Threat
"If you ever tell about us," Wendell had warned Francis, from the very first day he was ever let out of the box, and as a continual reminder over the years that followed, "about what we are, or how we have to live…I'll fucking kill you, Franny. I don't care what Mom or Dad say, I'll do it without a single regret. And I'll make you really fucking sorry that it won't come sooner than I'll let it."
He had held Francis by the back of his neck, his already callused hand rough against Francis's sensitive skin. He was only thirteen, to Francis's nine, but he was already growing tall and broad like a man, his feet sticking out awkwardly large in proportion to the rest of him. And looking at him then, at thirteen, looking at him now, six years later, Francis had had no doubt that he meant every word of what he said. Wendell's blue eyes were narrowed with intent sincerity, his mouth thinned into a grim line, and his gaze bore into Francis so hard that Francis cringed, almost feeling his fists already hammering into his skin even as Wendell kept only one hand very lightly on his skin.
It would not be beneath Wendell, even at nineteen, to beat him until he couldn't move, until he choked on the blood that was so important and central to them all. And it certainly wouldn't be a first for Wendell to kill someone purely because he was angry with them, in this case, purely for revenge; Wendell might in fact see it as a dutiful killing, an honoring and protection of family name, from a family who ironically had no permanent name at all.
Darlene had been slightly less direct about her thoughts. Often she would sidle up to Francis, slipping her arm around his shoulders, and lean her head against him in a manner that anyone casually watching would simply think her sweet, a gentle showing off affection from an older sister to her younger brother. Even as she embraced him, she would turn her head to whisper into his ear with deliberate pronunciation, "If you ever tell about us, Francis…I'll do worse than Wendell thinks possible. He might want to kill you….but me? I'll let you live. I'll just make sure that every second you draw breath, every second your heart still struggles to beat on, you'll be really, REALLY sorry for it…I'll make you beg me to let you die. And then, I'll tell you no."
He had not doubted either of them, though their threats were contradictory in nature; he could only assume that if he ever told, if he ever breathed a word to betray the family's secret, then the twins would somehow decide between them which would get to enact their will upon him. He didn't know which he would hope to win out; it took all his efforts to try to ensure that neither would have the chance to do so.
But although the twins' words scared him, it was David's admonishment, said in an unusually soft and serious tone that lacked the urgency and near manic undertone it usually carried, that really dug beneath his skin. In the end, it was David's warning that made him keep his urge to speak deeply suppressed.
"Francis, if you ever talk about us…if you ever tell anyone," he had started, looking him straight in the eye, one hand on his shoulder in a manner as though he were not just an older brother, but a father, speaking to him on a man to man basis rather than as a command. Speaking to him as if he believed he had the maturity to understand. "If you ever tell anyone the truth about us, they will arrest us all. They will split us all up into different prisons, and they'll put us on trial, and we'll be apart from each other the rest of our lives. They'll give us the death penalty if we're lucky, and it won't matter, because we will die. They won't give us the blood we need, and we will starve to death. We will have slow, painful deaths separated from each other, with no one with us or caring what happens to us when we finally die. No one will understand or take care of Lenny, and then he'll die too, or someone will kill him when he can't control himself from killing others."
He had paused, letting this sink in, and then really hit him with the clincher of it all. "If you tell, then you'll destroy everything Mom and Dad worked so hard to set up for us, everything they did to keep us safe. They will have died for no reason at all, and you will be shaming them in their memory. You'll be betraying us, Francis, but even more you'll be betraying them."
There was no way, after that, that Francis could ever tell. It was bad enough to destroy his brothers, his sister, to destroy himself…but to spit in the face of his parents, to make certain that they would never have reason to be proud of him? Francis might be a coward, but he was not a traitor. He could not spit on his parents' memory in desperate hopes to ease his flickering conscience. Not even in hopes of bringing himself some semblance of normality; not even to attempt some small shattered shreds of emotional peace.