Enmity

by E. J. Andrews

  I continue home, having nothing else left to do. The only other seller is on the other side of town; I could try my luck, but it will be dark soon and I’m not one to wander the streets alone after dark.

  I stop at an ATM and my heart sinks when I see I have less credit than I originally thought. Looks like I’ll have to wait and eat at work tomorrow.

  The climb to the sixth floor is an annoyance I have to deal with; the stairs creak and there is only really enough room for one person on them at a time, meaning my personal space is invaded regularly on these treks home.

  My key becomes stuck in the door as it always does, and I almost break my wrist trying to force it free. But when I finally get into my apartment, I am almost at ease, almost safe.

  This safety I now relish—I never felt this with my mother or the rest of my family. I have only found it in my solitude.

  Suddenly I am engulfed in darkness. My mind is blank as to why.

  Then I start to struggle against it as I realise someone is blinding me. I try to fight, try to free myself, but a bag is slipped over my head and I can feel the tight grasp of arms locking around my torso. Instant panic consumes me and I writhe against whoever it is that is attacking me.

  Their hands begin to clasp around my neck. A gagging, choking sound comes from my mouth and for some reason I think what an unattractive way to die. I feel myself go limp; I feel the life rush out of me. Then I think why am I still conscious?

  As I feel my body fall—so far out of my own control—my brain keeps talking to itself. This is it? This is how you die?

  Well, if I could have answered, I would have. But as soon as my face hits the mattress of my bed, everything slips away, and I am finally granted unconsciousness.

  Nate

  The sky is turning a violent pinky-orange as the setting sun descends behind buildings and eventually below the horizon. No one goes up in them now, the buildings that make up the city skyline. They are barren, deserted things, burnt out and ruined, of no use to anyone.

  I can still see the last few sunbeams break across the houses on my street as I make my way home from school, but my house sits in shadow. The pale cream shutters are always closed, waiting for the next rain or hailstorm. They are starting to look a little sombre; I suppose my mother will have me paint them soon. I suppress a sigh.

  Running up the front steps, I have an apology already forming on my tongue.

  ‘Hey, sorry I’m late.’ I put my bag down almost on the doorstep and wait for a reply.

  But it doesn’t come.

  From the entryway I can see the television is on, blaring away like normal.

  I can hear the dog barking its head off in the backyard. I make my way to the back door, and as I open it, the dog shoots through, a stream of deep yellow fur. She is gone in an instant. Through the back door and out the front, running from something, but from what?

  ‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ I call as I turn back to the house around me, the feeling of unease starting to grasp me.

  Both their cars are in the driveway, as usual, but everything feels wrong.

  I call her name last, knowing there is no way she wouldn’t answer me.

  ‘Olivia!’ I scream.

  After a long moment of intent listening, trying to hear even the smallest breath, there is still nothing.

  I start to panic and rush like a deranged person down the hallway, looking through the rooms that lead off it, almost knocking over the side table and vase my mother loves. The light is getting dimmer; it would usually make the house feel so warm and comfortable but now it makes my worry worsen.

  I find him quick enough. My father is in his study, as he usually is. The hard mahogany walls still feel warm from the day’s sun. He sits slumped over in his chair; maybe if I’d been a child I would have thought he was sleeping.

  I move around to see his face; his eyes are wide with the horror of what has happened to him, and his eyes, they are such an empty blue. I see the single slice mark that has severed his throat; the blood has dried and crusted over his drained skin and his neat suit and tie.

  My feet begin to move backwards, making me run away from what I cannot believe to be real. I hear a smash as I go.

  A moment later I find myself in the kitchen looking down at my little sister. She was five years old.

  It was only a matter of months ago she was so excited to start school and grow up; I remember it. Now there’s no way forward for her. I fall to my knees, feeling blank, feeling nothing except the sense of denial.

  I’m dreaming, I think to myself as I pull Olivia’s tiny lifeless body into my arms. Then realisation dawns, and I begin to cry. The single bullet wound to her abdomen means her face remains peaceful, and though her cheeks are no longer their rosy hue, I sweep my hand over them.

  My tears fall on her, showering her with the love I can never again express to her, and the loss I now hold so tightly. I push her soft blonde hair back from her face, trying to make her look like she used to.

  After a few more moments I can’t look at her anymore, because I will just stay there forever.

  I catch a glimpse of a piece of paper, fluttering with the breeze of an open window, I notice then that it is attached to my mother’s back. Without thinking I gently place Olivia back down on the floor and almost crawl over to my mother. She is face down in what I hope isn’t all her own blood. When I turn her over, I can see her eyes are the same as my father’s, so empty yet so filled with horror. I almost recoil from this cruelty, one question screaming constantly through my head—why?

  The note reads 37 Edward Street. I read it over and over again. The only explanation I get is three words, an address.

  It feels like an hour before I move again. I just sit there with my hands trying to pull at my hair. If only I hadn’t cut it so short I might actually be able to.

