Uncle Wes was at it again.
When I was eight years old, my mother predicted the exact time and date I would die.
Yet she failed to predict the amount of times my siblings and I would be kidnapped by our ‘eccentric’ uncle.
Eccentric was a strong word.
I preferred psycho.
It wasn't unusual for me to spend my Friday night tied to my siblings inside my uncle’s storage container.
I was eight years old, I should have been at home watching cartoons or in bed. But I won't say my family was normal. Even if Uncle Wes didn't take us, the three of us would be accompanying our parents in their shady activities, as long as we stayed in the truck. However, Uncle Wes’s monthly kidnappings had become an event.
Get up.
Eat breakfast.
Go to school.
Even when I knew it was coming, I still somehow fell for it.
Uncle Wes’s cartoon-like schemes to capture us were getting progressively more unhinged.
Waking up was uncomfortable, my head felt stiff, my eyes glued shut.
Swirling my tongue around my mouth, I could taste stale chocolate milk.
According to Mom and Dad, if our mouths taste bad, our memories muddled, we are definitely drugged.
I did have a semblance of a memory, though.
I remembered the smell of leather car seats, my cheek uncomfortably glued to the window, my cousin hanging over the front seat as we were slowly driven into blanketed darkness. My sister’s head was bouncing on my shoulder, my hand grazing the lock on the door.
But I was so tired.
Outside, darkness became light, and we were heading further and further away from what we knew.
Home.
There was chocolate milk in my lap, my brother curled up next to our psycho cousin.
Urgh.
Immediately, my parents’ training kicked in. Resisting the urge to groan, I inclined my head left and then right.
I didn't even have to open my eyes to know where I was. The ice cold temperature and unearthly silence was enough. When I was younger, the storage container was terrifying, a nightmare that haunted the back of my mind. At eight years old however, I had been through this far too many times to be scared. My mouth felt thick and strange, and my memories were fuzzy.
Head.
Torso.
Legs.
Arms.
I'm okay.
Moving my arms, I realized my wrists were restricted behind my back.
“Fee.” my voice echoed. “Are you okay?”
“No,” my sister grumbled. “Leave me alone.”
The ropes tangled around our hands were tighter than usual.
“Rowan?”
He answered by knocking his head into mine.
“Ow.”
“What did I say?!” Rowan exploded in a hiss. I could tell he had been waiting every agonising second to say that.
From the sound of his voice, he was awake. Like awake awake.
Rowan was a light sleeper.
Even when our chocolate milk was drugged, or we were dosed with sedatives, he was the one who was awake first. Which meant the stupid head had been sitting there for who knew how long perfectly rehearsing the best way to say–
“I told you so!”
I had to bite back a petty retort.
He was right. Yes, I had fallen for an obvious trap, but this time it was easier to believe. I was in class when my elementary school principal strode into our classroom and announced both of my parents had been in a car accident.
“It's a trap.”
Rowan sat behind me, pencil lodged between his teeth. When I turned in my chair, he mouthed, It's Uncle Wes.
Mom and Dad taught us from a young age to never trust adults.
Even adults with kind eyes.
Adults we were supposed to trust.
Mom said the people in our town wore masks, and no matter how young I was, as a Delacroix, I would always be in danger.
My brother knew this after learning the hard way.
He befriended a kid with Pokémon cards, initially only growing close to the boy to get a sparkly one, but he ended up actually liking him.
The kid invited him to hang out at his place, and my oblivious and naive brother ended up a hostage. It turns out, even innocent bystanders will go to the extreme to get cash. The Mayor had a target on our heads, and Rowan was practically a golden goose.
If underground thugs wanted his mercy, then they had to bring him a Delacroix head.
I rode with Mom on the way to the kid’s house.
“Back in a moment, honey,” Mom, calmly climbed out of the car.
She was gone for maybe a minute.
I heard one singular gunshot before she was yanking open the car door, my brother in her arms. Mom wasn't scared or in a rush to get away. She reprimanded Rowan for breaking her number one rule, and then cranked up the radio. After that incident, he trusted no-one. Not even the lunch ladies.
Rowan shot me a glare, but I was already trembling, my teacher’s words sending my stomach twisting into knots. “Don't fall for it, idiot.”
“Rowan, that is a terrible thing to say,” the teacher scolded him. “Stand up.”
