Damian’s POV
“I am too weak to protect anybody.”
—Damian Stark
I sit on the couch, the TV buzzing in front of . My sister, beside , scolds as always, her foot driving into my ribs. She grins when I grunt, then snatches the remote and flicks through channels. Until, after a dozen clicks, she stops.
A puppet show. Two strange figures, shouting at each other.
While she smiles, my father’s eyes are of stone. A fishing docuntary, as always, is playing on his phone. My mother, however, sits in her chair, crocheting socks for Mia, her hands creeping.
My sister bursts out laughing at a potato-shaped puppet that has been smashed into pieces. Her laughter is contagious. It pulls at , even as my shoulders sag, my whole body sinking deeper into the couch.
Everything feels heavy, strange. My fingers numb, my movents slow, as though through water. Still, I laugh with her. I would never laugh at such a stupid joke. Still, I do.
My vision blurs from it. Then it changes entirely.
The mashed puppet looks up. Its mouth twists. “Why didn’t you save us?”
The voice cracks, my palms starting to sweat.
“Why didn’t you?”
The room drops into black.
My breath catches—the TV flickers. The light spills, then is gone, returning in harsh flashes every few seconds. Each flare is too bright, too short.—My heart races. I reach to my right, to cling to my sister, to protect her—or maybe for her to protect —but my hand closes on air.
She’s gone. Darkness. Then light.
The couch is empty.
I whip my head left, then right. No one. The light bursts again, and my parents are gone.
Eyes stare at . A figure stands on the television. Faceless. Eyes are blacker than any pit. Its grin stretches wide, skin pale as snow, sared with blood. No puppets remain, no voices—just it. Watching.
Dark. Light.
Closer now. Its face fills the screen, gums wet, no teeth. Strings of flesh dangle from its mouth. My pulse pounds inside my ears.
Silence.
The television dies completely. No flicker. No light. The room swallowed whole, and only the hamring of my heart remains.
A whisper drifts across , cold as wind against my skin. “Why?”
I turn right. My chest seizes. “WHY!” The scream breaks.
My scream cos short.
The television explodes with light. My sister stands before . Her eyes are gone, blood running from her mouth, dripping onto her chin.
A hand clamps onto my arm. I twist—
“WHY DIDN’T YOU SAVE US!”
My mother’s voice. Sweet, gentle once. Now shredded into hatred. Her body is scarred, twisted, bent in ways no body should be. Her scream bursts in my head, louder than anything my own throat could ever make.
The light vanishes.
“Why?” A whisper now. Almost kind.
But sothing drips onto —one drop, then another. Nose, cheeks, hands. It soaks into my skin, but the television flares once more.
My father hangs above . His body glued to the ceiling, his scarred chin dripping crimson. His spine dangles loose, flesh torn. His head droops toward .
“Why?” The light dies, and only silence remains.
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