Flames of Envy - Flannery's Tale
I'm glad Flannery is gone.
When you see a diseased or disfigured animal, do you prolong its suffering? No - you put it out of its misery, and I'm glad I did the same for Flannery. It's better for her, and it's better for the family that she's no longer among us.
They say every family has its black mareep - a deviant who brings shame to the bloodline. That was our Flannery: the one nobody wanted, the one who couldn't do anything right. Since the day of the ritual she marked herself for a life of shame and ridicule.
I should explain: when children of the Dragonmoore clan come of training age we are never given starter pokemon. We are not helpless commoners and we need no such charity. My kin and I, it is our duty to find and tame our own pokemon, deep in the darkness of Blackthorn's dragon den. It is a rite of passage to prove that we are worthy of the royal blood within our veins; worthy of continuing the dynasty that drove the Fae from Kanto and brought order to this Arceus-forsaken region; worthy of the glamour that binds dragons to our will and maintains our family's authority.
Lance, of course, was the first to emerge from the trial, head held high and obediently followed by his new dratini. Clair exited some hours after, grimy with mud and lashed with cuts but walking tall and proud like a proper Dragonmoore. A newfound horsea was cradled in her arms.
The family waited with bated breath for the final cousin to emerge. What magnificent beast would Flannery tame, they wondered? A hot-headed bagon, young and impatient to become lord of the skies? A ravenous gible, hungry for the taste of battle? Oh, how they deluded themselves - convinced that blood alone could make a champion. If only they could have seen the real Flannery at that moment. The girl I had spied in that cave was a sobbing, sniveling embarrassment to the family - howling like a coward about how she "w-w-wanted to go home" as though being thrown into the black pit were some punishment rather than an opportunity for glory.
It was near midnight when a cry went out from Grandmama: a light was shining from the cavern mouth! The grown-ups rushed to the entrance and there was Flannery - shivering and exhausted, her clothes torn to rags, and yet beaming with pride over the dragon she tamed. Flannery squeezed her partner's paw and introduced "Ignius" to the family - a lizard with fiery scales matching the orange of her hair, and a column of flame crackling from its tail.
The family's reaction was like a great engine catching on its gears - applauding hands froze in midair; grinning jaws dropped stupidly - all their excitement screeching to a halt. Flannery looked to the horrified faces and her smile faltered. She'd been expecting jubilant cheers for her return; not these ghastly statues. Clair gasped, aunt Nora blanched; grandfather shook his head and turned away. It was up to Lance to clue in the stupid girl, and he was more than pleased to serve as interpreter.
"You big dummy, that's not a dragon pokemon! A charmander's a fire type!"
No one was quite sure what to do with Flannery. Oh, there were plenty of ideas - Grandmama raved and ranted about expelling the girl from the family; Aunt Nora, who'd adopted the child from her late sister, pleaded for compassion; Lance tugged at the grown-ups' pant legs and told anyone who'd listen that he and his fists could "fix" Flannery. In the end, they had to consult the elders and the runt passed on a technicality: the ancient scrolls never said anything about partnering with a dragon type specifically; (the monks from ages ago must have assumed that bit too obvious to put in writing). Flannery's glamor had activated, bonding her to the beast and its fiery ilk; she was a full-fledged Dragonmoore.
One by one the family turned away, shaking their heads or snorting with disgust. Only grandfather made his opinion known, starring down at the girl with the same icy glare he gave challengers who'd beaten his Elite Four and come for his throne.
"You are my granddaughter," he told the girl, "but you are not my heir."
The train ride home into the mountains was a long and confusing silence for Flannery. She had finished grandfather's horrible game, she had endured that miserable cave and found her own pokemon; why was everyone so mad at her?
"Is there something wrong with Ignius?" she asked her aunt.
"Of course not, sweetheart." Her guardian's reply was automatic; she couldn't crush her sister's child over a well-intentioned mistake. "But sweetheart, your grandfather really wanted you to bond with a dragon pokemon, that's all."
At that age, Flannery's conception of a dragon had been limited to 'it looks like a lizard'. "Ignius is a dragon," she insisted. In her mind the charmander was no simple partner, it was her savior. The little lizard was a guardian come to her rescue, summoned by her gentle sobs and sheltering her with the light and warmth of its tail. She didn't fully comprehend yet but she had also saved the charmander - an orphaned egg, most likely pilfered by a sneasel and misplaced in the cave. Both of them would have died in the darkness of the cavern, but together they emerged.
