I Was Born The Unloved Twin 95 Stop Thinking

It's like a dream come true.

How do I know this, so bright and early in the morning? When the sun isn't even out yet?

Father told me.

Tells me as he speeds walks us down long corridors and twists going down the stairs, my body bouncing lightly against his hold. Yes, this is not a dream, the nerd has really gotten me.

It's been a rather strange but very restful few sleepy days. As a child in recovery, it seems my body was automatically geared to sleep. How peaceful, is this what Lilyanne feels like all the time? What a wonderful life it is to not be expected to do anything but sleep, eat, and sleep some more.

It does feel odd I admit, to have such a sudden halt to my daily routine. It's part nice and relaxing with the other part jarring. At the very least, in the times I was awake, there was no room to be bored. Not when my roommates, or well bedmates, are the human embodiment of beast pups.

Neither of those boys is meant to be domestic pets, they are just not house trainable. Bad pups. Do not adopt or make henchman, not worth the trouble.

I still don't trust Amar's testimonies 100%, actually, I don't know just how much to believe out of that curved little mouth anyways! Though I can say I'm glad that my interrogation skills went up. Ohohohoho, practice makes perfect. Don't know what to believe? Get all of the info first, possibly by pillow and tickle torture, and decide later. The only problem with that interrogation method is that it's a lot of info to process. Amar has the knack for talking...a lot....without actually saying anything useful. But what can I expect from a child? My only other cop partner is also a child, and so easily distracted he's useless. Oh forget Lukas, I'm so easily distracted. It's not funny.

For sure the kid, obviously, is suffering from long term malnutrition and some very wary long term poison 'training' that has lead to some rather impressive immunity. Some really messed up backstory there I'm sure. I am not thinking about messed up backstories that probably for everyone in the sickbay. We should make a little club at this point.

Even though there's a lot more to it, I don't think I can get much more info from Amar directly. Not with my current interrogation skills.

There's a lot of things I won't ask yet. A lot of things I don't think a traumatized child is ready to take all at once. The most pressing being, 'who were your parents?'

That. That's the source of it right? Of Amar's troubles? Of mine or Lukas. Who were your parents and what debt have they left behind for you to pay? What burdens do you carry from them?

It was blurry, especially after the candy, but I remember it all, from eavesdropping from the floor to the dimming dialogue at the end. The questions in my mind swirl in a natural disaster, a storm pinpointing into that tip.

Who? Where are you really from? Why you? Do you even remember those answers? Do you even know?

"...I don't know?" Then all of a sudden it's a peaceful winter day and I'm outside smelling like cold air and donuts. It's a day before all of this, as normal and boring as it can be for me. Amar in that memory answers with half shaken uncertainty, to something as simple as a birthday, and then with something I fear is the hollow truth.

"I don't know." says the silence, told like a truth hidden in a forest of lies.

The things I really want to ask dies at my healed tongue before they can be spoken in my usual uncontrollable way, a far away warning that sounds a bit like Yuna's grouchy voice echoes back.

There are things you just don't ask. Is that it?

Is that what Lukas learned too? Don't ask, don't tell, move the h.e.l.l on? Because that one knows more than he lets on too, more than he lets himself think about I'm sure. But as kids what choice do they have? These are the kind of thoughts I uncomfortably fall asleep too and wake with as long as I'm in the sick room. Floating around, known yet unknown, helpless in a situation you don't know where and when to tread.

It feels a lot like being a kid again.

So I'm a little glad, if guilty when father swiftly steals me out of my bedding before the day even breaks. Something else to fill in my limited world view, something else to think about.

This morning must have been our release date, or at least mine?

Picking me up from my sleep and taking me off was a nerd I haven't seen in a while. It was a shock at first, getting jolted away by being stretched out. My father's gentle piano hands were almost painful on my sides against the pull of little hands clutching my limbs. A sleepy tug of war with me as the rope.

When my senses rouse enough I can register the familiar scent of expensive bergamot, fine leather, and the underlying hints gunpowder. When I can blink away the darkness enough to make out the red light in the morning not actually peeking sunlight but candlelight reflecting my father's hair my sleepy mouth can't stop itself.

"Papa?"

I don't know why I said that but it breaks the sleep added tension. The usual sound of childishly obnoxious snoring returns. Below me, ghoulish green eyes I don't recognize blink up, softening sweetly until I finally do. The little creatures loosen their grips on me and let go one by one, as if realizing and accepting my inevitable capture by the big red-haired vampire.

They even gave me sleepy waves goodbye, if you count Lukas kicking foot as a wave too. Amar's dopey voice muttering "k, goodnight Rosa" as I'm swept away.

