Darkling

Chapter Eight: Hell, it's him!

Content/trigger warnings: Death, Violence, Child abuse, Suicidal ideation, PTSD, Emotional abuse, Trauma, Murder

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Satara sat on the porch. Its wooden edge dug into the back of her knees and the shadow of her feet skimmed the ground beneath her as she swung them back and forth. She pretended she wasn't paying attention to the main gates. Pale pink petals landed on her hand and stuck to her black kimono, obscuring white tiger design sewn up its length. She flicked them off with an irritated wrinkle of her nose.

They were having kung pao chicken for dinner. Its heavy sweet and sourness mixed with the soft fragrance of the cherry blossom trees dotted across the walls around their home. Somewhere beyond them, Brother An was playing his bamboo flute. A tune woven from the blue of the sky above, the sigh of the breeze, every individual scent of spring, and the impassioned swell of his own thoughts. She breathed in until her lungs complained and kept her eyes open though they wanted to drift shut in pleasure. I don't want to eat by myself again.

Her father tried to keep mealtimes calm and relaxing, speaking in between each dish to share stories about the other Tribe members. He asked what they thought about new and potential laws, whatever those were, and told them news about somewhere called the East and new discoveries that had been made there without revealing too much. Mother didn't like it when he spoke about that place. Is that why she's always angry with –

"Were you waiting for me, little one?" asked Saytarnia.

Satara jumped and would have slipped off the porch if her sister hadn't caught her upper arm from behind. Her soft chuckle melded with Brother An's music.

"Tarya!" She scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around her older sister. "'Scared me!"

"I never mean to." Saytarnia hugged her, hiding her from the rest of the world with the wide sleeves of her kimono. Beneath the dark fabric, Satara cringed at the underlying scent that always accompanied her sister these days. It reminded her of knives in the kitchen and one of the harsh herbal soaps in their bathroom. "I'm sorry."

"Gate?" She pointed at the unopened barrier.

"Just because a gate is there, it doesn't mean every one will use it." Saytarnia gently eased herself from her hold and grasped her hand instead. A knowing shadow fell across her expression.

"Why?" Satara tilted her head as they followed the path of the porch around the house. The smell of the kung pao chicken strengthened and called out to her stomach like a loud voice.

"Maybe because that's what other people expect them to do." Her sister's hair had been half tied up into a knot at the back of her head and the rest fell down to the end of her shoulder blades. A dishevelled ebony curtain fluttering in the breeze.

"Yes. Some people seem to take issue with doing what is expected of them," said their mother from the side of their chabudai table.

She nodded at the the cook, who set a steaming pot down in the middle of the table, and her sharp eyes returned to them both. Saytarnia stopped just before the threshold as if awaiting permission to enter her own home.

"Such as returning home in time for our evening meal." Their mother smiled, each word a blunted barb, and gestured towards the table. "Sit down before everything goes cold."

Their father smiled at them from the furthest side of the table and nodded. Satara grabbed Saytarnia by the wrist and tried to pull her into the room.

"Come, Tarya! Food!" She laughed and waved a hand at the feast laid out for them.