Rowan stood up, dragging his feet. “How much did our uncle pay you?”
The teacher looked taken aback. “I'm sorry, what?”
Rowan stuck out his tongue. “You heard me. How much did Uncle Wes pay you to kidnap us?”
Mrs Carver’s eyes darkened. “I appreciate your vivid imagination, young man, but you are being ridiculous.”
The boy folded his arms stubbornly. “Mom and Dad wouldn't just get into a car accident. If you think I'm going to believe that, you must be really stupid.”
Mrs Carver shook her head. “Stand up, Mr Delacroix, and leave my classroom.”
“Why? So I can get snatched by my uncle?”
The teacher finally snapped, her cheeks going red. She pointed to the door.
“Now!”
Despite Rowan being very vocal that the school was selling us out to our psycho uncle, we had no choice but to follow the adult's instructions. I was told to stand up, while my brother was gently pulled from the classroom.
According to our principal, a family friend would be waiting for us.
I didn't want to follow him.
Part of me already knew what would be waiting for us, and there was nowhere to run. The police were under the Mayor’s control, and the Mayor wanted our family's heads on pikes. Rowan skulked behind me, keeping his distance.
“Look.” my brother shoved me, pointing to Principal Carver’s bulging back pocket. “I bet that's hush money.”
I pushed him back. “Shh!”
Nine times out of ten, Rowan was being dramatic.
This time however, my brother was infuriatingly right.
Our cousin greeted us, waving three cartons of chocolate milk.
Rowan grumbled a bad word. When we twisted around to make a run for it back into school, a scary amount of adults surrounded us, all of whom worked for our uncle.
“Hey, guys!” his son patted the truck, an evil smile plastered on his lips. There was a strange man next to him.
I guessed he was the owner of the car, unless our eight year old cousin was an underage driver. I didn't think Uncle Wes would send his son to capture us.
Maybe he'd moved up the ranks.
His smile brightened when I dropped my backpack.
“Wanna go see Mommy and Daddy?”
All I had to see was my sister’s head against the window.
Her eyes were shut, a bruise blossoming on her right temple.
Time seemed to stop, and at that moment, I forgot my mother’s words.
Don't panic. Never show them you are scared.
Everything I learned from my parents bled away, and I was just a scared kid.
I did panic, letting out shriek.
Every kidnapping was closer to Uncle Wes finally snapping and killing us for real.
I took three steps back in an attempt to run back inside the school, only for grimy arms to wrap around me, violently pushing me into the back of the truck. I was used to being a target which had aged me well above the age of eight, but this time it was different.
Uncle Wes was never this desperate, this violent.
This felt too real.
Like the kidnappings our parents warned us about.
When I screamed, slamming my fists into the window, something collided with the back of my head, and my face hit the window, pain exploding in a supernova. Leaning over the seat, my cousin snatched the chocolate milk, pierced it with the straw, and handed it over.
“Drink.” he giggled with a tone that told me I didn't have a choice.
“Try it, it's super chocolatey!”
In the corner of my eye, my brother was being shoved into the front seat.
The last thing I remember is taking the tiniest sip.
It did taste good.
But then the world started to spin off kilter.
Rowan slowly tipped into the window, his milkshake pooling off his seat.
Presently, I could still feel the impact, gritting my teeth.
That explained my headache.
I had grown used to the freezing cold temperatures, the scratchy rope wrapped around my wrist, and the duct tape plastered over my mouth. It was part of being a Delacroix child, and I knew that.
The Delacroix’s were known as the infamous crime family in our town.
Mom and Dad were ex CIA gone rogue, the two of them deciding to take over our town’s underground. Those words had been drilled into me since I was a little kid. They made sure to reiterate that they were not good people, and sometimes they did very bad things, but they still loved us. Which made us targets.
The closest we came to being compromised was Elena Mara, a dangerous name, and an old flame of our mother’s.
Elena wanted Mom for unfinished business, so she targeted my siblings.
Luckily, I was sick that day.
You would be surprised how corrupt our town is, where it's normal to hand kids over for a decent chunk of cash.
Especially when everyone wanted the Delacroux family dead.
Rowan and Ophelia were snatched on their way home from school. Elena and her cronies manipulated the bus driver to hand them over in broad daylight.
The two described being shown a scary video which made their head hurt.
