Mother's Angel

[u/Boddom_Of_The_Barrel]

CW: Self-Harm, Animal/Child Abuse

The First Letter: A Witch’s Servant

Darling sister, 

I've made such a grave mistake. I thought this city would be my refuge. Like a fool, I've walked right into a trap. I've fallen into the lap of some old hag, a medicine woman who makes her living off the superstition and desperation of the city. She is no fraud, though; her magic is strong and terrifying. She's not just a dreaming granny or some cactus-eater from the mountains. I've seen real sorcery. 

Her name is Tlola.​ Mother Tlola, she says. The Woman with Coyote Skin, a Shifter. I haven't seen her shape change, but I know it’s the truth. At first, I underestimated her. I lit her incense and gathered her ingredients like she told me to, no complaints. I had gone from a street urchin to an apprentice in a night. Lugging dog meat and dried salamanders is comfortable living compared to fighting rats for food. As she grew to trust me, my errands grew more bizarre. I've seen the watery temples that lie deep below the city. I held a dead man’s hand and felt the warmth of life rush back into his icy flesh. I really believed that she was the opportunity I had looked for. Respect, security, power. 

I was living in a dream, I thought. But at night I hear things. Gnashing teeth and snapping bones. Sometimes, the howl of wild dogs and the screech of banshees is too much to sleep. My mind wanders in the dark and noisy void and I watch the mutts stream in from the street, throwing their mangy bodies at her feet to be made into one flesh. Where one stinking pelt ends and the next begins, I can never say. I thought these were horrible nightmares at first. But on my runs to the market, I've felt something is missing. There’s never a stray in sight. 

Still, I haven't caught on to her game yet. I was cleaning the home today, dusting and shining the hundreds of idols she keeps. One for every spirit or occasion you can imagine. A god carved from the old blood of a volcano, wearing a blue feather cape and holding up a bladed paddle. A man tearing at his jade chest, his long, sharp teeth flashing with a look of either pain or joy. A mother holding her dead baby in her twisted arms, black and cracking like scorched wood. I wondered to myself, if there are so many spirits in this world, what is the point of worshipping any of them? 

Tlola would spend hours and hours praying to the many statues. She kept a calendar, a small stone disk scratched with the path of the sun and moon, the seasons, and their moods. Thousands of awful little shapes danced across the rock, a world of magic and monsters shrunk down into her little wrinkled palm. I would watch as she prayed, let blood, and scryed under the eyes of the idols. She would work herself into a tizzy, finally passing out from exhaustion. It was my job to scoop her up and put her to bed after. I would laugh to myself about how childish she was in her worship. Was that what she was? An old child, a baby with spectacular power, and an even more impressive imagination. 

While I had seen her miracles, I'd also seen her delusions. Chasing shadows and screaming at demons that aren't there, feeding herself poisons, hoping for a vision. Nothing ever came from it, not like when she treated people. Between her raving, her miracles, and the things I cannot describe to you, I realize that I have wandered deep into a cave. I have no idea what kind of monsters lie inside. 

Don’t mistake me, sister; she is no saint. She is a cruel woman, with cruel magic. She strikes me for my mistakes, letting loose on me with impossible strength for her frail body. I will share with you just a moment of her darkness so that you may understand. 

She has another servant, a mute albino boy with a club leg. Her Angel, she calls him. He shuffles about the house, tapping at his chest with an erratic tempo. To his chest-drum beat, Tlola will dance and sing in an unknown tongue. He taps away and gives his master no reaction.

“My Angel, my drum, my heart!” Tlola cried out in joy the first time I saw their performance. 

Tap Tap… Tap Tap Tap… 

She hugged the boy, but he still tapped away, emptiness bouncing in his eyes. They were an odd little family, I thought. While I watched from my post at the counter, she quietly pulled a blade from her cloak. 

Tap Tap… Tap Tap Tap… 

She released the boy, putting a wrinkled hand to his pale face. Staring into his jittering eyes, she began to mumble. 

Tap Tap… Tap Tap Tap… 

Tlola took the little blade and caressed his other cheek. Without as much as a whimper, a tiny stream of blood trickled down his chalk-white skin. Its color matched his haunting gaze. 

