When Souls Meet

chapter one

SKYE.

It was almost 2AM, and Minerva hadn't returned yet.

Unfortunately, this occurred more nights than not. It was practically a routine at this point — wake up, train, cry, eat, sleep. This was, of course, followed by me wishing my bed would swallow me whole. I'd gotten used to the feeling, but hey. Technicalities.

A thud followed by a small sob echoed against the walls, and I scrambled out of my bed. Minerva was back. She was in a heap at the doorway, her limp body illuminated just by the moonlight shining from the window. She was sprawled out on the ground with a pained expression on her face and bruises, both old and fresh, decorated her skin, but she was alive. She was alive, and that was all that mattered.

I helped her to her feet, using my free hand to close the door as quietly as I could. "What did he do this time?" I whispered, having gone through this experience before to know exactly the level of volume I should be using. Despite this, my eyes flickered to the door to make sure he wasn't coming. He wasn't. But I had no way of being sure unless I checked. I always did.

"Same as always," Minerva grumbled in response, wincing as she lifted her dress over her head. I tried to ignore the lump that formed in my throat as my eyes scanned the welts covering her back. He must have used the belt — nothing else could have caused wounds like that. Her voice then dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry, Skye, but... I'd really rather not talk about this right now. We'll talk in the morning."

I knew as well as she did that that was a blatant lie, but I nodded anyway. I understood how she was feeling. Embarrassment, shame, anger, sadness... I didn't blame her for not being in the mood to talk. "Good night, Minerva," I said quietly, slipping under the covers of my bed. She didn't respond.

As I lay in bed, constellations dancing in the sky, I felt like crying. Not because of what Father had done to Minerva, or because of what he'd done to me, but because there was no way out. We were practically doomed to stay here forever, never free from our father's clutches. He was our primary caretaker, our legal guardian. I was old enough to know what that meant — we were stuck. Trapped in our abusive, toxic father's home with no escape. And there was nothing we could do about it.

Just mere minutes later, Minerva's quiet snoring could be heard throughout the room. I was still wide awake. I wished there was something I could do for her, even if it was at my own expense. She didn't deserve any of this.

Sometimes, late at night, I would hear her cry. Not loud, emotional sobs, but quiet tears, trickling down her face as she tried to conceal her pain. I knew she was hurting. I wasn't stupid. I would do my best to help patch her up when she asked, making sure to be gentle when I cleaned her wounds, but other than that there wasn't much that I could do to help. And it made me furious.

Minerva was only three years older than I was, but in my nine year old brain, it felt like decades. She and I both had essentially been forced to mature much earlier than we should have, but due to our father practically having given up on me years ago and deciding to focus solely on Minerva's magical ability as opposed to mine, she had been through far more than I. Of course, that's not to say he's nice to me — he practically ignores me completely when it comes to training despite the fact that I am still required to participate in it — but I am definitely treated better than Minerva. There's no sugarcoating it. It's just a hard, stone-cold fact. One I wish I could change, of course, but it's true.

As I rolled over, the moonlight lit up my battered, worn-out suitcase that was peeking out from our closet. (It had been my mother's from before she died. Lord knows my father would never, in a million years, allow us to travel). It then came to me — an idea, something that had occurred to me before but had always seemed impossible — Minerva and I should run away.