Bram and Noire were two ordinary children, with not-so-ordinary lives. They would play together, go to school together, do things normal children would. But the not-so-ordinary things about them were their families; they always put on a disguise. Noire lived with her mum and dad; Bram? Just his dad. They had been next door neighbours since they’d been infants, and everything that went on, the other knew about.

Noire’s father was in and out prison before, and the welting bruises on her mother showed just why.

Bram’s father was an alcoholic and beat him on occasion, swearing on his heart that it was his child’s mother. But she had been long and gone for almost five years now.

Whenever a beating, or situation, would strike up, Bram or Noire would go and hide in the treehouse. ‘What treehouse?’, You might be asking. Well, just between you and I, it’s a hiding place they go to when they need to be alone. It’s in the empty lot behind their houses, abandoned, but cleaned up, thanks to those two.

They would run up with sweets and snacks; and sometimes, when they were lucky, the radio would work. They’d sit there for hours, talking and laughing. They could make each other forget what hardships they faced.

But nightfall would come, as it always does, and they’d leave their treehouse, sad and alone. They’d trudge to their houses, waving goodbye. And these were the lives of Bram and Noire.

On occasion though, as luck would have it, a break in the cycle of sadness would appear. A trip to the park, an outing with friends, sometimes, something, made them less alone. But deep down inside, these two children would think, nobody cares, these people are snide.

And that they were! But nobody noticed, not even their parents, who claimed to love them the most.

A friend of Noire’s mother would occasionally come over, lock her in her room, and use her as he pleased. She was only a child, a child of twelve, but she didn’t know any better than to tell him to stop. It still continues, poor little Noire, she doesn’t know what to do, or even who to tell. She would go to Bram, but again, they were twelve. There was nothing she could do, but endure and endure. And her mother? Didn’t care; she knew the whole time. Such a horrible person, living in this lie.

Bram’s father was just the same as the friend, sometimes going after his twelve-year-old son. Bram would run to his room and lock the door, the pounding of fists on wood would ensue. For an hour at minimum, it would go on and on, till Bram’s father gave up, and trudged along. Back to the living room, back to the couch, where he would sit, sipping lightly at his drink.

‘Poor Bram and Noire!’ You must be thinking. Yes, indeed, poor Bram and Noire. These twelve-year-old children, days apart by birth, have faced many troubles, many issues, much strife. If their lives were not enough, they have other troubles. Other-worldly troubles, if you please.

Sometimes, late at night, the wind howling loud, a creature with horns would appear in the dark. It followed the shadows, away from the light, and the children would do nothing, but sit and stare in fright. What was is this thing, they’d think to themselves as it neared them in their beds, drool dripping down, its colour? Blood red. But as luck would have it, the would go away, but not after hurting them in some mental way.

They felt they were insane, as the days would drag on, their minds collapsing, only having each other to fall on. ‘Therapy?’, You ask as you hear these events unfold. Well, they’ve tried but did not succeed. Noire’s mother slapped her and said,

“You’re just fine there’s nothing wrong with your head!”

Bram’s father is only sober for a few hours of the day, it would be pointless to ask him anyway. ‘Poor Bram and Noire!’, You cry out in sadness. Yes, indeed, poor Bram and Noire…

During the day, they went to school, smiled and laughed, as children should. But when no one looked, they had been pushed around, yes, they were bullied, little Bram and Noire.

You two are freaks, the children would say, leaving bruises and cuts on Bram and Noire. There was nothing they could do, nobody would believe them, not even the people who claimed to love them the most.

The day would be done, and they’d walk home together, hand in hand, feeling safe with each other. But sometimes, only sometimes, they’d see shadows in the corners on their eyes; but when they’d turn, there was nothing there. ‘What was that?’ You ask. They’re shadows, of course, nothing more, nothing less.

Back to their houses, they’d walk, wary, but together. They’d say their goodbyes and go inside. Two different things going on in two different houses.

‘Poor Bram and Noire!’ You cry out, gripping your chest. Does it hurt? Do you feel their pain? Well, these are the lives of Bram and Noire.

They are far from normal.

They are not-so-ordinary.

They’re corrupted and crooked.

This is their story.

These are the lives of Bram and Noire.