There is a mobile of origami paper fish hanging in my older brother’s hospital room next to his bed. My younger sister and I made it just after he’d been admitted. Three fish—one red, one blue, and one purple—turning around in an endless circle. It wasn’t until after we’d hung it up that we realized no matter what we did, the fish always turned so they ‘swam’ backwards. My brother found it hilarious.
I can’t help but hate that mobile. It reminds me of the time when he was awake, and everything seemed fine. The time when he used to dream of becoming a marine biologist, his eyes sparkling as he spoke of deep-sea fish. It also reminds me of when Mom didn’t hate me. Something I don’t want to remember as she stands before me, an empty vase clutched in her left hand, fresh flowers in her right. It almost looks like she might break the vase, and I fight the urge to snatch it from her.
Mom is of average height, with a slim but solid build that looks good in any style of clothes. Her skin is pale, with freckles dotting her cheeks and nose. Wolf ears poke from her black hair, an obvious indicator of her werewolf heritage. And while her eyes are beautiful, cerulean blue, they’re cold as they pin me in my spot.
“You’re going, whether you want to or not,” she grinds out, ears pinned back. “Anwell’s condition isn’t getting any better. We can’t wait for him to wake up. You need to take his place.”
It’s a weak excuse. By now, I’ve already figured out that Mom is making me live the life she has carefully planned out and is using Anwell as a way to make me comply. I hold my tongue, knowing if I say something she’ll just explode.
It’s been like this since Anwell was placed in a medically induced coma. I just never realized her true intentions until recently.
When Anwell was ten years old, someone cursed him. It was a slow-acting, debilitating curse, much like a chronic disease. At first, we thought things would get better. We held hope that someday, the one who cursed Anwell would be found, and he’d be cured. But as time went on and his condition got worse, Mom’s hope turned to anger.
And then, four years ago, the doctors discussed placing him in a coma to slow the spread. He’s been asleep ever since. And Mom has never forgiven me.
She started doing things like signing Anwell up for summer classes, ‘in case he awoke’. But in the end, I had to take his place because she refused to withdraw him from the classes. I went along with it, not wanting to upset her, but today’s announcement was the last straw.
She wants me to go to a trade school in his place.
This was never about Anwell. I fight back my anger, curling my hands into fists, then hiding them behind my back. This was always about her wanting me to take his place. Which is something I will never do. I can’t.
“You can start going to the summer classes once school lets out. The sooner you finish trade school, the sooner you can start working.” She says this with the cold efficiency of a stranger.
“But what about my schoolwork? And if you’re really that desperate for me to make extra money I could always get a part-time job—”
“No. This isn’t about the money. It’s about what you can do for Anwell.”
You mean what I can do in place of Anwell. I look down at my brother between us for the first time since we arrived. I always try not to look at him for too long.
He’s gaunt and pale, his blue hair a little too long. A respirator keeps his lungs pumping, while a tube attached to his neck keeps him fed. Every time I look at him, I can’t help but think he’s like a corpse, kept on the edge of life purely through machines. It’s a contradiction to the effervescent brother of my memories.
The curse mark covers the left side of his face and has completely engulfed his left hand. It’s angry and scarlet, like a burn, but darker. If it takes over his whole body, he’ll die.
An ugly part of me wishes that he would, just so he can escape the suffering he’s surely going through.
I shake my head. How could I even think something like that? He’s my brother. The person I leaned on when we were children. I just want my brother back.
“Make sure not to shirk your studies. Don’t make our paying your school tuition a waste by getting bad grades.”
“Do we have to talk about this here?” I ask, exasperated. “I’m sure Anwell wouldn’t like our arguing.”
Mom pauses and looks at me. “Anwell wouldn’t have argued in the first place. He was a good son. Someone you should take example from.”
I’m not Anwell! I want to scream the words, but I stay silent. I’ve had enough of this for one day. I’m sorry, brother. But I just can’t be you.
As much as I wish to bolt from the room, I instead turn my back on her and gaze out the window at the garden below. There’s a maple tree planted right above a bench next to the small koi pond. It’s the bench that catches my attention. Today it’s empty. The icarus boy who usually sits there writing in his journal is absent today. Too bad. Seeing his storyweaving magic always leaves me breathless.
I wish I could be like him. Writing with abandon. Creating stories, worlds, people, and bringing them to life. I grip the front of my sweater, feeling that old ache rise. Why can’t I have been born in a different family? I can’t be Anwell. I just can’t. Why can’t she realize that I’ll never be what she wants me to be?
Mom leaves to put water in the vase for the flowers. I collapse onto the hard wooden stool placed next to Anwell’s bed.
“You’re lucky she loves you so much,” I say, my words echoing in the quiet room.
Mom panicked and did all she could when Anwell got cursed. Slowly, I pull down the sleeve of my sweater to look at the mark on my skin; a swirling pattern of black, with thorn-like edges. What would Mom do if she found out I was cursed as well?
More likely than not, she’d tell me it’s exactly what I deserved.
It happened about a week ago. I don’t know how, but I discovered it after meeting eyes with the boy in the garden. I didn’t blame him for it. After all, curses are wild, violent things, and I would have noticed if he’d said something. It must have been someone else on the grounds. But why would they curse me, of all people? What had I done to anger them?
The first thing I did when I found it was laugh. How ironic that I ended up with a curse when my mother wants me to take the place of my brother. For the next few days, I spent hours online researching curses. How long it takes to die from one, how to prevent it from spreading, etc. The internet, I have discovered, is surprisingly unhelpful.