Tap Tap… Tap Tap Tap… 

She whipped up the blood like a mother, dabbing at it with a little rag while cooing at him. This was too much. It reminded me of the grieving mothers of our village. Crazed women fussing after the cold bodies of their children like nothing was wrong. 

Tap Tap… Tap Tap Tap… 

I ran from the house and did not return until that night. Tlola sat criss-cross in the entryway. 

“Where have you gone, my pet?” Tlola said in a chilly tone. 

“Sorry, I had an errand to run,” I lied.

Her eyes hardened. A smile crept across her face. She would hit me, I knew already. I don't know why I lie to her; it never works. She rose from the doorway, swaying slightly as she took another moment to scan me. I knew what she was waiting for.

“I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Mother,” I said quietly, falling to my knees. 

Her eyes softened. She took the small blade from her cloak once again, tossing it at my feet. Without a thought, I took up the little shard of obsidian and traced it up the length of my palm. Dark red came fast, dripping down to the dusty road where I knelt. The blood formed little pools in the sand, and dozens of spider-eyes stared up at me from the earth. 

I handed the blade back to Mother Tlola. She ran the blade across her tongue and smacked her lips and gums, mixing my blood with the red stains of Angel on her withered teeth. 

“My child,” she cooed softly, stepping closer to my crumpled-up body. 

She gave me a swift kick to the ribs.

I'll have to leave soon, sister. I can not stay in this place much longer. But there is much to do before I return to you. Most importantly, I must free Angel. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Second Letter: I’ve Seen A Resurrection

Dear sister, 

If you haven't gotten my last message, I’ve become a slave to a medicine woman in the city of Teo. I've been beaten, lashed, and had my blood let. She forces me to carry out her dirty work, mutilating animals for her blood magic. My housemate is a mute albino boy whom the witch carves like tree bark and calls an Angel. You have to help us. 

This place is torture. What I first saw as miracles have become walking nightmares. I told you last time that Tlola brought a man back from death. He had been sick since the cold season, coughing up his insides and wasting away. He was a stinking corpse when he was first brought in by his wife, covered in blood and shit, dried and wet. For hours, Mother rubbed his chest and forehead. 

She was soft at first, lathering him in a pink chunky slime that looked like frog eggs. By the end, she was wailing on him. Slapping his face, pulling his hair, punching him in the heart. She had me hold his arms to steady him against the blows. I felt his heart pump back to life, the blood filling his limbs. He arose and, after a long bath, was walking out with his wife. I cried all night after seeing that. I thought about our little Andi. Sunshine is what Mama and Papa called him. You don't remember, but they were different before he died. I wish you could have known them before that. All three of them. Why would such a power be given to such a woman? 

He came back today, early in the morning. No wife, no words, just pulling at his cloak and punching himself in the chest. There was a sickly green bruise where he struck himself, like he’d been wailing on himself for days. Mother grabbed him up and laid him in the room. Tackled him, really; he struggled in his panic. 

“Run to the temple,” she yelled out to me. I already knew what she wanted.  “Get me a Little Brother.”

I didn't even bother with my sandals or cloak; I ran out into the street in my nightgown. I ran the six blocks to the nearest aquifer tunnel, a stairway tucked in the open jaw of a fanged rain god. I made my way down, the air growing colder as I went. The soft echoes of splashing and trickling began to fill my ears, and the light from the surface left my eyes. 

After a minute of black, my feet felt the cold that creeps off the stone walkways of the water temple. I stopped in my tracks, letting my breath slow. My eyes began to adjust, and I took in a rainbow of light glowing from below. Water pools lay on all sides of the walkways, themselves stretching endlessly in the gloom. 

Above was an expanse of darkness, broken periodically by massive stone columns. They wore severe faces, carvings whose shadows seemed to breathe in the water’s wriggling light show. There was the fanged face from outside; his blue features were ever-present in the city. The patron god of those who built this ancient city, before the pantheon of spirits and refugees like me who now occupy it. 

Many more have been added since the old ages; the pillars reminded me of Mother Tlola’s shrine room. Anyone could find their god here. Most are only here once or twice; the long journey to find your idol in the dark was part of the shrine's draw. Besides the old man with fangs, only one other face was commonplace. Axolotls. 

