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Tcp - Blog Posts
Why leave, did I not give you enough?
Madoc was standing in the house once again, reliving his worst memories-Eva and Justin's deaths. The house where Vivienne had vowed to hate him. The house where Jude had screamed at him and hit him. The house where Taryn had sobbed, shaking her mother's dead body, though Eva would never get up again. It was empty. No one had bought it even after 3 years-the deaths still haunted them. It looked normal-a red plastic FOR SALE was mounted on the lawn and the wind chimes jingled in the comforting breeze. He wondered if ghosts existed. Would Eva and Justin be staring at him with contempt in their eyes? He hesitated, just as he had 3 years ago on that fateful day. Oh, how he wished he had grabbed Vivienne and Eva and ran. Would Justin come after him? Perhaps. But maybe he would take care of his daughters first. Madoc didn't know-Justin had been such a strange man. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to relive the bloodstained carpet and smell of wet blood.
He swallowed. He was a redcap. He was brave, and he slept at night knowing that he had killed thousands of soldiers. He could go inside and endure the ghosts of the past. He inhaled, curled his hands into fists and stepped inside. Nothing. It was empty, scrubbed clean, like no one had lived inside it at all. There were ornamental decorations and a pleasant perfume permeated the air. All dressed up to make it look flashy and attractive. Nothing could ever attract Madoc to the house, except for the fact that his daughters had run away. Just like Eva. Just when he had thought that they had begun to like him-they had sat on his lap, eating out of his plate, and played Nine Men's Morris with him. Taryn had stopped flinching every time she saw him, and Jude had smiled at him, even coming to have a somewhat twisted affection for him. Vivienne, of course, had not stopped. The weight of her vow would never leave her, and she had been so angry that she could not speak to them for days. Had she guilt tripped them into leaving? Most probably. Though they loved him somewhat, they would never be able to forget their real parents. The ones that he had murdered right in front of their eyes. Blood on the kitchen floor and the heavy smell of blood. He forced his feet to move, up, down, up, down. Into the kitchen where Eva once lay. Into the backyard where Justin's forge once stood. Into the bedrooms- He stopped, inhaling sharply. The beds were clearly made with gray and yellow covers. The room was airy and sunlit, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. A peaceful, drowsy afternoon. Was this where his daughters had slept? Where they had played with each other? Where they had watched, what did humans call it, TV? Television? Eva had told him of it and he had watched the strange pictures dance across the screen. They had watched it together, she laughing, he not understanding but smiling and playing along. He closed his eyes. He opened them again. Any question of them being here was gone, though they might have come for a brief visit. Were memories too painful for them as well? Footsteps made him spin around. Standing there was a woman, wearing a suit that hinted that she might be a-what had Eva called it-a 'real estate agent', someone who sold property. 'Sir,' she said. 'I don't know what you're doing here, but you need to leave, unless you're a potential buyer. How did you get in here?' He hit her on the side of the head and she crumpled. His heart wildly richocheted and suddenly she was Eva. He had killed another person. He stepped back and fell against the wall, screaming into his bundled cloak. Was she dead? His eyes were wild, his heart pounded as he scrambled to find out. No, Eva, please don't be dead- She had a pulse. She was bleeding, but she would be all right. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave-he barely had a few minutes to go back before he would have to attend a meeting. He took her phone, called the police (911, was it?) gave them directions and then stepped out. Suddenly, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay here and drink in the memories of a family, torn apart by him, that he had so desperately tried to put back together. And now that they had run away, he might never be able to. He took the silky black horse back to Elfhame. His memories took the form of knives, stabbing into him as he recalled their painful shapes and colors. They took the form of needles, slowly sliding into him as he silently screamed, feeling the cold, sharp pain of memories upon him.
I blame Holly Black because now I'm attached to a power seeking killer and an attention deprived alcoholic with a tail
