Chapter 17: 20. Poetry

Pak

(Before the Incident)

 

Alone in the classroom, I stare unfocused at the words I’ve scrawled on the page in front of me:

 

I was made a killer in the womb

 

I’m here early. This way, I don’t have to watch people watching me enter, and I don’t have to listen to whispers as I find my seat. Writing poetry passes the time.

 

I was made a killer in the her womb

 

I make a slight correction, repeating the words in my head, over and over and over, clinging to their cadence. I tap the end of my pen,

tep tep tep

deeply entrenched in a thicket of thought,

tep tep tep

hunting for the perfect phrase...

tep tep tep

There it is!

 

I am was the artisan who made carved my mother’s tomb

 

I scribble it down before it escapes. Words can be slippery, that way.

I rest my forehead on my palm, eyes never leaving the page. The rhythm over-saturates my mind, but still, I repeat each word, over and over, until they start to lose meaning. Until I find the next verse…

There!

 

I never wanted her

 

Someone snatches the paper up from under my nose, causing the pen to tear a hole through the line.

“Never took you for a poet, Pockmark.”

A devilish figure looms over me, a tall boy with off-white skin, icy-blue eyes, thick yellow hair and a wicked, wicked grin, flanked by three of his entourage. I didn’t hear them enter. Too absorbed in my idiot scribbling…

 

“G-give it back!” I manage to croak, teetering out of my seat.

But he presses his free hand into my face,

holds my poem to the light, out of reach.

 

“Let’s see…”

He clears his throat dramatically, reading out loud to the room.

“I was made a killer in her womb—”

“Stop!” I cry, fighting tears. He cackles. The others look on expectantly. To them, I’m a puppet on a stick, a prop in the play…

 

(They’re not afraid of me – not yet. My face is still smooth and unscarred.)

You are reading story The Thief’s Folly (Book One of the Bloodlines Duet) at novel35.com

 

“I was the… ar-ti-stan? – that carved my…”

His voice trails off, eyes widening, hardening.

“What is it?”

“Let me see!

They clamor around him like sharks to fresh meat. My poem makes its rounds. One by one, their faces twist in horror and disgust. A small crowd congeals nearby, rippling with whispers. Class is about to start…

“What is wrong with you?”

 

The devil silences the room, eyes like daggers,

 

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

 

“He killed his mum!”

He points his trembling finger at me and takes a few steps back. Gasps sizzle in the air. Someone adds to the accusation.

“He’s right! Says right here, he never wanted her!”

My ears burn. My heart pounds. I can’t breathe.

 

What a freak…

 

The voices become distant – I can’t breathe – I can’t breathe – I can’t –

 

Do you really think he did it?

I can’t—

 

…murderer…

 

I duck my head and sprint for the door, pushing through the few who stand in the way.

 

Pattering shoes down sanded corridors,

I run until I can’t anymore.

 

In the bathroom where nobody goes, I kneel before the toilet, sobbing, spitting, shuddering, sweating, digging my fingernails into my sides. They snatched it up before I could finish the line…

 

I never wanted her to die…

 

(Would it have even made a difference…?)

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