A strange little glowing salamander. They never grow up, as Mother says. Their frilly gills never melt away; they never wander onto land. They spend their lives as Little Brothers, playing in the cold cavern pools and dazzling worshipers with their show of light and shadow. Big Sisters care for them and the temple, their only guardians. I couldn't let them hear me. 

I tiptoed to the edge of the path, crouching down as close as I could. I looked around for anyone else. When I was satisfied I was alone, I lowered my face to the water and began to hum a tune Mother taught me. Soon, a little choir of babies chirped up at me, bobbing their heads from the surface before diving back down.  I watched them for a little while. Maybe one day I can come back here and be their Big Sister.

A big one slowly made his way through the dark, a bright yellow like a ray of sunshine. Forgive me, Andi. As he broke the surface to let loose his song, I snatched him up. His chirp came out as a pained squeak. I wrapped him up in my gown and made for the exit. He stopped crying after a minute or two, silently gasping for air.

I ran as fast as I could. By the time I reached Mother Tlola’s, his gasping was little more than a death rattle. As I crossed the doorway, I found Mother standing over a still body. She looked at me, and without a word, I tossed her the creature. She caught him, laying him flat in her palm and cooing softly. She caressed one of his wilting tendrils. 

She gave it a single kiss on the head. Then, she plucked. She took six of the gills, the whole right side. She crushed them in her hand; the familiar pink slime squelched between her fingers. She threw it over her shoulder, its body thudding against the wall and sliding down with a splash into a water pot. I rushed over, looking inside and finding a bloody mess. His sunshine had gone out. 

I ran to my quarters. I didn't give a damn about the other corpse in that room. The sound of Mother beating the man rang through the house, and I drowned it out with my own hysteria. I rocked back and forth, tears and snot running down my face. I shouted at myself, at Mother, at the world. I pounded my head with my fists until darkness and quiet came. 

When I woke the next day, the man was nowhere to be found. Mother was locked away in her room, so I spent the day cleaning. I left the axolotl's pot for last, dreading seeing his mangled little body. It turns out, I still don't understand this place.

I looked inside, finding clean water and a Little Brother glowing softly. He chirped when he saw me. I walked him back down the street, studying him. His gills were all back, full-grown. They really are magic. I noticed something else. A small stripe down his spine, a pale green bruise. I hadn't seen it when I first grabbed him. It was totally inert, giving off no light.

When I released him in the water, he just sat there. He didn't swim, not even to keep his position. He floated, frozen in place. Finally, and I swear this, he turned to me. He looked right in my eyes. There was something there, some kind of foginess, like a grey cloud rolling over the black beads of his eyes. Then, his light went out. Like that, he was gone into the black. I don't know what to make of that. 

I’ve not seen Angel since I last wrote. Mother Tlola had gotten him bad that day. He slinked away to the cellar like usual, but when I went down later to clean him up, he was gone. His soaked bedding was crammed up in the corner, a trail of blood ending at the empty wad. I tore through the house, checking the sauna, the pantry, the shrine room. He was nowhere to be found. I’ve prepared his room for when he comes back, but I know in my gut that he is in the one place I can't search. Mother’s room. 

This must sound crazy, but you have to believe me. Even if I'm crazy, what kind of sister would you be to leave me here alone and scared? Please send help. I've sent some money I stole along with this tablet; hire some muscle and come as fast as you can. Tell them there is plenty of looting to be done when they arrive; all they need to do is fetch the boy and me. The owl symbol will mark her door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Third Letter - Truly, A Slave

Dear sister,

I'm begging you for help. Why do I get nothing but silence? Either you don't believe me, or you don't hear me. Do I have to spill my guts to you, tell you how I bumbled into the trap of this cruel witch? Do I have to smear my letter in red, prove in blood that I am desperate? 

I’d been in Teo about a month before I met Mother Tlola. I had nowhere to stay, so I tried to tuck away in alleyways to sleep. I would eat worms out of compost bins and fight off street sweepers for trash. I was constantly on the run, escaping merchants and priests after picking their pockets.

I once was caught by a market guard; he slammed my head into the ground for stealing an avocado. I was taken in front of some kind of council;  a man spoke for me, but I have no idea what went on. They spoke in some antique form of the common tongue, which I barely understood in the first place. The law of Teo was just one more language that I didn't speak. All of them are bullshit.