"Iggy is a good pokemon," Flannery insisted. I'm a good girl, is what she secretly thought. "And I'm gonna prove it to grandpa!"
Back home in the Silver Mountains, Flannery began her training. She and her charmander cut their teeth on the wildlife of the badlands, grew to trust and work as a team. When the time came to return to Blackthorn for grandfather's birthday, the girl and her charmeleon arrived ready to prove their mettle in battle.
"Seadra, water gun!"
"Dragonair, earthquake!"
While her cousins ate and laughed at the barbeque Flannery waited bedside at the pokemon center, squeezing Ignius' claw to sooth his wounded pride. She poured over her memories of the battles; how could she have lost so easily? Had she not trained with all her might? Had she not poured her soul into becoming the very best?
Her defeat that day planted a cruel discovery in Flannery's mind - a hideous thought she fought long and hard to uproot, but which always returned with its infestation: not all pokemon are great. Yes, all were unique, but not all were powerful. It could be a flaw of their body or of their typing, but something would always hold them back from the greatness of a dragon pokemon. Throughout the Kanto-Johto Alliance, none were stronger than the almighty dragons.
When she shuffled back to the celebration and found that cake had been served without her, it dawned just how low she had fallen from her family's esteem.
Not all Dragonmoores are great...
The three cousins had brought gifts and home-made cards for grandfather. Lance, who hadn't a creative bone in his entire body, was the apple of the old man's eye thanks to a crude stick figure card. Behind her bangs, Flannery considered her own gift - a canvas painting of grandfather and her soaring through the skies on their respective dragons. Lance couldn't even scribble within the lines and yet he'd been invited up on grandfather's lap to show off his amateur creation.
This wasn't fair. This had to be corrected.
"Grandpa, didja look at my painting?"
"Don't interrupt, child. Lance is telling us about his fencing lessons. Quite skilled with a rapier, aren't you, boy?"
Flannery had been painting since she'd been a year old and had scrawled a smiling sun over the living room wall. Aunt Nora always praised her sketches, her neighbours commissioned pictures; a gallery in Pewter city stocked her canvases for sale. Worthless, she realized. At that moment she decided that if she couldn't win by her natural talents she would have to borrow another's.
"I know fencing too, Grandpa!"
"Do you, now?" Flannery was too young to recognize the disdain in grandfather's voice and took his reply as encouragement.
"Uh huh! I'm the best there is at that dumb sport. I could totally beat up Lance, 'cept I didn't bring my sword 'n stuff here."
Grandfather hushed Lance's snickering. "I look forward to seeing your skills next year."
"Yeah, bring it on," Lance snorted.
She hated the sport; hated the smothering masks that tangled her hair, hated the way her instructor jabbed her with his rubber-tipped epee like a bully digging his finger into her skin; hated how he insisted she always slow down and practice the basics. Flannery had no time for basics. Lance had a year's start on her; if she didn't master the advanced techniques how would she ever beat him?
She would not find out next year. On the train ride home she locked herself in the bathroom compartment, sniffling over the scar slashed across her abdomen. Lance had claimed his tip had come off accidentally - the same way her fist had 'accidentally' lodged into his smug face - and, in truth, she didn't care about the scar. What truly stung was the memory of grandfather's palm across her cheek.
"Shameful beast. A Dragonmoore accepts defeat with honour."
Ignius nudged her with its snout. She nuzzled his head, grateful for its warmth. "It's not your fault, Iggy. I have to try harder next year."
Fencing, archery, swimming. Each year Flannery accepted a new challenge, cutting off another piece of herself and replacing it with Lance. Each year Flannery remained a counterfeit, a shadow incapable of matching the original's greatness. Each year she became more of a nuisance to her family, more of a blemish to be hidden up and ignored. Clair and Lance were being groomed for gym leaderships; there was even talk they might one day serve as grandfather's elites! All Flannery received were notices that the rangers were recruiting for a post on the Seafoam islands. Clair and Lance were mailed individual invitations to the annual family gatherings; Flannery's envelope was addressed to "Ms. Nora Dragonmoore and Guest."
A guest. A lowly, fire-training commoner allowed to attend out of the boundless pity of grandfather.
Flannery had to prove her greatness, had to show that she was deserving of her royal blood, but there was only one talent that would redeem her in grandfather's eyes.
"I need a dragon pokemon."
The ninetales that had won her a top seat in breeding pageants, the flock of magby she'd hand-raised, repopulating the species after the Cinnabar eruption; Ignius, now a flying inferno who'd saved Lance's dragonairs from a wild weavile - none of them were good enough for grandfather. She had to raise a dragon.
