why wouldn't I? You're my son, after all. Everything is already planned out."

"But your career is already quite great. Why drop it now during the golden years?" I realized mid sentence that I was treading on scarily thin ice. One badly formed statement and my shirt collar is going to be in his hands. Sulphur had his tolerance and his boundaries, and once they were stepped over a few too many times, things could get ugly. Very, very ugly. I was no exception to this.

He clicked his tongue. "Everything has its own reason. It's not important for you to know why, and all you need to do is sit up straight and get your hands on this opportunity. You know well how many grubby little hands would fight tooth and nail just for a shabby position in my field. You should be more grateful and tone down your curiosity a bit."

"If it's not important, then I assume it's not harmful either. Is there any problem with me knowing why?"

"Stop being so nosy." He murmured.

He suddenly got up and shut the half-open window.

"Do not question my actions. I am your elder, and elders ought to be respected. Soon, you'll be sitting in my office chair, signing papers and sorting them instead of me. Phone calls and documents. It's everything you can get hang of in a minute. Now, shut your mouth and go to your room. You're free until tommorrow. 11 a.m. as usual."

I didn't go to my room. I didn't even flinch when he spit his venomous insults at me. Instead, I sat perfectly still, my eyes still locked with his.

"You sound very disturbed. What is it that is so unimportant that you don't want to tell me?"

This was the sentence that made Sulphur Mélodis snap.

"Listen to me Desire, listen to me!" He growled as his enormous hands reached for my neck. I writhed and fought back and even bit, but as long as his hands were choking me, he had absolute control.

"Let me go, you fucking jackass!" I spat into his face, fueling his anger even more. It worked counterproductively - he pulled me closer and closer.

"Listen. I don't have much time left. It's not important. You just have to-"

"JUST TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

His voice became quieter. I could hear him breathe heavily between each word.

"It's them. They're onto me. Turned their backs on me. Backstabbed me. Once they find me, I'm dead meat."

"Who?"

"Them. The superiors. They decided I'm not good enough for them anymore. They can't benefit from me anymore. They think I'm a traitor. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, Desire. They know where I live. Who I am. What I do. They know about you. They won't spare you if you get in their way."

"Wha... what will they do?"

"The worst thing you can imagine. Listen. I'm their primary target. As long as they get me down, they're going to be satisfied. If they break into the villa, hide somewhere. Stay quiet and once they leave, get out and lock yourself into the house. Take over my business with a nickname or something. A codename. Whatever. You have the butlers to assist you. They're already informed."

My stomach knotted. I felt sick.

"When? What? Why? I- how?"

"It could happen in a week. In a month. Eliminate me outside the house. Poison me. Stab me. Electrocute me."

He gulped, and for the first time in my life I saw something in his eyes. It wasn't guilt or sadness, it was fear. Pure, unfiltered fear seeping out of this giant of a man. If he wasn't who he was, I'd pity him.

"Listen. There is a boy. Out there. Waiting for you. He might arrive in a week or so. Take care of him. Take care of yourself. Teach him well. I trained you your entire life for this moment. You are the perfect heir. My perfect ... mirror image."

"What boy? Please! Tell me more! I need to know!" I couldn't let all the things I needed to know die with this man, the man who made my house a birdcage.

"PLEASE! Tell me about him! Tell me about my mother! Who are they?"

There were so many questions and too little time for answers. Looking at him in that pathetic, vulnerable state, I could feel sorry for that man. I really could. But such strong emotions were torn away from me with his own hands, being in the way of his idea of the "perfect heir". It was a fleeting rush of love before I looked at him again and remembered who he really was.

"Your b-"

That were his last words whispered to me, before his brains splattered across my shirt, his blood flowed down my legs, his entire weight rested upon me. His lifeless corpse, a bullet carefully aimed and shot through the window, a fatal hit to the head. I never returned back to his cabinet after that day. Locked and in eternal darkness, the body of Sulphur Mélodis rot and bled for years, the blood melting into the wooden planks and the bullet resting in his skull forever - like a pearl inside an oyster.

The boy was staring at an invisible dot on the wall. He was thinking. He slowly bit his thumb, and then, hesitatingly, looked up at me.

"Is dad here?"

It was hard to look at him. The same silvery lock of hair, the same greyish-black eyes. He reminded me so much of him, but he was softer, still somehow radiating childhood innocence out of the features I grew to hate.

"No. Dad is gone."

He bit his thumb again. A habit since infancy, I supposed.