  I am surrounded by my dead family, wondering how this day has turned out so very different to all the others. We would be eating dinner now. We would be sitting over there at the dining table with its stupid hard chairs and striped placemats. My mother is such a good cook. They would ask me about school, about my finals coming up in a few months. Olivia would complain that she wanted to go to school. We would soothe her and tell her that her time would come soon enough. Now it won’t.

  It never will.

  I pull my legs underneath me and try to stand, feeling a little light on my feet and also a little stiff. I stand for a moment and look over at my family, wondering what the last words I said to them were. It was probably a goodbye yelled over my shoulder, a shout into the void, a word without meaning. What would I have said to them if I’d known this was coming? I wouldn’t have said anything because I would have stopped it.

  Next thing I know, I’m at the address, my father’s handgun in my waistband.

  This building is huge, I can’t see where it ends but I can see it keeps going for a few blocks to my right. I am before a single door that stands alone in the blank wall; there are no windows, no nothing. It is simply an enormous dark grey wall, with a tiny dark grey door.

  Is this what they want from me? Are they just luring me here with false promises of revenge?

  I’m about to leave when the door opens and I instantly take the gun from my waist before whoever it is behind the door has time to get the upper hand.

  But before I can shoot, I see a bright white light that makes the forefront of my brain explode. I raise my gun but—

  Hermia

  The whole room is white, including me. I am dressed in a white cotton dress that looks like it’s from a time long ago; I hate it. The way it fits to my body makes me feel like it was made for me. Creepy, this whole place is just plain creepy.

  Everything around me is white—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, almost everything is white. There are only two things that aren’t white, and they are a two-way mirror that sits across from me—but of course it is white because it reflects the room around me—and a shining silver bracelet that
feels as though it is burning its impression into my skin. I toy with it between my fingers, feeling the memory of the last time I wore it flash behind my eyes.

  My mind is racing, though it has no need. It should all make sense, I should know who has done this, but I can’t allow myself to believe it just yet. Not till I see him with my own eyes.

  I wait on the ground, feeling like this dress means I must sit in a ladylike way, so I do, with my legs to the side and my hands clasped together in my lap, twisting and twining my fingers, watching the baby bracelet I got when I was born move and glow with the light, the engraved markings casting shadows.

  On the outside I am a shell of nothing, I am devoid of any emotion.

  On the inside, I am screaming. The anger is hot, stabbing and starting to give me a migraine.

  I have no idea how long I will be in this room; I just know that it can’t last forever.

  I’m not stupid, hardly. So I know that this is some seriously messed-up shit.

  My eyes are fixated on the mirror. Seeing my own perfectly made-up reflection makes me want to explode with the rage that is building inside of me. But I keep my composure.

  I refuse to let them see that this is affecting me, the way they have re-dressed me, changing all my clothes, which disturbs me.

  No one comes, nothing changes, until I start to hear his scream.

  Nate

  I’m about to lose my voice. Screaming for an hour, on and on, can do that to you. But I don’t care, I refuse to just sit idly by and let them kill my family and steal my life.

  I smash my fists against the glass, knowing someone is watching me behind it.

  ‘What do you want?’ I bellow at my own reflection.

  Nothing happens, as nothing has done for the past hour since I woke up.

  When I first became conscious, my eyes fluttered reflexively at the bright light of the room. As I sat up in a rush, the image of my father’s stone-cold eyes lingered behind my own. I noticed that I no longer wore my usual jeans and T-shirt, but instead a light blue button-down shirt and black dress pants. I ran my fingers over the coarse tips of my short hair and it felt washed. Panic took over again and I searched for my father’s gun, but of course it was gone, which is where the screaming started.

  I place my hands on the glass now, and then my head on top of them as I pant for breath.

  My parents are dead, Olivia is dead, and these people killed her, as they most probably will kill me too. I am confused, I am lost, and I’m going to kill someone.

  My head swings to the right as I hear the door slowly open, the sound of tortured metal now biting at my brain.

  I wait, moving my head around to see the young woman who is now standing in my room.

  The girl looks around my age, with mousy light brown hair. She holds an anxious fear within her eyes that I find curious.

  She has a large gun that looks remarkably like a shotgun pointed at my head, and I can sense that fear again. What a strange thing to find out about myself, that I can sense when people are afraid.

  My mouth pulls into a minuscule smile. Something, finally, is happening. Maybe now I will be granted death, but no, there’s no way I could be permitted such luck.

  ‘Come,’ the girl barks at me as she steps back out of the room, her gun still aimed at me through the open doorway.

  I push my hands back off the glass and stand strong in myself, facing the girl through the door.

  ‘First,’ I hold up my hand with one raised finger. ‘That thing could go off, it’s not a toy.’

  I point directly at the gun, then move a step closer to the girl. She moves back instinctively, steadying her gun and her sight on me.

  ‘Hurry up,’ the girl says through gritted teeth. I lower my hand and shrug as expressively as I can muster.

  I move over to the doorway and the girl follows me with her gun.

  She is standing off to the right, so I look out the door to the left. The hallway outside is as white and boring as the room I have just come out of.

