Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

21. Mir

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Yara's words echo in my head as I search the dresser in my room for something to bandage my hand with. Did you start trusting me?

No. Yes? I wish I could know the answer to that, but I don't. She wouldn't reveal her whole story to me, but mine is not a fairytale to tell either.

I also wish I could say I feel nothing, but I can't.

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Six years ago

Panic consumed me, tightening its leaden chain around my neck. I felt like drowning, suffocating. Dying. So many feelings, that's not normal, they say. That's not normal when you lose control over your emotions, and all you want is to hide.

You act selfish, Mir.

Not good enough. Never good enough.

It had happened before, but today it was worse. I was alone in the penthouse, my family had gone to dinner at mayor Lishan's mansion, and I had a math test to prepare for and a speech for the school president's campaign to write. Besides, I wasn't really welcome at Lishan's after Adélard and I had beaten the shit out of each other.

Today it was worse because I was failing everywhere. Because my heart thundered in my chest as though ready to quit. Because I wasn't the best in my father's eyes. I was worthless. And I was scared.

What's wrong with me? My legs were restlessly carrying me around my room, back and forth, back and forth. My body ached, begging for sleep, but my mind couldn't sleep. My fear refused to let me sleep.

Don't cry, Father's voice rasped in my memory.

Don't complain.

Don't ask for help, and never show any weaknesses.

I hated it. The pile of textbooks on my desk, the painting of a tiger in a golden frame my stepmother hung on my wall, the people who expect me to be my father. None of that was me.

Only two things in my world could calm me down. One of them was a lamp beside my bed--its shade lost its turquoise color years ago, its silvery pattern along the body tarnished, and its plug was broken so if you weren't careful with the cord, an electric shock could bite your fingers.

It was my mother's lamp. The only thing of hers my father had kept in the house. I would always remember how he used to come to my room when I was younger, sit by my side as I pretended to be asleep, stare at this lamp. I'd never had the courage to ask him about Mom, and he'd never talked. I would always remember that Father's face used to cloud over at those moments, his brow furrowing, his mouth thinning. He would look at me as if wondering whether it had all been worth it. Then he would turn the lamp off and leave.

I didn't know what I, myself, saw in that lamp. The possibility of how different my life would have been if Mother hadn't died giving birth to me? The proof that nothing could ever be different? Hope? Lost hope?

Some stories should stay untold, my grandpa used to say.

Yet, the lamp didn't help my nerves tonight.

I stopped in front of the painting, my breath stuck in my lungs, and stared at the tiger in the frame, the predator waiting for its prey under a bamboo tree. It looked ridiculous, out of place in my room, next to my mother's lamp. And what if I could never be good enough? What if the thought my father had silently been dwelling on was right? Mother died for me, but I do not deserve her sacrifice.