"And mom?"

"I... there isn't a mom. I never met my mom. She left when I was young."

"I hope she was a good mom. I had a good mom when I was at the orphanage. She used to scold me for reading books at night under faint light, though. She said it's because I was hurting my eyes and that I would go blind."

"Oh. That sounds... nice."

"Was dad good? I don't remember much about him."

I didn't want to trouble him with my own burden at such a young age, so I just waved my hand. "It's not important. He's not here with us anymore, anyway."

"What's your name? I forgot to ask you. Sorry."

"Desire. Yours?"

"Saphir. Apparently my dad gave me my name. I guess he likes giving odd names."

"...I guess."

I didn't know how to talk to him. He was well spoken, for sure, but prone to zoning out and thinking all by himself. He reminded me of myself when I was his age - it made everything hurt even more.

"What are we going to do now?"

"Well, I don't know. I can make you a room up there. I'm not that good at cooking either, but I have recipe books up there. And a butler."

"It's okay. You'll do a great job." His hand reached out for mine. I couldn't help it but feel incredible love for the little guy at that moment. Such a small gesture, but it placed him close to my heart. I've never met my half-brother before, but even with such polarizing emotions at first it felt like I knew him for a long time.

The butlers and maids greeted the two of us as we sat by the dining table. Instead of sitting on opposing sides like I did with my father, we sat right by each other.

I got reminded of them. My friend. At least used to be, for a month or so. It has been years since we met. I tried to push them out of my mind to make place for everything else that my father considered more important, but they never really left. It was an unstable relationship - to appeal to my father I villainized them, yet when it was too much to take I idealized their childish, innocent kind of love they selflessly embraced me with. And even considering the fact that they were living in the house right next to mine, I never built up the courage to knock on their door again.

"So at that orphanage... what did you exactly do?"

"Ooh. Lots of stuff. Played around, did some basic schooling. I also practiced some martial arts. A lot of it, actually."

"Ah. Interesting. I did lots of studying here when I was your age. I even did fencing."

"That's so cool! This villa house thing is huge, it looks quite pleasant."

"Cool". They flashed in front of my eyes immediately. I looked at my little brother, lost in thought and silently staring at the cook dicing the vegetables. A melty embodiment of all the good and bad people I knew, I grew to love him unconditionally and try my best to give him the childhood I lost.

The following paper is messier and wobblier than the other two. After inspecting it better, it becomes obvious that this one was torn away and was part of the first paper. Yet, it was crumpled in a ball and thrown in the corner of the room - just behind the writing desk. Did the author simply not like the way they wrote it, or was it too much for them to process?

He laid motionless in front of me. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused and his jaw was relaxed. He was all mine, and I could do whatever I wanted with him. Step on his skull again and again. Bash his head with his own cane and ruin his face with its silver tip. Slice his chest open. His organs were still in tact - I could donate them. Do a good deed.

As I headed for the cane, everything flashed right in front of me. Everything I forgot, was forgetting and will forget. What I should have and shouldn't have forgotten.

The bruised palm. The bruised knee. The bruised arm - the bruised everything.

I remembered how he found out my ankles were weak and wobbly. Whenever I did poorly during our study session he'd quickly sweep my feet with the cane and watch me helplessly fall down the flight of stairs. It brought him so much laughter that he started to do it even when I did well. When I cried and held onto his coat to get up again, he'd push me again until I got up on my own.

I remembered him holding the blade by my leg as I practiced my handwriting. The second my lettering got wobbly he'd push it into my skin, and if I cried he'd push it even deeper.

I remembered that the second my hair grew long enough, he used it to yank me towards him when I tried to run away from him. He pulled me so hard that I felt like my scalp was bleeding.

I remembered when he sliced my cheek with a razor in rage, all because I wanted to ask him a simple question. It took months for the scar to fully fade.

I remembered him grabbing a pair of scissors during one of our worst arguments, trying to snip at my skin.

I remembered him violently banging on my door for hours when I ran away from him and locked myself inside my room.

I remembered reading medicine books self initiatively because plasters weren't effective anymore.

I remembered wrapping the cuts with paper tissues and tape when I ran out of gauze.

I remembered too much.

I threw my abuser's cane at the wall, ran to my room and cried, cried like never before. Even when I made sure he wasn't breathing anymore, I couldn't muster up the courage to get into a one-sided fight against his cold, dead body. Freed from my shackles, I remained a coward.

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