Out of the sickbay and down swirling stairs, round and round all the way down.

It was a very surreal sort of wake up call. Or was it an abduction?

"...Nooooooo... cold." I yawn, seeing no other alternative to the chilly morning air than burrowing myself further into father's chest and jacket. Or is it a baby sling? Oh G.o.d please don't let it be the baby sling. "What time is it?"

Instead of speaking, father grits his teeth until he lets out an irritated huff. I hear a gratingly low "brat" under his breath. Ahhhh must be early morning for father to be this grumpy. I understand for I am the same way.

"PFather?"

It may be the dark of the early morning, with not a soul around. It may be the flickering light of the lantern, making shadows dance stretch and along the seemingly endless halls and stairs. It may be the dramatically billowing black cape that father has chosen to wear to today. But my father is making a very suspicious-looking character right now. A little vampire, a lot dramatic.

Hey am I even in the right house? Or the right life? What is with this cinematic horror movie atmosphere? Oh is this why Rosalia always wore dramatic red gowns and luxuriously detailed black lace, like some cheesy otome game villainess? It wasn't just her color scheme? Oh my G.o.d I'm 50% vampire!

"Chip dear, you can go back to sleep."

The vampire parental smiles down at my now squirming form in a supernaturally hypnotizing manner, a bit smug and too bright to my eyes. It forces me to calm down by utterly stopping all rational thought. There are no fangs but the candlelight has illuminated some G.o.d forbidden bone structure, setting gold eyes and a polluted sunset framing hair a glow.

Curses!!! How do you expect me to go back to sleep like this!?! Much curses!!! In the time I've gone without being exposed to the nerd it seems that my tolerance for his evil face has dramatically dropped! A refresh b.u.t.ton. It's the opposite of poison training, I've been left fully vulnerable to the good looking attack! I think I feel like coughing up blood from this unfair attack!

It's too early in the morning for this.

But where are we going? Even if it's my release date, father doesn't have to personally come to get me. Nor does it have to be at this unholy silent hour?

It's so quiet that not even the earliest s.h.i.+ft staff must be awake. Normally someone like me has no issue falling back asleep or sneaking naps, it was my great skill since I was young. Or well....it was....and I am young again, but as Rosalia?

Right, I'm Rosalia now! So it is to my great shame that I am restless and squirming all around from the candlelit sight of my own father's face. Oh the shame!

I must bury myself for this great transgression. Yes, deep inside the cloak and inner jacket, m.u.f.fling my whines of confused screaming into the warm wall that his father's chest. It's nowhere near as big. muscular and squishy as grampa's but surprisingly toned, very good for a nerd. I make sure to pat my wall, feeling for the best spots. I must be very inconvenient and ticklish to carry so take that!

As I make the best of my situation, aka making my travel nest as comfortably layered as possible, the air changes through the fabric and thin peek I afford for myself.

The dark has turned white. We're outside, traversing through a thick frosty fog, lit only by the magical candle glow of the lantern. The barest sound of snow crunching underneath Father's swift steps. Like the people around, tucked up safe in their beds, the land is still asleep.

The stark southern gardens, normally flush with flowers and surrounded by a maze of greens for Lilyanne's viewing pleasure is not to be seen. Not when it's buried in the uncommon but not impossible layers of snow. The carefully cobbled walkways and stone gazebos are completely covered from the white that fell the night before.

Again am I in the right place? Have I been transported to another world, again? Say Phantom of the Opera or something in a gothic horror movie?

I make the mistake of looking up questionably to my transport mule, aka father. Big mistake. If I thought he was sinfully handsome in the dark shadowy hallways then he looks absolutely horrendous when haloed by the hazy glow caused by light on fog. It's a crime against humanity and rationale. The cold-causing his tall cheeks to flush across his nose, imitating something of a fl.u.s.tered blus.h.i.+ng appeal on an otherwise cool face. The halo lit around us like a masterful old painting, casting the subject as something beyond human, divine. Angelic to the point of d.a.m.nation and sin.

That wicked face is the primary reason mother married this loser, I swear.

Time to look away again! Not seeing mother's man in that light,or any light, oh no no no. Back into the burrow! Nice and safe in here, no looking and gross screaming. Screaming like a fangirl is reserved for Gable only. Only Gabe is worthy. Oh look I'm so cold I can't help roll around s.h.i.+vering, most certainly not fangirl rolling around.

Questioning can wait till we get to wherever father taking me. Hopefully, somewhere warm. This isn't the way to the stables though, so I doubt we'll be seeing the puppy horses or going anywhere far.