Mom said it made sense for Elena to have the technology, since she too was a rogue CIA, though it didn't work great. All it did was cause headaches.
After multiple tests and isolating the two of them for two days, Mom came to the conclusion that Elena was trying to scare her. The videos were just that.
Videos. Nothing shady, but our parents definitely kept an eagle eye on my siblings for weeks after that. Mom didn't like people fucking with her family, however. Even if they were old flames trying to attract her attention.
She left after dinner one night with a smile, tucking her knife into her jeans.
Mom returned holding a single index finger, a wedding ring still attached.
However, it was our own blood who was out for ours.
Uncle Wes was Dad’s ex partner in crime until he met Mom.
Dad tried to kill his own brother, and Wes built his own business, with his prime goals to take over the business, and destroy our father’s life. We were part of that, so of course, his three children were caught in the crossfire.
Which meant every month or so, we would find ourselves once again at the mercy of Uncle Wes.
The thing about uncle Wes is, though, he's all bark and no bite.
Uncle Wes was more of a Doofenshmirtz than a Joker. When we were younger, Uncle Wes was a little more lenient. Instead of a storage container, we would be held inside his grotty kitchen, handcuffed to the wall.
However, he did provide us with cookies and juice boxes.
Dad’s main fear was Uncle Wes influencing us to come over to his side of the family.
But again, Wes was one big goof. He was a large man with a potbelly, two chins and a grotty moustache.
Imagine Santa, but mix him with a cryptid and a criminal. He had abnormally large eyes and yellow teeth, a permanent grin splitting his mouth apart. It was supposed to be intimidating, and it was to others, sure, but we already knew he wasn't a threat.
Wes was fully mute, so he let his scar speak for him. I found myself wondering if he did it to himself, or maybe the perpetrator was my father.
Uncle Wes wore his scar like a trophy, and he was right to. That thing was grotesque. I had witnessed some of his executions, the victims begging for their lives. Unlike my parents’ way of taking care of people, his tactics were a lot more brutal.
Uncle Wes didn't say a word, which was scarier, choosing a baseball bat wrapped in spikes, or an axe. He always made a mess.
My eyes were blindfolded before I could see the real grisly stuff, though all I really needed to hear was the crunch of the thick blade slicing through the skull, the screaming and begging coming to an abrupt halt.
Thump.
The body hitting the ground, always stomach first.
If I really concentrated, I could hear the wet splash of blood seeping out of them.
When the blindfold was removed from my eyes, one of his cronies would be cleaning up blood and bits of skull with a scarlet mop. I think I was desensitised to blood at this point, or the color red in general. I just pretended it was a whole lot of cherry juice, but sometimes I would crack, especially hearing the crack of a gunshot, or the sickening squish of a knife penetrating flesh.
Fee stayed very still and didn't speak, and Rowan cried. He was getting better at tolerating it, but my brother really hated blood. Uncle Wes used that to his advantage, so we always had a front row seat at every execution, the three of us awkwardly tied back to back. We didn't have to see to get traumatised.
It was what we heard, and the inability to know what was going to happen next.
If our uncle’s axe was swinging our way.
It wasn't always Uncle Wes who carried out executions.
I grew up watching my cousins doing his dirty work.
As Wes’s children, they were automatically part of the family business. Liam was our older cousin (by three months), a scowling redhead with his own scar. (self inflicted with a box cutter. I watched it happen. I also watched him almost faint from blood loss).
Maddy was the younger, deadlier cousin, who was more terrifying than her criminal parents put together.
My younger cousin reminded me of a snake, narrowed eyes and pursed lips like she was spitting venom. I watched her slit a man's throat for getting her name wrong. He called her Madeleine.
Compared to his sociopathic daughter and unhinged son, Uncle Wes was one big marshmallow.
But that didn't make him less of a threat.
I had no doubt he would have zero problem brutally killing us once we were of age.
After all, being a kid is a luxury.
Nobody, not even the big scary criminals, can lay a finger on you.
I’ll start by saying neither I nor my siblings were born into the Delacroix family.
We were adopted together from the same children's home at the age of five years old. I remember being transfixed by the woman who would become my mother, a beautiful redhead appearing in front of me with a smile I trusted.
She was already hand in hand with Rowan and Ophelia. Rowan was a celebrity at Bolivia House. At least, his parents were. The other kids were obsessed with finding out who his real parents were, trying to match his mop of dark curls to any famous movie stars.
