Falter
Francis had thought of leaving his siblings, after his parents' death. When the reality of their lives and how it would have to be now began to settle in, and the patterns began to settle in place, he had known that he could hardly stand to live with himself and the secrets he was keeping, to live with them and the knowledge of what they had done, of what they were doing still. How could he bare to continue to look the other way, to close his eyes and his heart…how could he live with his siblings, when he knew what they were doing with pleasure and relish, even if it was in order to survive?
How could he live with his family when they were all murderers, when they all continually told him that one day, he would become exactly like them?
It had seemed different, somehow, before his parents. His parents had taken care of all the killings, and though they had taught David how to preserve the blood, had expected and been prepared for the days when he and the twins made their first kill, it had not been necessary for them to do so if they did not wish, and none of them had never gone without. Francis had never lacked what he needed, and yet he had never been forced to be confronted with the reality of how he came to get it. He had never had to watch someone die, never had to connect a person's face with the blood he drank to survive.
But with their deaths, all of this went out the window. Although David and Wendell still took care of most of the preserving, they needed and expected Francis to help now, and he knew exactly where and how they went about it, often saw their victims still living, could hear their screams constantly ringing inside his head. The twins brought home victims regularly, despite David's protests, and more times than he could remember Francis had seen blood soaking their sheets or carpet, staining the tile floors or the ceramic of their bathroom. He couldn't forget, no matter how badly he might want to, who it was he was living with, what it was they did, and what that made him in return.
Almost every day, cautiously at first, then with more fervor and longing, Francis thought about leaving them, about striking it out on his own. He thought about what life would be like apart from David and his checking up on him, from the twins and their cruelties, their open passion for each other out for any to see, whether or not they wanted to. He thought about how it must feel to be able to walk into a basement without cringing and wanting to close his eyes, how it must be to walk into a house and know that no bodies awaited him around the corner, that no one would hit him or yell at him or belittle him, that no one would disapprove or sneer at who he was. He tried to imagine a life where no one expected him to become a monster, and he ached for it so badly that it physically hurt.
But then he imagined what it would be like, to be hungry with no way to get food- no way but through getting it himself. He imagined what it would be like to go through each day fully alone, unable to speak to anyone, without anyone who was anything like him nearby. He thought of not seeing his siblings, of not hearing their familiar voices every day, and this thought was every bit as painful, caused every bit as much of a needful ache, as the last.
In the end, he couldn't do it. If it hurt Francis to live with them, it would hurt to live without them too, and when it came down to it he wasn't sure he could survive.