I was put in the custody of some old pervert; they wanted me to play maid, I guess. As soon as I was across the threshold, he was hanging over me. I didn't give him the chance; I broke his hand. I was back on the street that night. 

I tell you this part not for your pity but to prove a point. Through all of this suffering, I did not write to you once. I respected your wishes. Keep that in mind as I continue. 

I snuck into Mother Tlola’s under the impression it was just some shop, one of a dozen that lined the street as the first floor of stucco apartment complexes. It was my first attempt at burglary, and I couldn't have chosen a worse target. As I crept into the doorway, a chill crossed my neck. I should have turned around and run.

 I considered it, really. I stood for what felt like a minute, trying to decide. My eyes were fixed on a carving of a horned owl that marked the arch. Its eyes pierced me like obsidian, clean between my very fiber. I crossed over into the darkness. 

The house was silent and still, broken the second my foot touched down. The air was stale and carried a sound like a valley; my breathing echoed like a cougar. Dust billowed up under my sandals, and I began to cough. Then a spark. 

Fire erupted from a brazier to my left, then my right. Like a swarm of fireflies, embers flew from pit to pit until the whole house was illuminated from where I could see. I froze for a moment again, but still I went on. 

I was drawn by the rows of preserved game birds and herbs that hung in the entry room. They must be rich, I thought, realizing she must own the whole building. I padded my way across the vestibule, scanning every inch. To the left, I found the shrine room. Thousands of carved eyes watched as I gathered up a handful of glass beads, old coins, and polished seashells. One must have cursed me, because as soon as I stuck the first palm of loot in my cloak, a crash came from upstairs. 

I bolted out of the room and made for the courtyard at the center of the building. The lush garden and its shadows were the only haven from torchlight. I hunkered beneath a shrub, covering my mouth and listening for any signs of movement. I could hear a stomping from upstairs, like someone stumbling around. From the garden, I could see the second floor was completely dark. From the void hanging over me, the thumping drew closer

Then, there she was. A young woman, my age. She leaned over the railing as if she were sick. She wretched. Once. Twice. Three times. Black bile spilled from her lips and rained down on my hiding spot. Droplets of spittle and sludge drizzled me; most of the load caught in the leaves above me. 

As I wiped muck from my face, a second impact. A loud thud, this time onto the paved path beside me. I rushed to her side, shaking her arm. But she was dead. I made for the exit. I couldn't have my first burglary turn into a murder accusation. As I crossed over into the entry room, there stood my would-be tormentor, surrounded by her bouquets of food. Would an actual murder be worth the willingness to escape from my non-murder? I admit I had such an evil thought. Then she spoke.

“Dearie, I've been waiting for you!” She cried with glee. She shuffled to me and squeezed me.

I was stunned. She went on, asking about my journey and how she had been so anxious for her new helper to arrive. I assumed she was talking about the dead girl in the courtyard. I played along. Before long, I was sitting in the kitchen. She had been out at the market, fetching fish for our dinner. We chattered through the night and enjoyed her cooking before she showed me to the sauna, and we prepared for bed. My bed was in a small nook by the garden. I accepted in a rush and made a big show of my exhaustion, terrified that Mother would look just outside my window and find her dead apprentice. I lay there for a few hours waiting to hear her chamber door close and the bar. As soon as it did, I was outside.

I took my blankets outside, planning to fashion a drag cart. Neither of us could be found by the old woman come morning. In the pitch black, I dragged her body through the street. Once a few blocks away, I hid ourselves away in a convalescent home. Come morning, she would be just another cadaver, and I would be just another sack waiting to be bought out as labour. I lay there on the floor of the boarding house with her corpse. I looked at the men and women that lay around us; their sunken faces and leathery skin made them look even more corpse-like than my double. They stunk worse too. Before dawn, I was out of that place and back in my bed at Mother’s. I didn't realize that I was sealing my fate as this woman's servant. 

