Metamorphosis
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The house is deathly silent. Mommy is gone, Claus is gone, and Daddy is in the mountains searching for his lost son, the son that matters the most even when he's been missing for nearly a month now.
Your sobs would always be amplified by the lack of other sounds, but you find that today is different; you can't find it in you to cry. Instead, you wander the house aimlessly, trying to avoid the places that bring upon you the haunting memories but end up drawn to them anyway. Open a drawer, find the comb Mommy used to brush your messy blonde hair so lovingly with. Glance at the door, notice the lone blue shoe sitting next to your pair of red ones. Sit at the table, remember the last meal you ever ate with four family members.
And then the voices. You hear the soothing tone of Mommy's reassurances when you come running to her with a cut on your knee. Claus' arrogant yet inspiring speech patterns echo in your mind all too clearly. They're addressing you, then each other, then themselves, and suddenly they're gone just as quickly as they'd come, Mommy's screams and Claus' promises alway replaying over and over in your ear drums. And you wonder; why did they leave you?
Movements empty, you go to look at yourself in the mirror propped against the wall on the table and for a startling moment, you see Claus staring back at you, expression hallow and blank. But then you realize it's only yourself, and you're disappointed.
After a long moment of simply staring at yourself in the mirror (and enduring the memory of Mommy's gentle grooming yet again), something dawns on you. There is a way to get Claus back. You suddenly feel stupid; why haven't you thought of this before?
Walking over to the dresser, you gingerly slide open the drawer Daddy told you not to touch under any circumstances and pull out an all too familiar teal and yellow-striped shirt. Quickly shedding your own red and yellow version, you hastily pull it on your person. Then you shiver; you feel braver, older, more important already.
Back in front of the mirror, you can still clearly see it's only you, but you have a solution for this problem. Opening the drawer and taking Mommy's comb into your petite fingers, you begin to brush your rebellious locks down over your face, your ears, your exposed neck. Slowly but surely, your appearance changes. A few hairs stick up in the back thanks to your urging, and suddenly you're almost there, a near spitting image of your twin.
But there's still something amiss; your hair color is off, blatantly so. For a moment you're thinking about how you can possibly change the color of your hair with what you have at your disposal before your eyes wander down to your wrists. The veins there are easily visible through your porcelain skin, and with that observation you know exactly what you're going to do.
You're grabbing a serrated knife from the kitchen drawer before you become completely aware of it, figuring it would be the easiest to use. Making your way to the mirror once again, the knife is positioned at once, and you find you're not scared; you're excited, so excited to have your brother within your reach.
His smiling face clouding your thoughts, you drag the blade across your smooth skin, the harsh metal tearing through it with sickening ease. There is an intense spike of pain, but you're too engrossed in the red liquid seeping through the gash to notice. Eagerly you reach up to wipe your wound on your hair, and when you bring it away you're delighted to find that it dyes your hair a familiar red color near perfectly. You rub again and again, but it's not enough; you're not bleeding fast enough. It's taking too long.
With your left hand now wielding the knife, you slice your right wrist just as deeply, watching on with approval as more of your makeshift dye blossoms forth. Allowing the bloodied utensil to clatter down on the table, you resume painting with the brilliant color, a grin creeping its way onto your face as more and more of your hair is consumed by your own blood, like a sacrifice to your noble cause. You begin to feel faint, but it doesn't matter; you're so close, so close to Clausdom it hurts and Daddy will be so happy to see his son again and everything will be as it should be and and and—
Your bloody arms fall limp at your sides.
. . .
You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a brief moment you see Lucas, expression crazed and happy. But then you realize it's only yourself, and you're relieved.
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