Ah yes, I sure do recognize the creepy mausoleum looking structure in this dead hedge of garden maze.....NOT?! When was that there?! What the holy h.e.l.l? I would think I know my own house enough to remember this?

Oh wonderful! There are secret stairs leading into a dark underground! Please don't be a tomb, please don't be a creepy place full of dead things. No no no, please don't be a horror movie. I'll be good in the baby sling or whatever this is just please don't be a horror!

Father should have blindfolded me with a bag over my head or something to complete the scene. He is really not helping his increasingly villainous image that's growing in my mind. How in the world did the original Rosalia not see it before?

Like a haunted house, the lights flicker in candles and lanterns only with each step my father takes down....even more stairs! Yes they spiral!

The cold click on his shoes on marble steps soon softens, to something of a plush carpet. The world lights up just enough I can see that it's....a very predictable shade of dark red. Why father why?

To my pleasant surprise though, the stairs open not to a tomb or dungeon torture chamber but a very warm and inviting lounge s.p.a.ce. With the lights and fireplace, all magically flickered into life with the precision of automatic motion sensors it gives the red ambiance something of a Gryffindor themed aesthetic. Regal and cozy, a mix of soft seats and handsome long tables.

More importantly, are the gears and gadgets strewn around. Grampa's ridiculous cheat crossbows various wheels made of all sorts of material, broken looking gla.s.s. Carved wood and metal parts in mismatched shapes, drafting papers and scrolls scrawled about. A few are even pinned up to the walls in something that resembles corkboard. Drafts and designs so complicated they have my eyes seeing swirls along with them. For the most part, they're drawn in what I know is my father's hand but there are framed papers that stand out from his style, sharper and varied as if collected from other people. It's a strange sort of workroom, and even more interesting than his office.

Another wall hangs with a gla.s.s display case of various items for easy viewing while in storage, a rack of antique-looking decorative guns in open s.p.a.ce. Hanging not so hidden in the corner is a full human skeleton model like one would see in a cla.s.sroom, complete with black etched numbers and nails per bone. For father's worsening image in my mindscape, I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and pretend that's a scientific model. Just like I will pretend that....golden skull on the cleanest desk is just a decorative paperweight.

Of course, the most terrifying thing here is undoubtedly the enormous gold leaf framed oil painting, mounted right over the roaring fireplace. A portrait of the most horrifying being I have come to learn to fear in my short limited life in this world. Mother.

A wall-sized painting of my mother, sitting pretty watching over the room in all her beauty and intimidation. How scary.

"Father? Did you do that?"

A little hand and finger point out towards the scarily beautiful and realistic painting, before I can even register doing that.

"Hmm still awake I see."

"Father answer the question!"

I heard somewhere that art isn't about what looks good so much as what it makes you feel. In front of this, I feel the echoes of fear s.h.i.+vering through me at my mother's likeness. So yes, it is art.

It also is just...really really d.a.m.ned good. The details of the draping and clothing, the way the light is painted on her skin in different areas, reflected on the jewels or her honey bronze hair, warmer and s.h.i.+ning beyond any mere blonde. How soft and dreamy the frame of flowers feel, as if I could reach out and touch the petals, the woman in the frame. If the subject wasn't so scary, I would be on my knees in the oversized beauty of it.

Okay so maybe I am? But only because father has plopped me out of his s.h.i.+rt and onto a fancy cus.h.i.+on by the fire. Ahhhh it's warm, I'm feeling alive again.

"That old thing huh....well I suppose I did. " he huffs, giving a bit of an exasperated look.

"You? You made that? With your own bare hands?!"

"Well I tried? The painting, not the canvas. Now that's an idea."

"You can paint?!"

"If you consider that painting. I dabble a bit here and there when I find the time. That up there was never finished, but your mother forbids me from spending any more time trying perfect it. A poor imitation that I can't help but still be irritatingly in love with. "

Dabbling. He dabbled THAT?

Oh my grampa, this man is such a nerd. He's a d.a.m.n all around art nerd. Oh lord no wonder the romantic Lilyanne is his favorite child. Holy s.h.i.+t. She really did get it from father?

I had an inkling after seeing his skilled hand in drafting designs and drawings in general but nowhere to this extent. I don't know whether to be in awe of his talents or just floored on the OP levels of nerd. How convenient, I'm already on the floor!

"Do you have more?!"

"Well, dabbling indicates I would. Isn't that right Chip dear?"

"Are they anywhere in the house? Hung?"

"Of course not."

"Well, why not?"