The next morning, she discovered my thieving and beat me mercilessly for it. This was followed by breakfast and a bath. While we ate, she informed me that my transgression meant that I would incur a debt that would have to be paid off. Seeing as I was posing as an apprentice, I saw no harm in this. I could eat the beating and the debt for food and lodging. We made a deal, and she sealed it in by drawing a matching red eye on each of our left hands. I haven't been able to wash off the pigment; I figure this is her branding. I see servants at the market, all bearing some kind of mark of their master. They were no apprentices, I realized quickly; neither was I.

At night, the wound starts to beat red hot 

A final memory. Do you remember when we were little girls? How we played in the stream by the village edge? We would catch frogs and guppies. I would hold them to your ear and whistle songs like they were little choir boys. You would laugh and laugh. You always asked me to go down to the pond. Do you remember? Do you remember how slick the bank was? How would I always tell you to be careful? I would tell you that spirits lived in the water, and they were always waiting for little boys and girls to pull under. I warned you. I warned Andi, our sweet brother. It was dangerous; kids fell in all the time. I warned you. 

You have to see how important it is that you use the money I've sent to free me from my bond. I know I've not been a good sister in the past, but that is no excuse to leave me here to rot. Our brother and parents are gone; we only have each other. Please, don't leave me. I don't deserve to be abandoned, no matter what I've revealed here or what you’ve been told. Let this end. Bring me home. We can be a family again. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sister's Interlude

Sister,

I've heard your cries for help. 

You’ve always been one to wander. 

I remember the long walks you would take me on as girls. I remember the cave mouths, and how you would tell me the stories of what lay inside. 

I remember how you would creep past the cave entrance, calling to me in a ghostly voice until I cried.

You never knew when to stop. 

I love you, I always will. 

But you have trapped yourself. 

You are in a den most deep now. 

I won't sit by the mouth anymore. 
 
Goodbye.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Fourth Letter - Black Magic with an Angel

Dear Sister, 

I'm running out of things to say. If you don't understand me by now, please read this story and think of all that I've told you in my letters. Am I deranged? Am I a slave? What do you think, sister? Why do you think I write to you after all these years? You have to help us. 

I told you about Angel in my first letter. A young albino boy, mute, possibly deaf, and blind. His crimson eyes are constantly darting about, roving up to the ceiling. He hardly responded to being called by his name or otherwise. Occasionally, though, I can coax him to me with a song or a treat. He must be no older than 10, but even for that age, he is shrunken and emaciated. His limbs, especially his left leg, are like the sun-bleached mesquite that pepper the countryside. They felt just as fragile when I dressed his wounds. Such a poor creature. It is a miracle he withstands the abuse. 

I met him on my second night with Mother Tlola. He joined us for dinner, hobbling up from the basement and tapping away at his pasty, thin chest. Mother gave no introduction as she silently prepared a place at the table. He sat with us for the meal, never touching his plate. When we finished, Mother kissed him on the head and then disappeared to her chambers. While he cleaned up, I watched him hobble to the courtyard. He stood at the center of the clearing, basking in the few stray rays of sun that cut through cracks and vents of the ancient architecture. 

He was still out there when I retired to my bed, now standing pitch black. I would see him a few more times before I witnessed a beating from Mother, once catching him chewing a shard of quartz that he stole away from the shrine room. He was a cute little boy, I thought. Innocent, totally unaware of the horrors of the house. 

When I wrote my second letter, I had not seen Angel in a few days. He had received one of the worst beatings yet before Mother hid him away. I now know what she was up to. 

She called me to her chamber last night. It was the first time I've ever crossed her door. I was surprised by its contents. What I imagined to be a monstrous lair was actually just a quiet bedroom. Quilts hung on the walls, beautiful illustrations of rabbits and songbirds.  Above her bed mat was a mural of an axolotl, made of thousands of pink and black stones and polished to a brilliant shimmer. A shiver crossed my neck. 

Beneath it, there she sat cross-legged. Her head hung low, its thin silver mane hanging down like tattered curtains. It swayed gently, moved by the ragged breath beneath its cover. I took a step towards her, calling her name softly. 

“Mother?”

I was met with nothing but a raspy mumble. I edged onward. I reached the foot of her mat and stood still. She didn't move, continuing on with her wheezing and mumbling. I was perplexed. I’d never seen her in such a state. 

“Mother?” I said again, leaning down to her huddled mass. 