I stand and push thoughts of curses to the back of my mind. It’s time to leave before Mom comes back and traps me in another lecture. Quickly, I exit the room and make my way for the doors.
###
The train ride home is a quiet one. The only other occupant in my car is a young icarus boy, lying sideways across several seats, his white-speckled black wings covering him like a blanket. I’m thankful for the silence and lack of people. If it had been packed, I never would have been able to collect my thoughts and straighten them out.
Releasing a sigh, I look out the window at the buildings passing by. I wish I had wish magic. Then I could wish all the bad things away, my brother would come back, and life would go back to the way it was. Yeah, right. Even if I did fix everything, I doubt Mom would like me any more than she already does.
The boy across from me shifts, and something slips from his limp hand. It flutters to the floor and lands in front of my feet. I stare at it a moment, the giant, golden words not processing in my brain. Then I realize—it’s a flyer. A flyer for the Scrivener’s Guild. I bend forward to read it.
Scrivener’s Guild Annual Short Story & Poetry Contest.
Underneath, in smaller words is printed: Baron Scrivener’s 189th annual short story and poetry contest will be held starting May 1st,**65. From that date until May 30th, applicants may send in their short story or poem via a scrivener crow. Winners will be announced on July 20th. Grand prize for the contest will be an application to enter the guild, as well as a cash prize of 3,000,000 sentri.
My eyes pop at the last words. Three million sentry? That would be enough to cover all of Anwell’s hospital bills and then some. I knew the guild was sponsored by not only Baron Scrivener but also Queen Ruth, but this much money? Any storyweaver would be set for life.
My hands tremble as I reach for the pamphlet, excitement bubbling in my chest. This is it! This could be my way out. I look at the deadline again. June 30th. That gives me eight months to come up with something.
You’re a disgrace! My stomach clenches as Mom’s voice echoes through my head. I curl my hand into a fist. Can I really go back to writing? Something I gave up years ago?
This could be my way out.
But if Mom finds out, she could end up taking everything from me again.
Do I really want to risk going through that again? The last time destroyed me. I don’t know if I could handle Mom’s wrath again.
But are you really willing to let it go?
Maybe…maybe it won’t hurt to at least look into it. Just as I try to grip the paper, the train goes around a curve and the paper slips from my grasp. I rise to catch it. My head slams into something hard.
“Ouch!”
The voice catches me off guard. I look up to see a boy inches away from my face. And I become very aware of the fact that his elongated eyes are a very warm brown. Messy black and white hair hangs in soft waves, framing his oval face. His wings are fanned out behind him, casting me in his shadow, though the sunlight pouring through the window behind me warms his light brown skin, giving it a subtle golden hue. For a second I think, wow, this guy’s kind of…cute?
And then I realize something about him is familiar. It takes me a moment, but when I remember, my eyes go wide. He’s the boy from the hospital garden.
We stare at each other for a very uncomfortable length of time while the train trundles along the tracks.
“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.
The grins, lips pressed together as he tries to suppress a laugh. “Were you trying to get it for me?” he asks.
I nod, then shake my head. Again, he chuckles.
“Which is it?”
“I…I was just looking. And then I was going to give it back.”
His eyes light up. “Wow, I didn’t know you liked writing!”
I snatch up the flyer, my cheeks heating. Something about his phrasing is off. Didn’t know? Does he know me? I take in his features again, but nothing calls out to me other than the fact I’ve seen him around the hospital grounds. Maybe he goes to my school. Or maybe he asked the nurses who I was after that very awkward staring contest last week.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. I take one last glance at the flyer before shoving it toward him. He leans back so as not to be hit in the face. Then his gaze drops down to my hands. For a moment he sits frozen, his expression changing to one of dread. My heart skips a beat and I turn my eyes to where he’s looking. My wrist, now free of scales, has been exposed, the sleeves of my shirt still around my elbows.
Quickly, I snatch my hands away, letting the flyer fall into his lap. I yank my sleeve down, heart in my throat. The boy quickly looks away and clears his throat.
“I won’t say anything.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if I should.”
He’s weirdly honest. I nod. “Thank you.”
An awkward silence falls between us. Carefully, the boy folds the pamphlet and places it on top of his bag, which looks like his school bag. A couple of keychains hang from the strap. They’re characters I recognize instantly—Valiant and Tsubasa, from my favorite show, Warrior Trials.
He follows my gaze, then grins, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “You watch Warrior Trials?”
I nod enthusiastically, glad to have a distraction from the odd emotions swirling inside me. “It’s only the best show ever created! Isuzu is my favorite.”
“She’s great! Though Tsubasa’s pretty cool himself. I really like his ability to go back in time three seconds. It’s such an interesting concept!”
The boy continues on, his expressions open and enthusiastic. I find myself relaxing in his company. He’s like a warm beam of sunshine, or a fluffy cat purring in your lap. We spend the rest of the ride chatting about Warrior Trials, the flyer forgotten.
When the train slows, the boy stops himself mid-sentence and looks out the window. He ruffles the hair on the back of his head.
“Oh, that’s my stop. It was nice talking to you…Kyra, was it?”
“Keelin,” I say, suspicious. This boy clearly knows who I am. “Keelin McConaughy.”
“Right. Keelin.” He stands and shoulders his bag. “I’m Ryuji, by the way. Ryuji Haruta.” As races out the door he throws over his shoulder, “See you at school!”
With that he’s gone, launching into the air, off the platform and toward the station exit. The doors close and the train starts moving again. Only then do I realize that there’s something on the floor by the door. I stand to pick it up, then laugh.
Once again, Ryuji Haruta dropped the flyer.
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