subThere was only one thing that still made Marik's voice rise in his throat. There was one thing – one PERSON – that still made tan lids flicker open, to show lavender eyes dulled with perspicacity, fringed with long, lavish blonde lashes. Because the boy found, that once so much had happened – after so many things had itched out those lilac eyes, after so many things had cleaved craters into his back, there wasn't much that held weight. Simply because, Marik imagined his ankles had grown too skinny for any chains to cling to them for long.
One name did Marik burn into his throat. One name did Marik allow himself to scream – to sob – to moan out. The only name that forced its way through his tan lips, that rode on acid.
The day the Ishtar twins graduated fifth grade was the day they realized just how much of nothing could be taken.
Honoring what their mother whimsically called a "step into adulthood" (and what their father deprecated was a waste of time) the dinner table was laden with their mother's most fancied china: a comely floral ceramic. Roses and lilacs entwined with emerald vines, wrapped around the edges of the cream plate. These were usually tucked away in a tall glass cabinet, saved until Thanksgiving and Christmas. To the twin's delight, soon upon those plates was their mutually favored dish of Shepherd's pie.
Their mother set the table with dainty fingers – every single digit glittering with gold bands and gems – Malik twirled his navy blue graduation cap (something their father muttered was "overkill" while their mother, Veronica, was busy with dinner) jauntily on his index finger. He boasted intrepidly of how well he had done: how he had strutted across the blue and yellow draped stage, navy graduation gown billowing in his wake; how grandly he smiled, to the stadium-sized sea of paparazzi parents and yowling infants bundled in pastel blankets. He smirked at the – slightly exaggerated – events.
Being the older twin (though only by thirty-two seconds, their mother perpetually reminded them), Malik was deeper-voiced already, despite their young ages. Malik was also thicker built, with arms and legs stronger than Marik's, a thin tone of muscle rippling just under his tan skin. The younger was just naturally more confident than the older; making Marik – who wasn't quite as much the opposite as much as less brazen – dim in comparison.
Finally, the table being polished and dinner still steaming in its black metal dish, their mother sat down herself, across from their father. She smiled proudly at her twins; so wide her lavender eyes crinkled at the almond-shaped edges. As Malik inhaled his food, and Marik picked at his, she plunged her fork into her own dinner – just as a loud bang echoed through their house.
First, it was their father who leaped, so abrupt his chair fell back to the tiled kitchen floor with a clatter. As another bang sounded, Marik could feel his heart fall into his stomach, as he pinpointed the sound in his subconscious. Malik's eyes narrowed; Marik could practically see the cogs turning, as his God-complex sprouted to his heroic "responsibilities" – Marik screamed as his twin sprinted toward their front room. To his horror, as his father's, it was obvious, Veronica shrieked herself, before bolting after her son.
Marik could feel his heart stop. Marik could practically feel their pain, as the two final shots were fired.