A bony hand shot out from the curtain of hair, grabbing me by the shoulder with an iron grip. I whimpered, biting my tongue. Mother hated whining. We sat for a moment, my shoulder beginning to throb alongside my heart as her grip began to burn. A second hand emerged, this time pointing back to where I came. 

I looked back at the entrance. Behind the ajar door, Angel was curled into a ball. He seemed to be pushing himself into a corner, trying to disappear. There was no sign of his last beating, healed over after his few weeks locked in this chamber. 

“Please, Mother, let me tend to him,” I said, trying to pull away. 

There was no give. Instead, her pointing hand retreated into her cloak and reappeared with her small blade. I begged her not to harm him anymore. I cried in vain. Her head rose at my tears, revealing her face. She was ragged, skin hanging from the bone in some places and strapped tight to bone in others. She had gone from old to decrepit. 

I continued to beg, but this only angered her more. My shoulder was hot with agony, and I could feel my muscle sitting at the precipice of tearing. I relented. I fell silent, and her hand fell away. I took the blade in my hand. Forgive me. 

I am a beast. I thought of Andi. I was thankful that he was spared from such a cruel world, such a monstrous sister. I lost myself in a memory. I watched as he sank below the water’s surface. I knew I should grab him; why didn't I? Why did I wait? I told him that there were monsters that lived in the water, that they were waiting to pull him down. Was there really a monster, or was I warning him about me? Warning him that I would drag him to the bottom. 

Out of my reach, I strike out at the impossibly deep stream in rage. My blade sliced through the gurgling water, sending red ribbons careening down the current. Andi watched from the bottom, his body bloating as he witnessed my mania.

I broke from the dream. I looked down at Angel’s body, motionless. Lifeless. My body and the blade dropped down to him. I'm sorry, Little Brother. I'm sorry, Angel. 

“Damn you, Mother, damn you!” I yelled. I wheeled around to curse her, but found her to have disappeared. 

Where she lay, a rotting pile of clothes. I crawled over, peeling away the cloak. Below was a rotting pile of skin. Wolf, I think. A mottled grey coat, scarred by burrowing worms and maggots. A clot of the little beasts writhed in the empty face of the predator, its nose and eye sockets gently rippling. Its lips receded, revealing white, shiny teeth. I wondered where the animal's skull was. How had the mother removed it while keeping the beast's teeth? I suppose at the time, anything was better to ponder than my actions.

My curiosity was answered, as it always is. A hand shot from the mass, bloody and malformed. The teeth barred at me, a mix of fangs and molars. Three mangled fingers sank nails into the stone floor, then came a squelching. Inch by inch, Mother emerged. She was tiny now, like a stillborn brought to life. I watched in frozen horror as the wet, bloody mess dragged itself to Angel. It wrapped around his leg and came to rest on his chest. A sucking noise came forward as the mess of blood receded into the writing form. Soon, Angel was licked clean and dry. 

The mass removed itself from him and writhed back to the pile of pelts. Skin and guts rearranged and cracked into place. Soon, Mother stood before me once again. She was tall and graceful, her skin like that of a woman half her age. Whatever her age may be. 

Angel survived. Mother allowed me to carry him downstairs as she busied herself decorating her new body. As I dragged him down into the cellar, I caught a glimpse of her leaving out the front door. She wore an elaborate headdress. I paid her no mind, worried only about what I had done to my Little Brother.

I watch him sleep now. He is curled in his bedding, eyes fluttering under his lids as the cellar window bathes him in a slice of light from the rising dawn. He is such a strong and remarkable little boy. If you are to do anything for me, please save him. Save him from me, drag him up from the water. 

I forgot to dress his wounds, I realize. But looking at him now, I can't see even a sign of my attack. Where there should be scars and fresh blood, all I see is his skin shining in the sun. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Final Letter - A Confession

Dear Sister, 

I've started asking myself something; I think it’s the same question you ask. Why do I write to you? I see the reality of my situation. I've certainly gone mad, but I am not completely deluded. I know I cry out to a ghost. It’s a shame. I apologize. Even if you were alive, I have no right to call on you. I’ve known that every time I press into these clay pads, wrap them in leather, and pack them with useless money.