Why haven't I ever seen any of my father's works? Why have I never seen a thing? Had they just been kept secret? Locked up in this underground room? Or did I just miss it, like I missed so many other things. Did...did Lilyanne know?

Of course she did. She was our family's little artist, a prodigy.

Of course she knew. Father is the source of it then, her biggest patron. Providing more tools than I thought possible. More things I don't know despite living in it.

The room is warming up but I can feel my heart hardening further, chilling like the ground outside. That's right, that's the smart thing to do. There's no use in getting caught up in unavoidable things from the past. I was just...born the wrong one. That's it, nothing I already don't know.

"Well for one that would be far too shameful with my lackl.u.s.ter skills. I dabble. I'm no artist."

The ice cracks, only out of sheer exasperation. Is father being sarcastic or is he playing some stupid trick test at me?

"Riiiiight, you're no artist. You made THAT," I point in frustration, " and you're not an artist. Everyone else who does commissions for their livings must be cavemen then, playing with paints."

"Well....I did make that too." father remarks. To my confusion look back at him, he thankfully elaborates. "The frame, I carved and painted that too. The gold paint cost thousands for me to figure out the right mix."

"....WHAT?! Why are you so good at too many things!?!! That's not fair! That's not humanly fair?!!" I screech

I turn around so hard I might have gotten carper burn to point in accusation. My mood matching the warm flames behind me with my indignation. What is with this nerd?!!

More importantly, why are you so unfair in the genetic distribution, both you and mother!?!! From magic powers to the not exactly but might as well be magic art? All the beauty and blessings. WTF? Where do I sue? Who do I sue? No one! Could you have spared a tidge more of the good genes? Noooooo, instead, I get things like motion sickness or reddening hair.

My father makes a hateful chuckle at my pointing and toddler screaming. I'm sure I sound just adorable in that high pitched way babies do but still. This isn't fair? Father himself is not fair? The way he's standing there, arms crossed and shaking his awful good looking chicken head while gently smiling in the warm firelight is really really not fair.

"Ah...a spitting image." he sounds so fond that I waver, almost getting distracted.

A spitting image? Are we talking Lilyanne again? Geez stop getting so distracted nerd, I can't help it if my little sister and I are twins. I should be used to the comparison but I still can't help the exasperated sigh and painful bug bite somewhere in my heart.

It's too early for this s.h.i.+t, and I'm not just talking about the time of day.

Now I could pout, I could ignore it because I am a perfectly reasonable adult who knows how to cut my losses. Or I could smack someone with this pillow? Hmm choices choices?

I get to act on none of them when father drops to the floor, knees to carpet, slightly chilled piano hands to my chubby cheeks.

"And how are you feeling today darling?"

Cold fingertips feel very good for the room is very toasty yes, I have spent too long too close to the fireplace. Must be overheating like the tiny little mochi that I am. Unfortunately, I cannot move with father in my way like that, smiling unfairly like that. It's a slight one, just a pleasant upturn of lips against his usual face rather than his business smile or the sappy one reserved for mother. I don't miss the stupid almost wors.h.i.+pful look he makes when glancing up at mother's portrait for a quick second before his eyes settle on me again.
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Direct eye contact like that makes me fidget. It makes me feel a little, a lot, like another little girl who shared my name. A Rosalia who was always nervous and desperate for her father's approval, following futilely behind him like a lost chick.

The harpsichord was horrible and she still played it. Lessons were tedious and the b.l.o.o.d.y mistakes were countless but she still bore through them. The horses were tall and terrifying and she still learned to ride until it was easier than as breathing.

All for what?

The chance to be looked at, just once, the way her sister was daily.

How sad, how cheap.

How desperately easily that girl would have sold herself to be in my socks right now.

I can still see it, for they are just as much my own memories now as they are the original's. Peeking from the door crack, too nervous, too unwanted to step in. To ruin the moment. A young and frail Lilyanne at her seat and easel, happily turned to show busy busy father her progress. That stern stuffy man would turn soft, turn loving, praises for every brush and stroke. A loving and doting father as any.

The next day, he would be too busy again.

Even if Rosalia was in the same room as him, he wouldn't look at her. Not like that. No matter how fast Rosalia chased, no matter the beast steed, trailing right behind her father, it was like she could never catch up. He wouldn't slow down nor would he ever look back.

Yet he always managed to make time for dear Lilyanne, sitting pretty on her perch.

I can still see it. The beautiful little girl on the balcony.

When the weather was good Lilyanne would sit and paint on balcony overlooking the south. Within a certain range from the inner roads, we could look up and see Lilyanne sitting there. Paints out and in all her preciously childish finery, unworried about getting them dirty. Mother and Father would just buy her another if she got paint on and ruined another dress.