Despite choosing to stay anonymous, Rowan’s bio parents sent him cash and toy's every month, which skyrocketed him up the orphanage popularity ladder.
He didn't want cash, though.
I would regularly overhear him asking the housemother if he could meet them.
It was always a stern sounding no.
When he asked why, Rowan got the same answer.
“Because they don't want you.”
To an five year old, that's like telling them the world is ending.
Ophelia was the troublemaker who regularly ended up in the housemother’s office after scribbling on the walls and filling the bathtub with frogs.
Mom said she fell in love with the two of them when she first walked in, witnessing them play fighting in the main hallway.
Unbeknownst to our mother, they were actually fighting, trying to rip each other's hair out.
Rowan had the newest Pokémon game, and Ophelia wanted to play.
The boy had anger problems, and Ophelia didn't take no for an answer.
Chaos ensued.
Rowan and Ophelia were known to get on each other's nerves, so adopting them together was… a choice.
I tried to break up their fight, getting shoved over in the process.
So, I threw a book at Rowan’s head.
Ophelia found it funny, so she too hit him with a book.
Rowan retaliated by throwing the entire toy box at us.
Mom appeared in the doorway and asked if the three of us wanted to go home with her. In our mother’s words, “That was it. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were my children.”
The rest was history.
Now we had parents, and those parents happened to be part of a town-infamous crime family.
Maybe that's why our cousin’s hated us.
We weren't technically Delacroix blood.
When the storage container opened with a loud groan, I knew it was Liam.
My cousin always announced his presence by whistling. His footsteps unnerved me, dancing towards us. Light seeped inside the storage container, illuminating his face. Liam was eight years old, skinny, and did not resemble his father or little sister in the slightest.
He was a sandy blonde, while the two of them were freckled redheads.
Liam’s face reminded me of pizza.
Specifically, pepperoni.
His bright yellow Adventure Time sweatshirt really upped the intimidating factor.
Rowan scoffed, muttering something under his breath.
My cousin's head snapped up, eyes narrowing.
“I'm sorry, did you say something, orphan?”
“Wow, I've never heard that one before.”
Liam curled his lip. “I said, what did you say?”
I knew Rowan wouldn't hold back. He surprised me with a snort. “I said, aren't you a little tooold for Adventure Time? You need to clean your ears out if you can't hear me.”
My brother laughed, and to my surprise, Ophelia joined in nervously.
“Isn't your father part of a biiiiig criminal gang? And you're watching cartoons?”
When Rowan leaned forward, I was thrown back. I could hear the smirk in my brother’s voice. “Shouldn't you be watching adult TV shows by now?”
Liam’s mouth stretched into a terrifying grin. Instead of responding, he pulled something from his pocket, and I felt Rowan stiffen. Playtime was over, and now we were playing like our criminal parents. An unwelcome shiver skittered down my spine. I saw the flash of silver, and then the curve of the blade.
“My father is out on business,” Liam announced, casually spinning the handle between his fingers, “So, I figured why not play with my favorite cousins?”
I found my voice, pulling at my restraints. No wonder this particular kidnapping wasn't like the others, it wasn't even Uncle Wes who took us.
“Wait, you were the one who paid our teacher?”
The boy nodded, taking a step towards us.
He was waving the knife around too much. If he wasn't careful, he was going to stab himself in the eye.
“Yep. I had a little help from my Dad’s friend!” he flashed me a smile, his eyes shining. Liam was trying way too hard to be his father, it was painful to watch.
Still though, his annoying laugh made me nervous. Mom was yet to teach us how to untie knots around our wrists.
“Do you want to guess what I'm going to do to my favorite cousins?”
“Force us to watch a kids cartoon?” Rowan mumbled.
I wasn't expecting Liam to kick my brother in the gut, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
Twisting my head, I saw my cousin's shadow lunging forwards. He kicked him again and again and again, until Rowan was wheezing, spitting blood. Liam didn't stop until my brother was silent. I could still hear his breaths, but they were labored, his clammy hands trembling.
“Nope!” Liam laughed. “Try again!”
Ophelia squeaked, and I sensed the impact of his shoe protruding into her gut.
She let out a startled breath, her head knocking against mine.
I was next.