  ‘This way?’ I ask.

  The girl says nothing but shoves the butt of her shotgun into my right shoulder.

  ‘Right, left then,’ I move out into the hallway.

  The girl keeps prodding me with her gun but I continue to walk as slowly as I please—ridiculously slowly.

  I am brought to a long, white hallway. Even the lights above us are just large square panels that make even the walls seem illuminated. We walk down the deserted corridor, lined with doors on either side. Everything around me is so dull and blank.

  ‘Stop,’ the girl orders me.

  I’ve decided to call her ‘the girl’ because she looks maybe a little older than me—maybe eighteen or nineteen—but seems as though she is a twelve-year-old stuffed into an old body. She doesn’t have any of the confidence I would expect from someone holding such a large weapon.

  I obey her request and she opens the door to my left.

  I enter, feeling the gun still positioned between my shoulderblades. I have to actually stop myself from showing my shock at the difference in this room.

  It is a long dining hall, like something from the eighteenth century, with tapestries that run down its dark-stained wood walls and an Isfahan rug. I can even pick out the deep grey-and-burgundy accents in the weave of the rug. I studied history at school, but this is like stepping into it. Even the huge table and chairs that run almost the length of the room in front of me look completely accurate. My eyes sweep the whole room before they settle on a group of people sitting at the table who are all looking back at me with the same expression I have been wearing since this whole thing started—bewilderment.

  I scan and count them. Yup, nine, so I will make ten at the table.

  ‘Sit.’ The girl directs me towards the end of the table, and as I walk past the others I notice that all of their eyes are still on me.

  I sit down the end of the left-hand row of chairs. There’s only one other seat available, at the head of the table.

  The girl with the gun walks away and stands with nine other guards along the outskirts of the room. I turn and see that the girl sitting next to me is silently weeping. I can tell it is difficult for her not to make a sound, and I can see why. This girl has dark bruising marks just starting to bloom on her cheek. She has dark brown curls that rest just upon her shoulders and a lovely line of freckles over her nose. I think she could be quite beautiful if she wasn’t such a mess of tears.

  I look around for a second and see that there’s no one else here, only the ten of us and the ten guards against the walls.

  Everyone around me is filled with fear; it is tangible in the air.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask this new girl, trying not to look directly at her, though our eyes catch for a moment.

  This just makes the girl cry harder and turn away from me, plunging her head into her hands. I never should have spoken.

  A moment later, a new figure comes out of the same door I came through; he is flanked by two of the gun-wielding guards. These two guys look all business in their matching grey uniforms that must be standard issue.

  The one in the middle is short, much shorter than my own six foot two, with dark hair and eyes like a crater in the depths of the ocean. One look and I know he’s behind all this, and when he sits down at the head of the table, it is confirmed.

  He places his hands together atop the table and leans on his forearms, as though this is a casual business meeting.

  ‘Thank you so much for joining me tonight—’

  ‘Like we had a choice.’ A boy with messy light brown hair speaks from two seats down.

  Before the last syllable has left his mouth, he gets the butt of a gun to the back of the head. The man at the head of the table gives him a hostile look and then continues.

  ‘First I would like to introduce myself—I am Darria.’ I try to place the name, feeling like I’ve heard it somewhere. ‘Secondly, I’d like to let you all know why you’re here.’

&
nbsp; Now I’m the one who interrupts, though it’s unintentional.

  ‘You killed my family.’ My words are breathless, and I look off into the distance, remembering the look on Olivia’s face.

  I glance up after a few moments, a little surprised not to have been hit like the other guy. Darria looks at me intently, though he seems amused before he composes himself.

  ‘That was a horrible accident, Nathaniel, which I am deeply sorry about, but it was uncontrollable—’

  My feet push away and I hear the chair skid against the polished floorboards.

  ‘Uncontrollable, what a crock of shit, you killed my five-year-old sister!’ My scream echoes through the cavernous space.

  Every gun is pointed directly at my head but I stay where I stand, upright and staring down at this monster called Darria.

  He has that same smile, the same amused sparkle in his eyes.

  ‘Stand down,’ Darria says to the guards, with their guns ready to kill me.

  I see the guard standing next to me slowly shift his gun down and move back into his original position, as I guess the rest of the guards have done.

  I look around, suddenly a little self-conscious about my outburst. I sit down and angle myself so that I’m only looking at the wall, trying not to let my anger overflow again. Then I see someone looking at me—I mean everyone is looking at me in this moment, but this look holds . . . admiration, maybe. I don’t know.

  The girl has dark blonde hair and as she tries to give me a shy smile I can feel my anger melt; it feels as though she is reining me in. Her eyes are the softest shade of blue; they are like the ocean on a clear day, rough and uncharted, but light and yet somehow peaceful still. They flicker over my face, as though she is taking into account all of my separate features. She gives a tiny nod, like she has come to the conclusion that I am all right. That, or she is agreeing with herself that I am a freak.

  I reposition myself and vow to sit quietly. Then Darria begins to speak as though nothing has happened.