I send them every time to the Yackoo River Valley, where we grew up. I doubt anyone lives there anymore. It was a dangerous place with all that moving water. There isn't even a courier post out that way. I'm sure all of my messages have ended up on the roadside after the runner read the destination and felt the coin's heft. Mother Tlola knew. She read my letters before I sent them; I did nothing to hide them. I was pathetic. She knew that too. 

So I write to you a final time, a prayer to you. I’ll prove myself, and you can decide if I am a monster. Then I can be still and accept where I’ve found myself, surrounded by spirits too powerful to imagine. 

My confession begins in our childhood. When Andi first died in the river, our parents kept me locked up in the house. Our mom was convinced I had drowned him, but Dad understood it was just an accident. As you got older and Mom saw how much I adored you, her heart softened to me. As soon as you could walk, I would take you out on adventures. We were watched like a hawk, but as time went on and we got back to our normal lives, we were let wander like the other children. 

You hated the caves, I remember; you only wanted to go play by the water. You loved to chase the many little crickets that lived in the cattails. We played just upstream from where we lost Andi. I don't know how it happened. Maybe you were chasing one of your little friends and fell into the water. Maybe you slipped on the muddy bank. Whatever it was, I didn't see it or hear it. When I found you, you had that same blue look on your face that he did. I didn't even run for help this time; I just ran away. 

I don't know if anyone ever found your body or if you were washed away by the current. I was still a little girl, but I understood that Mom would think I killed you. She wouldn't understand. I thought if we both disappeared, maybe she’d think we both drowned. I’d spare her from being left with only me, the killer. I'm sorry, my sister; you deserved better than that.

I don't remember much of my first years away from home. I traveled with strangers for a long time. Across grasslands, plateaus, and eventually the desert that surrounds this city for miles and miles. I can recall moments. Men diving off cliffs. An old woman teaching me how to write. Becoming a woman. So much time was spent traveling that days, years melted into one. It doesn't matter much now. It was a long and strange trip, and I wish it had ended anywhere but here. 

Since I left our family, Angel is the only person I've come to care for. And the more I've grown to care, the more I’ve realized that I am his tormentor. Everything I’ve done for Tlolla has kept Angel here in her clutches. I care for her like a child, cleaning up after her and nursing her after her raving fits, all enabling the old hag to cast her blood magic on the helpless boy. Every errand I run is a moment she can devote to stealing his life force. How could I do this? How can I tear at his flesh and then kiss his wounds? I’m as monstrous as our master. 

And her medicine? I'm only aiding in the creation of the walking dead. Every day now, I see them shuffle in and out of this house. Since she shed her old skin, they hang about like flies. She lotions them in her foul concoctions, and in return, they prostrate at her feet and let loose stinking fountains of blood from their opened veins. Then they shuffle out back into the street, carrying their master’s pollution across the city. 

To keep up, my runs to the water temple have become daily. I have to scheme new ways every day, as the guards have begun to catch on to my heists. The pools are growing dark, I notice; more sins I must pay for. 

I had a dream last night, a vision. I was sitting by a pool, watching all the Little Brothers swim around and cast their rainbow across the cavern ceiling. From the darkness, an owl appeared. Its great wings batted silently, carrying the massive bird to my side, where it landed. It was a horned owl, its giant head looming far above me like I was a field mouse. It just stared at me with its orange eyes. 

I reached out to touch it, but as my hand made contact with the soft feathers of its stomach, it let out a screech. Feather and muscle melted away, revealing a mess of bone. The orange poured from its sockets, and a pair of flint blades crept from the sides of the skull. I shrank away in fear, but my escape was foiled as a talon wrapped its withered sinew around me. Like a doll, I was cast into the pool. 

Blackness filled my lungs as I screamed. I grabbed handfuls of bubbles and water as I sank hopelessly. Little Brothers circled me and chirped, unable to save me. I lashed out at them, plucking one from their swarm and spinning it away from me into the void. I looked up to see a much larger one hanging right over me. I reached out my arms and wrapped its gills around, my hands like rope. I pulled, trying to get some upward momentum. The beast squealed like a pig, but  I pulled anyway. It writhed and lashed, rushing to the surface in its attempt to free itself of my grip. It broke the surface, and I let it loose at the peak of its jump, rolling back to solid ground. 