Mom told me how to disguise pain and pretend it didn't exist. But she was yet to train my mind to think like hers. I felt weak, pathetic, as a Delacroix daughter. I was too young to learn how to fight back. That's what Dad said. So, I had to take it. The first kick wasn't that bad. I sucked in my tummy and took a deep breath. The second kick knocked it all out of me, and I understood what pain really was.
Stubbing my toe was not pain.
Falling down the stairs was not pain.
Even breaking my arm was not pain.
Pain was endless, a cruel wrenching sensation of my body being battered.
It was relentless, and a new word blossomed into my mind. I had never known it myself, only heard my parents express it. Agony. Agony was intentional and every kick was meant to hurt.
I started to scream, my cry choking into sobs. But I didn't have enough breath to scream, breath to cry. The third kick was aimed at my face, bursting my nose on impact, my head hanging. The world seemed to slow down, and suddenly, all I knew was pain. All I knew was reality jerking left to right, the salty taste of blood dribbling down my chin. I was barely conscious when my cousin grabbed my ponytail and wrenched my head forward. The world was spinning.
The sudden prick of his knife grazing the curve of my throat sent my mind into overdrive.
“Your parents took something special from my uncle,” Liam murmured, jerking my head left and right, his fingernails digging into my chin. The boy was studying me, sticking his fingers into my mouth and prying it open. When I bit him, he cocked his head, confused. “Wow. That's weird.”
Liam shuffled back, tightening his grip on the knife.
“You don't smell of the pit.” he tilted his head, a dark twinkle in his eye.
“Why?”
He prodded at my eye, and this time, I let out a hiss, lunging forward.
Liam only had to remind me of his weapon. Holding it up with one hand, he muffled my shriek with the other.
“Shh. You're annoying me.”
Liam stroked the blade just like his father, copying Uncle Wes’s unnerving grin. “Answer correctly, dearest cousin, and maybe I won't slice your throat open.” He slowly removed his hand.
“Are we clear?”
I could only nod, spluttering out a sob my mother would be ashamed of.
Liam pressed the blade to my throat, teasing the teeth.
“..........?”
His question didn't fully register, because by then, heavy footsteps were outside. I saw Liam’s lips form the words, but his voice never hit my ears.
No.
No, it did.
I just couldn't recall the words.
They were there one minute, and gone the next.
Liam definitely spoke, and I could have sworn his eyes pricked with fear.
My psycho cousin was never scared.
“.....……….?!”
Ocean waves, was all I could hear, enveloped in white noise.
Before I knew what was happening, my mother was wrenching the knife from my cousin, and screaming at him.
When he cried out, she wrenched his hands behind his back and shoved him to the ground. Maddy floated behind her, a wicked smile on her freckly face.
The world made sense again. Tipping my head back, I watched my mother calmly and politely restrain my cousin.
Meanwhile, my younger cousin was laughing in the corner.
If there was anything Maddy loved more than terrorising her cousins, it was seeing her brother get his ass kicked.
Dad was in front of me, cradling my face.
His fingers tiptoed across my bruises, soothing them.
“It's okay, sweetie. I'm here. Daddy’s here.”
He moved to untie Rowan, gently lifting my knocked out brother onto his back.
Ophelia shakily got to her feet, swiping at her teary eyes. I knew she was trying to hide them, but was failing miserably.
Mom’s eyes found mine, and I knew what she was going to say.
She was ashamed of her children who could not fight back.
If the Delacroix kids were seen as weak, then we would be targets.
Lifting my sister into the air, my mother pressed her face into Ophelia’s curls.
“I think you're old enough to learn,” she said, “How to be a Delacroix.”
My Mom’s words sounded like ocean waves crashing onto the shore. I could still feel the blade stuck to my throat.
Teasing a death I knew wouldn't come for a while.
Because I already knew when I was going to die, and it wasn't inside a grotty storage container at eight years old at the mercy of my psycho cousin.
I don't know if my Mom was a psychic, or maybe it was mother’s intuition.
Halfway through an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, just a few weeks prior, she ruined our lives with four words. You're. Going. To. Die.
Mom stepped in front of the TV and switched it off, so I knew it was serious.
I snapped to attention, and Rowan, who was sitting next to me frowning at his Pokémon game, lifted his head, blinking. Mom might have looked like she was in casual Mom mode, her hair still damp from a shower, peanut butter smudged on her lip, but she wasn't smiling, her hands planted on her hips.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said, her expression softening, “The three of you are going to die.”
