Twisted

He says that together they twisted him. 

Made him the monster he’s become.

But you can’t become something that wasn’t inside you all along.

A tear drops to the sketchbook on my lap, the blob smearing the lead. I wipe it away with the tip of my finger and watch the stain spread to the edge of the page. 

I can’t seem to stop drawing that night. 

The night when the Scafoni brothers stalked into our home and we were made to wear those rotting, disgusting sheaths and forced to stand on those ancient blocks as Sebastian Scafoni, first-born son, looked us over like we were cattle. 

I can’t stop drawing the look on his face when he saw Helena. 

Even if she wasn’t bound like she was, she’d have stood out.

She always thought herself the ugly duckling but she’s the most beautiful of all. She’s special. Always was. Different from us. And so much stronger.

I swipe the back of my hand across my nose and listen to the sound of tears drop fat and heavy onto the page and this time when I lay my hand on the sketch, it’s to smear the wet across like maybe I can wipe away that night. Rub it off the page. Erase it out of history like it never happened. 

“Oh, now look what you’ve done,” he says. His voice is deep and low, and I swear I can feel it as much as hear it.

He takes my hand with his gloved one and pulls it away. 

“Ruined it.”

I look at him. I finally make myself look at him. 

“I hate you.”

He grins. Shrugs a shoulder, his grip growing infinitesimally harder. 

I glance at my palm—it’s black from the pencil—and look down at the page in front of me.

He’s right. It’s ruined. 

But it doesn’t matter. I have dozens like it. 

Hundreds.

Thousands.

I can’t stop drawing that night. 

Can’t stop it from happening. 

Can’t stop the Scafoni brothers from walking into our lives, upending everything. Coming into our home like kings, like they owned the place. 

Although, I guess they did. 

They owned everything. Our house. Our land. Our parents. 

My sister. 

Me.

I force myself to meet Gregory Scafoni’s dark eyes with their strange turquoise specks and wonder how I’d ever thought he was an angel. 

My angel.

My savior. 

When all he is, is the devil.