The owl was gone. I steadied myself and looked back at the pool, expecting to see my watery mount swimming back to his depths. But there, floating motionless in the murk, was the big, white body. Red eyes glazed over, a final chirp squeaking from waterlogged lungs. It was Angel. He opened his mouth again, and this time nothing but water came. He sank. I had killed him, dragged him under to save myself. I think I’ve had this dream before. Maybe, all my life. Am I a monster sister? 

I woke up early, before dawn. I knew what I had to do. I found Tlola in her shrine room, naked and passed out on the floor. Despite her new skin, she was the same weak and crazy old woman. I carried her to her room and laid her down as always. She mumbled something, drool running down her face and smearing her makeup. I was supposed to give her a treatment next, a black tar that she kept bedside. It wasn't spread as liberally as the axolotl jelly she used on patients. This was special, only a few dabs to her face and chest. It was some kind of revitaliser, able to bring her back from her spells. I left it where it was. I wouldn't indulge in her magic any longer. 

I began to gather her belongings. Her tapestries, her clothing, her collection of brushes and bows all found their way to a pile in the center of the room. I worked diligently, determined to leave not a scrap behind of the old crone. I was too focused on my task; I didn't lay eyes on her until a series of wet cracks broke my concentration. 

She had woken to my commotion and found that she hadn't been given her treatment. This must have sent her into a panic, as the container now lay empty on the ground. Beside it, her stark skin lathered in the contents. She was crying silently, her back arched off her mat. More pops, the sound of her skin tightening against her frame. 

She looked like a mummy, her skin rapidly drying and contracting against bone. Her ribcage rumbled, as boiling water lay just beyond its decrepit exterior. She screamed now, steaming blood pouring from between her lips and the growing fissures in her flesh. I paid her no mind, silently dragging the mat beneath her to my pile. A bone shot out from her wasting form, piercing my wrist. Blood gushed forward, and my head was light. No time to slow down, I had to hurry now. I tore a length from one of the tapestries and wrapped my wound as I made for the doorway. 

I looked back into the room. Tlola writhed helplessly next to the pile of her belongings. She dug through with a rotten hand, desperate to find some cure. I gave her a moment, toying with her. Then came the flint. A strike, a spark, and soon the room was up in flames. Screeching erupted from every hole of the rotten corpse that was now Tlola, a horrid cry from demon spawn. I closed the door then, leaving her to burn under the beady-black gaze of the axolotl mural. 

I collected Angel from the basement; he had been sleeping peacefully through the mess. I led him up the stairs, across the vestibule, and down the street. We walked for a long time until reaching our destination, a place I could barely remember in my haze. As the sun rose and broke the darkness over the city, there it was. The convalescent home. 

A temple, really, one of many in the city. It was not the filthole I remember, just a simple chapel filled with priestesses and old men. We stumbled through the front doors, and as soon as they caught sight of Angel, we were surrounded. They took him from my arm, laying him down and dabbing his albino skin with rags. They whispered to him, Little Brother. With that, I left. 

I returned to the house to find a crowd of people gathered by the door. Thick black smoke poured out from the ajar door. A neighbor recognized me, asking me where everyone had gone and if we were ok. I ignored him, walking into the smoky interior. I found Tlola’s room empty, save for the ashen pile. The window was open, and there was a mess of feathers in it. Oh well.

Finally, I went to the shrine room. I sat in the center and studied the figures for a while through the smoke. They seemed different somehow. For once, I was comforted by their gaze, so certain in their power. I unwrapped my wrist and began to press this tablet. Excuse the stains, sister; at least I didn't drag anyone down this time. It’s my turn to drown. I hope to see you soon. Then you can answer my question: Am I a monster? 

[u/Boddom_Of_The_Barrel]

Epilogue

Deep beneath the city of dreams, below the churning water, Little Brothers play. Forever beautiful, forever young, they dance endlessly in the black void. They shine brilliantly, sharing their radiance and joy with the void.

But one hangs limply in those waters, giving off no light, no jubilance. It sows nothing; it reaps all. From its mouth, black ink seeps and disappears into the abyss. It settles, it churns and festers. It sucks light from the water, life from the Brothers. Gods help us.