Ophelia, knelt on the floor with a book on her lap, looked up, a pen in her mouth.
Rowan laughed, before disguising it with a cough.
“What?”
I thought Mom meant that we were too weak.
That one day, an enemy of our family was going to succeed in killing us.
No.
Mom knew the exact time and date we were going to die.
I was going to die at 18 years old.
Ten years away, and yet I suddenly felt like every minute and second mattered.
The world looks different when you're told your death is inevitable.
Murder.
The word felt tangled and knotted.
We were going to be murdered in what she guessed was a planned attack, but She didn't know who our killer was.
Mom broke down, pleading with us to understand that she and our father were hunting down our future killers, and she promised nothing was going to happen.
Squeezing my hand so tight, my mother’s smile was watery.
“But…”
I tugged my hand away, all of the breath sucked from my lungs.
There was always a but.
“But… we haven't found them yet.”
Her voice didn't sound real.
Rowan started shouting, but I couldn't understand what he was saying.
Mom said the date as if it was concrete, like it was going to happen.
03/05/2024.
Rowan and Ophelia were scheduled to die at 4:13pm and 4:17pm.
While I would die forty minutes later at 4:50pm.
“How do you even know this?” Rowan argued.
She didn't reply, only hugging him instead.
Mom was confident that she could turn us into killers in ten years.
Because the only way of living past eighteen was killing our future killers.
So… after The Liam Incident, we had no choice.
Our brutal training regime began.
I can't say I agreed with it at the beginning. Get up, eat breakfast, go to school, train, eat dinner, train, go to bed. Do it all over again.
Dad taught us self defence classes in the morning, and Mom led weapon’s training in the afternoon. Our house was big enough, so in the morning after breakfast, dad cleaned out the basement, converting it into a makeshift training gym. I had to learn how to take a punch to the face.
Dad was gentle in his tactics, only growing strict when we weren't pulling our weight and awarding us with candy.
We started with plastic dummies. I had to hit them as many times as possible.
Then dad paired me up with Ophelia.
Whoever pinned their opponent first was awarded extra ice-cream for supper.
Initially, neither of us wanted to fight each other. I felt awkward, my feet sinking into the mat. Ophelia tried to kick me, and tripped over her own leg.
So, dad tried a different tactic.
“Insult each other,” Dad said from the sidelines. “No bad words. Just air out your opponent's flaws.”
“Call her the B word!” Rowan shouted with a laugh.
“No, there is no reason for using bad words,” our father said. “I want you to get used to fighting back. Start with using words.”
“You always use your toothbrush with your gross mouth.” Ophelia spoke up with a squeak. “And you use my toothpaste.”
Her words gritted my teeth together.
“You snore.” I retorted, my cheeks heating up. “You sound like a pig.”
At first, I barely felt the sharp impact of her hand slapping my face. I think it was shock.
Before our father clapped his hands.
“That's right, Poppy! Now, I want you to use your hands.”
I could barely control myself when I hit back, this time shoving her to the ground.
Ophelia jumped to her feet and kicked me in the stomach.
“That's too harsh,” Dad said. “No kicking. Copy what I demonstrated.”
Ignoring him, I kicked Ophelia in the leg, and was immediately grounded.
He reiterated his rules.
“I don't want you to fight each other. I want you to take each other down.”
So, that's what we did.
It took months of training for me to be able to take my sister down.
Then my brother.
And after a few years, I was pinning my own father.
Our parents would pay friends to sneak up on us. “Expect the unexpected” was what they nailed into our heads.
Our murderers could be anyone and anywhere.
As a kid, I failed.
I jumped into a woman's car posing as our great aunt Helen, only for her to drug my Apple soda and take me right back home, where my awaiting mother chastised me for being naive.
In my defence, I did have a great aunt Helen, and this woman did look like a Helen.
When I stepped into our kitchen at thirteen years old, tired from school and training, Mom was baking cookies.
She twisted around, pivoting on her heel, pulling her gun from her apron.
“Bang.” she said, pointing it at my head. “I just killed you, honey.”
I was already struggling to grab my own.
“Bang.” Mom said again. “I killed you again.”
