beta'd by the always lovely, Satiah~
This chapter belongs to Malik.
He's always been such an angry little boy.
With fire behind his lavender eyes, he comes out screaming. Kicking and scratching with tiny baby fists he enters the world. A murderous toothless smile and a short shock of sandy locks. He's born hating so much that Mother Dearest just can't take it.
When you come out killing, you can't stop.
So Malik is locked away in a quiet torture chamber. The skitterscatter of rats and the crackling of beetles and the humdrum of insanity are his only friends. He used to cry when he was small. Held up in his tomb of a room, he'd press his hands flat against his tan face and let the big fat hot drops slam against the floor like tiny bombs. Boom. Boom. Boom. The rage and spite are just too much sometimes; it's a lot to lock away in such a little body. So he lets it bubble over into slick slimy salty tears. Baby boy allows it to manifest itself into a physical form. (And this is where he starts to let things go wrong.)
Among the cries and wails, Big Brother sometimes lets himself in. Smooths Malik's pretty blonde hair (so much like his father's...) and gives him sweet solid words that almost look like reassurance. (But oh, oh, don't misunderstand. Rishid hates the boy just as much as everyone else. The thing stole his role as the Golden Son and the place he held in Daddy's heart. And, oh my, how Malik hates playing his part, and how willing his adoptive brother was to hold the lead.)
But all is fair in love and war, so the tiny tomb keeper hates you twice as much as you hate him. Even when Sister [offers him love and freedom, he can't help but hate her for it. Give him a taste of what he can never fully have, Isis—offer him the forbidden fruit.
(He'll even hate you just so he doesn't make the mistake of loving too much.)
When he gets too big for crying and his father gets too nasty for everything, his wrath must be contained in a new way. A bigger larger older body, yes, but he's got all of yesterday's rage and then some. Too old for tears, but never above his rage. So when he sits, cold and alone with nothing but the flicker flicker flick of dying flames, or when he crawls through the labyrinthine tomb with tunnels crisscrossing like veins, he always finds himself next to the same smooth sandy stone of the walls. Thud. Thud. Thud. Bruises blossom like the lavenders that color his eyes. In a few days they fade to black and then to nothing and he's back in those dark dank cold quiet rooms of his.
Long flowing robes and angry words keep anyone from looking too closely.
But then, after time, it isn't as though anyone would find a spot of oddness in marred blotches on the tan smooth skin. What's a few bruises on the arms among a hot knife in the back? And when Daddy cuts, he cuts hard and deep. A blade hotter than those flickering lamps burns brightly as it hisses and kisses and engraves itself into Malik's skin forever. And he screams, oh how he screams! Louder than he's ever done before, even more so than when he cried and cried and cried as a sweet baby boy. He doesn't want this, not in the slightest. His eyes are so wide and so shiny they'd reflect the sun if they'd ever seen it and he screams until his lungs give out. Never wanted this, he did. Brother was willing to take his place, be it out of love or spite, but Father said no. Never. The bloodline had to stay pure as gold.
He can't hold it in any longer. The wounds and the tears and the screams. His wrath smiles and the grin splits itself in two.
(Malik's never seen his darker half, but at night-in that coldquiet room-he can hear the monster laugh.)
He's always been small, but he's never been weak. The shadow is still there, always there, but it haunts only him. He will not let it free; though it poisons him as well as it can it will not infect those of others. The hearts of those he hates.
It's a crisp sunny day when he first sees it. The day, that is. Bright and sparkling and new as the Sun God sits on his mighty throne and watches Malik and his sister race through the crowded markets. People are interesting people, the boy muses, filing up and down the streets and skirting around the vendors. He's almost happy for once.
Running back faster than they can breathe they slip into the dark hole. Always reluctant to go, he crawls into his torture chamber with a frown in his smile and anger in his chest.
Father is curled over Brother, his face is crimson with spite, and Malik washes away with fear. Crack, crack, crack, goes the whip. Bangs against Rishid's tan flesh like bolts of lightning.
And Malik's sick little head goes crack, crack, crack.
With a flurry and a flash there's a knife in the little boy's hands. He grips the life out of it, his tiny veins bulging. He slashes and scrapes and smiles. Eyes poisonous, he stabs. Deeper and deeper he thrusts the knife. Laughing while he does it, the poor little thing. He's got his family around him and blood's everywhere and his lips can't shut and the shadow just laughs. Bathes in the blood and carves out the skin. He and Daddy got matching scars, and he peels off his father's back and hands it to Rishid. You've always wanted to be part of the family…
He can hear his darker half laughing all the time now. It's never gone away.