She herself looked like a painting, so serene and high above. Rosalia remembers that view, often looking up from below.

Far in front of her, father would speedily gallop on either Gino or Damask, as if to get home to his beloved family a minute faster. Even a minute meant a lot in his packed schedule. From above would wave Lily, sometimes joined by mother.

It was a very idyllic sort of scene. One that didn't include her.

There was a time when that nervous child didn't follow home. When that Rosalia, hardly much older than the primary schooler are now, just...stopped. She got sick of seeing her father's back, riding towards the waving angel sitting up above. Everyone has a snapping point, a too tired to go on moment in their lives.

She stopped to see what would happen, to see what he would do. If her father would scold her or tell her to hurry, to see if he would even notice.

If anyone would notice?

She kept her horse steady, letting it graze on gra.s.s and wildflowers, and no one stopped her. No one came, not a servant and certainly not her father. She didn't return home for hours, not till dark. Turned her steed around and rode off like a common boy, anywhere and everywhere. Just away.

When she finally trotted back to the stables, working up the courage to face what must surely end in punishment, no one was waiting for her.

No fussing servents.

No scolding mother.

And most certainly, no father, for he wasn't even home. His duties at the courts called him away once more. Many times more after that.

Rosalia might as well not have come back that night either, for no one even noticed. No one even cared.

It was so silent.

Suddenly I am feeling very tired. Looking straight at this face that never turned back to look at me, I can't bring myself to feel much. Not angry, or out for revenge, not even annoyed. I'm just very...tired. Like a worn down pony, spent after days of nonstop riding and trained tricks. Tired and aching.

"Rosali are you still feeling the effects of the poison? Illness?" Father comes even closer than he already, far past the acceptable limits.

*smack*

I have to stop it with a cus.h.i.+on, though my hit to his face is weak. I'm too tired and I don't want this face any closer. I don't want anyone any closer.

"I'm fin-" I start, my mouth automatic.

It's my own words that jolt me out of the fog that suddenly overcomes me. Those words sounded so tragically hateful coming from another child's mouth. 'I'm fine.'

I think about that woman I'm not anymore, crying 'I'm fine' to anyone willing to listen. As if they could make her believe it herself. I think about the ones who wouldn't. Who would gently drag her kicking and screaming with the truth that she wasn't? I don't want to think about them, him, but I do.

I think about a too small boy that lies even when he's not saying anything. The convincingly empty "I'm fine" served with an ever-present soft smile.

I think about how I hate it.

"Rosalia? Does it hurt anywhere? Feel uncomfortable? Do I need to take you back?" fl.u.s.ters father, getting increasingly nervous. His expressionless face the very opposite with the worry and nerves he's showing.

"....no."

"Are you feeling alright my Rosalia?"

"....no."

"Do you want to go back to the sickbay? I can call for G"

"No."

"How about some sleep then? It's still quite earlier than you're used to."

I can feel myself making a slow nod to father's suggestion. If I go to sleep, if I don't think, don't remember anymore, then will the tired draining feeling in my chest go away? WIll it stop beating like mad when anyone is ever nice to me?

"What else can I get for you Rosa?"

This man is simultaneously not my father, he is but he's not the one from those memories. Not exactly. I don't know where I'm going with this or where it's going wrong.

"Nothing," I squeak out, willing myself not to lie, not to myself. Not like that. I will myself to stop trying and the words float out like a line of smoke from the flames. Smooth and unbreaking, even as it disappears.

"Nothing, don't go anywhere to get anything. You don't have to get me anything... "

"There's nothing you want Chip? Just some sleep? Not even a new toy?"

"...Stay."

"A stay?"

"Stay with me when I sleep. Be there when I wake up. Don't go anywhere too far. Don't leave me behind anymore. Don't leave."

Don't leave. Don't die.

Not again.

I'm sleepy. It's because I'm small and so sleepy that my eyes get teary again. I have to rub and wipe them on my father's s.h.i.+rt when he near crushes me into his chest with a sudden embrace. The cloak is gone but I grip and burrow into him just the same as before.

I don't want to think anymore, it's too early for this. Let's talk more later about something more interesting than this.

If there's no bed here then this is fine, just let me sleep here. It's not the smartest place to nap, I know, not the smartest place to be. Right now though, I'm small enough. Without having to do anything further I'm tucked in somewhere between what feels like a soft wool coat and body heat. A slightly too loud out of tune metronome beats against my ear. Better than silence. It beats, first too fast and before slowing down, somehow matching my own. I'm lulled back to sleep by that strange steading sound, a heartbeat metronome.

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