“Mom, wait–” I was too slow, my brain foggy.
“Three shots in the head, Poppy,” she said in a sing-song. “Your brains are currently splattered all over the walls.”
“You can't kill me three times,” I said, struggling to find the right trajectory.
Mom lowered her weapon when I mimed shooting her in the face. “That's how fast it is, sweetie. Bad people do not hesitate.” She shot a round into the window, and I had to stop myself from flinching. “Why are you hesitating?
“Because you're my mother.”
Mom sighed, turning back to her cookies, swapping her gun for a heart shaped cookie cutter. “How was school?”
“Fine.”
Dropping my weapon on the counter, I grabbed apple juice from the refrigerator.
However, after remembering my brother drugging himself yesterday in a poison exercise, I slowly put it back.
I did get better at training.
After years of the exact same regime, I stopped feeling human.
More like a soldier.
Mom was right. She was slowly and successfully turning us into killers.
When she brought real people into target practice, I stopped seeing them as humans.
I stopped crying when the bullet made an impact.
I stopped slamming my hands over my mouth, my gun trembling in my grasp.
Targets would bleed, and I ignored them. The only thing that mattered was the magnum moulded into my palm, my index inching towards the trigger.
I remembered holding my first gun at the age of eight.
My hands were clammy and clumsy, struggling to get a proper grip.
Mom told me that person could have been my killer.
So, I wasn't allowed to hesitate.
My hands were not allowed to shake.
By the age of sixteen, I used every waking minute to train.
Rowan took me down in a self defence exercise, only for me to leap onto his back and rip out his hair. Dad called it fighting with emotion. He told me to take a walk around the yard and come back when I was less agitated. I knew my brother and sister’s weak spots at this point, but they knew mine too.
I threw a punch, aiming for his neck to destabilise him, but he was already tracking my moves, narrowed eyes drinking all of me in. With a single kick to the groin area, I was lying on my back staring at the ceiling, and Dad was shouting at me to try again. I did, this time pinning him. But he was fiercely competitive, knocking me back onto my ass. We all had our respective talents.
Rowan was our best fighter, accompanying Dad on assignments as the brawn. There were a surprising number of teen gang members, and even as a fourteen year old, Rowan easily brought them to their knees, cementing himself as a Delacroix.
I'm pretty sure his obsession to be the best came from our cousin's beatings when we were kids. Dad taught him how to channel his anger into fighting.
Liam had permanently scarred him both mentally and physically. He had a scar just below his left eye. Rowan was overly obsessed with bringing down Uncle Wes (because it meant killing our cousin) but Dad told us to bide our time.
Fee was our second best fighter. I enjoyed watching her whooping our brother’s ass. Ophelia had dark brown hair to her butt, and refused to get it cut, wearing it in a ponytail. When she was fighting, her hair was a tripping hazard.
I was more comfortable with a knife.
I could still fight, easily defending myself. But I felt better with a blade or gun in my hands.
As I grew up, I stopped feeling emotion completely.
Expect the unexpected, our parents would nail into our heads.
Mom tried to catch me off guard when I was still half asleep, only for me to shoot a round right past her head. Shooting was like muscle memory now.
I was exactly what she wanted me to be.
I didn't hesitate.
She didn't say anything, but I knew my Mom was proud.
Eighteen years old arrived, and on the day of our murder, I was ready.
Mom still insisted on us attending school, so I was making my way home.
03/05/2024.
The same uneasy thought had been twisting my stomach all day.
I was going to die at 4:50pm.
I glanced at my phone. Nothing from my parents, so my siblings were good.
4:46.
There was someone following me.
By the shape of the shadow, it was a man. Middle aged.
Trench coat.
Definitely alone, and didn't seem to have a phone.
Another glance at my phone.
4:47.
There was a text from my friend that I ignored.
Why did you leave school early, dumb bitch? It's–
I swiped it away, stuffing my phone in my pocket.
Closer.
This was it.
“Poppy?” The man's voice tickled the back of my neck. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “It is Poppy, isn't it?”
His steps started to quicken.
“Could I talk to you?”
I felt almost intoxicated, excited with the idea of taking down my killer.
My breaths were heavy.
Closer.
Twisting around, my hands were already wrapped around the butt of my gun. Just like my Mother taught me.
Bang.