Flannery had tried catching her own. Dratini were common enough in the rivers of Blackthorn, and swablu migrated through the region every winter but the same rotten glamor that let her pet slugma without suffering burns served as a warning to wild dragons. They hissed at Flannery, nipped and pecked at her fingers, jerking away as though she smelled of sour milk. Flannery's very presence disgusted the dragons of the land. But surely a bred pokemon would have no such reservations? Surely an egg from a special nursery, a faraway region at that, a baby she could hatch, imprint upon, and nurture from birth would love her?
After so much pleading and bargaining, Aunt Nora relented. They contacted a professor from the Kalos region and arranged the transfer of a special goomy egg. The species wasn't much in the way of ferocity but their gentle nature would make the bonding process that much easier; foolproof, in fact.
Flannery covered all of the expenses herself, as agreed. She sold off the last of her magby to breeders, auctioned off her ninetales so the food money could go towards shipping costs. Even Ignius had to go; it broke her heart to send him away but Viridian's gym leader was a kind and caring man who would treat him well. She had no regrets.
Flannery took odd jobs to fill out the expenses. It was all she could do. She had tried painting again, to sell off her artwork, but found that all of her drawings came out clumsy and ugly. At first the change left Flannery stunned; this talent flowing like magic from her fingers had rotten from disuse. Then she smiled. By failing at painting she had peeled away one more wretched layer of her skin; torn off another trait grandfather ignored to make way for a true dragon master.
The joy she felt when the incubation pod arrived was unimaginable. She was giddy, light as an altaria among the clouds. Life was beginning anew! Flannery kept the egg warm in the hot springs, soaking her body until the temperatures left her dizzy. She hung red-tinted heat lamps over her bed and slept with the egg hugged to her chest. Dehydration? No matter; not so long as her energy and love could soak through the speckled shell, imprinting on the little life inside.
After five long days of fitful sleep the eggshell finally cracked and splintered, and a gelatinous purple pokemon squeezed itself out from its crèche. Flannery loved it immediately. "My baby!" Flannery held it up to her face, making sure that it would recognize her as its mother. The goomy blinked and took in its trainer for the first time.
The slug pokemon shrieked and sprayed its poison over Flannery's face."
The doctor finishes scribbling her notes. "So the reaction of the goomy hatchling - that was what prompted Flannery to take her life?"
"The rejection was too much for Flannery to accept. She threw away the newborn and ran to the kitchen to find something sharp. I was more than happy to assist her." I finish my story without flinching, without ever losing my smile. A commoner might have felt grief but I am a Dragonmoore and I feel no such weakness. Not for an aberration like Flannery.
The doctor chooses her words carefully, concerned I might become upset. "Losing Flannery must have affected you profoundly."
"Not really," I snort. "She was a weak, watery girl who couldn't do anything right. The family is better off without her. I am better off without her." Perhaps that sounds sociopathic, so I add, "We are grateful that your asylum has taken in Flannery. She finds it very comforting here."
"Is that so?"
"No," I confess. "Flannery spent her whole life trying to earn her family's love; she'd accept no substitute. Maybe one day she'll realize that some people just aren't good enough to be loved."
A tap at the door - the doctor's secretary informs her of an urgent phone call, and she excuses herself. I wave her off; the office is spacious enough and I don't need a babysitter. I do grow restless rather quickly, and find myself exploring the room and thumbing through the many shelves of books. One shelf contains a set of souvenirs: snow globes, small statues and a decorative hand mirror. I look in the mirror and my body is flooded with the same terror that baby goomy felt. That red hair, those miserable eyes, that detestable body! I jerk myself away, hand over my heart to keep it from bursting out my chest. Flannery was in that mirror! I steal another glance, and Flannery's shocked expression backs away from me.
What's wrong with me? I look exactly like Flannery! I check the jagged bolts screaming from my wrists. Hadn't I done enough to expel her? I have to fix this at once. Grandfather doesn't love Flannery; he loves ...
Lance! I tear through the doctor's drawers for scissors; there's only a letter opener but that will do. Flannery's hair falls around me like cinders from a fire, revealing my natural spiky cut. It's hacked to pieces and hideous but it's not Flannery. It's not Flannery. But when I check the reflective glass I see her still: in these eyes, these breasts, this skin coating my body like a loathsome tar.
It has to go.
I angle the blade towards Flannery's chest; steel myself for the blow, holding comfort in this small truth:
I'm not Flannery.