With one shot, he was dead. Thankfully, we lived in the middle of nowhere so there was nobody around. I dropped to my knees next to his body, my hands shaking. First, I checked his pocket.
Cigarettes, a lighter, and a leather bound notepad.
I threw all of that away, my hands landing on an envelope.
Curious, I emptied it, only to find multiple pictures of smiling children.
All of them had giant red exes drawn over their faces.
And among them, photos of me, Rowan, and Ophelia.
So, my would-be murderer was a creep after all.
Still. I killed him.
I jumped to my feet, unable to resist a shriek of excitement.
I almost cried, my chest heaving.
Mom and Dad had turned us into killers, but crying felt so fucking good.
Human.
When I got home, I greeted my family in song.
“Mom!” I stepped out of my shoes, unloading my gun.
“Guess whaattttt!” I did a little dance. “I killed my killer!”
I was halfway across the threshold, when I felt it.
Something wet, warm, leaking under my socks.
It had been almost five years since I felt that sensation.
Creepy crawlies skittering up my spine and filling my mouth.
My eyes followed the scarlet puddle, finding my sister’s body, twisted and mangled out of shape. Her hands had been snapped off, her legs impossibly bent. Like a monster had chewed her up and spat her back out in disjointed pieces.
In front of me, my mother was standing with Rowan’s headless torso over her shoulder, a wide smile across her lips, polluted eyes resembling nothing staring back. My sweet mother wearing her heart shaped apron was a monster.
My brother’s eyes had been burned from his sockets.
His mouth carved from his face, almost resembling a manic, skeletal grin.
A single glance at the clock on the wall told me it was 4:49pm.
Which couldn't be right…
“Mom…”
Dropping my backpack, I ducked to grab the knife sandwiched in my sock.
Mom’s smile was bright, and yet so fucking inhuman.
“You didn't even hesitate. I'm so proud.”
Before something cold and cruel sliced across my throat.
Dad.
“What did I say?” Dad chuckled in my ear. “Expect the unexpected.”
I woke up, hanging off my father’s shoulder.
Bleeding out, my breaths strangled, my words nonsensical.
Around us, there was nothing. We were no longer inside our house. There was only a single bright light illuminating a giant pit in the ground. Dad spoke to me while hauling my brother’s body into the chasm. He waited a moment, before letting out a disappointed sigh.
“Your mother and I found something a long time ago when we were working as field agents,” he hummed, “It promised us money and power. As long as we allowed it to consume.”
Mom kicked Ophelia into the pit with a disgusted snort.
“It promised us children as strong and powerful as us, children who could take over the family business and continue to feed it, long after we were gone. Heirs that could fight alongside us.” Mom continued. “But, of course, we are yet to find them.” she grabbed me, dragging my body across the ground.
“Perhaps if you actually trained properly, Poppy, maybe you and your siblings could have been exceptions.”
I only heard her latter words.
“Oh, well. Perhaps the next orphans will be better.”
Before she flung me over the edge, where I just managed to cling on.
I waited to bleed out, to lose consciousness and drop into oblivion.
But after five minutes of using all of my upper body strength to hang on, I risked grazing my fingers over my throat.
I could still feel the wound, but it didn't feel like it was gaping anymore.
Mom and Dad left after a while of waiting.
By that time, I had enough strength to haul myself onto solid ground. For a moment, I stared at the ceiling, panting for breath. I rolled into my stomach and grasped for my knife, but it was gone.
Fuck.
When I turned to leave, the pit grumbled.
The ground trembled beneath me.
Twisting around, I instinctively reached for a weapon.
I lost my breath when a single hand appeared, grasping onto the ground for dear life.
I started toward the pit, before running footsteps sent me stumbling back.
“Fuck. It can't be!”
Mom appeared, Dad following behind her.
“We’ve been feeding potential Delacroix heirs to this thing for fifty years, and now it responds?!”
I didn't stay behind to let them test their luck with me again.
Following the tunnel back into our house, I made it back into daylight.
Into fresh air.
I've been keeping a low profile for the last few weeks.
I can't sleep, I can't eat. My hands are shaking.
All I see is the pit.
Those psychos pretended to be my parents.
I'm terrified of being captured again. I can't stop shaking. I'm fucking alone.
Last night, I heard the Delacroix children killed my parent’s main rivals.
I guess Rowan and Ophelia really are officially part of the family business.
