—I hate you... you should never have been born —spat the man in front of me.
The smell of burnt metal clawed at my throat. The car, overturned on the sidewalk, looked like a crushed can. Dense, hot smoke poured from the broken engine... like the last breath of something that didn't want to die.
His torso protruded from the twisted metal. The rest... a mass of open flesh, broken bones, and thick blood sliding down the contorted metal.
—Because of you I lost everything... Everything! —he muttered with a broken voice, without averting his gaze—. If you hadn't been born, my life would be good... Good!
His words hung in the smoke, fading just like him.
I just looked at him.
My chest burned. My throat, closed. My fists, rigid.
It wasn't anger. It was pity.
Something inside me broke. Something important.
Not because of his words...
But because he said them to my little sister.
She wasn't crying. I don't know if she didn't understand... or if her soul had already gone silent.
I took her hand. It was still warm.
And, in an act that felt immoral, we took a step back. Together, turning our backs on the man I once called father.
---
And six years later, we were still running away. But this time, I was the only one running.
In a city called Timoria, where buildings caressed the sky with vertical grace and modernity whispered at every corner with a voice of glass and breeze.
I lay asleep in a small apartment, at the top of a building, oblivious to the world and the day that awaited me.
In a room frozen in the whisper of silence, where the only heartbeat was the broken sway of my breathing, the world pretended to stop...
My pink hair rested on the pillow like the warm trail of a dream without thorns. Calm embraced me with fine, almost nonexistent hands... Like those mornings one would want to lock in a sigh to never let go.
Until a fist tore through the silence like a dissonant note that broke the calm.
Quick knocks shook the door, urgent, as if trying to tear me from a peace that didn't belong to me.
—Marl! Marl, wake up quickly! Mom and Dad are coming today! —squealed the high-pitched voice of my younger sister, overflowing with an enthusiasm so bright that, at times, it hurt more than silence.
The creak of the hinges announced her entry and, with it, light claimed its right to enter my room. The morning rays slipped through the open door, brushing my face with a foreign warmth that irritated my still drowsy gaze.
I sat up with the heaviness of a body that doesn't want to leave its refuge, tied to the bed by the invisible gravity of fatigue.
I ran my hand over my face, rubbing my eyelids, and without warning let out a yawn that dissolved in the air, failing to detach me from sleep.
In front of me, Rinn stood. Her pink hair waved with the timid breeze that slipped through the open door, and her smile —bright, impatient— seemed to push the sun, trying to steal hours from dawn.
—Oh... yes, today you turn seven —I muttered, stretching slowly, trying to awaken the muscles that protested the interruption—. Have you been waiting for it?
—Yes! I want to finally meet my parents!
Her words didn't just fill the air...
She, unwittingly, threw a stone against the ice. And the cold layer that enveloped me cracked.
Something new tensed my face.
It wasn't anger, nor sadness. Just that contained gesture... as if the words wanted to come out, but knew they would hurt.
My gaze fell to the floor.
—Brother...?
Without thinking, I let out a trembling smile, like a whisper that doubted whether it should exist.
I slid my fingers through her silky hair. Fine, warm...
Still so small... and yet, in her eyes, the brightness that used to dance without fear began to fade, like a candle losing oxygen.
—Don't worry... I know they wouldn't miss it... not today —I murmured, trying to give her some calm, though my voice trembled more than I expected.
The silence that followed was no consolation, but a thick pause, suspended in the air.
I left behind the warmth of her hair and, with a slight sigh, got up, sliding out of bed.
—I'm going to take a shower. I'll be back soon.
—Okay... but don't take long —she murmured, just before the door closed between us.
In the bathroom, I turned the hot water key. The stream fell tremulously on the ceramic, as if the faucet hesitated to awaken the day.
I stood still.
Without warning, my legs betrayed me. It wasn't fatigue; it was that invisible weight that settles inside, without making noise or asking permission.
I fell to the cold floor. And the world continued without me.
I covered my face with one hand.
The weight of my decisions crushed my chest, a wall cracked from within, an echo that no longer finds response.
—This year... How will I lie to her? —I whispered.
And the water, constant in its fall, couldn't console the crack that opened in my voice.
My legs went numb as they touched the floor, adapting to the fall... as if, deep down, that place offered me more comfort than standing.
For an instant, giving up seemed easier. But... not today.
With my fists, I hit my legs so hard that I could feel them again. And with that I forced my body to stand up.
Every muscle protested, as if the body —accomplice of the soul— begged to stay still... hostage to comfort and emptiness.
I held myself in front of the old mirror. The opaque surface returned a silhouette I barely recognized. It imitated me, yes... but that gaze wasn't mine.
There was judgment. There was rejection.
Was it me?
No.
The reflected image was just a version foreign to me.
But... why does it look at me like that?
My eyes tensed before I clenched my fists. Something rose up my throat, about to come out... by reflex, not by decision.
I forced a smile. The same one I used to pretend everything was fine.
—It's just... one more day —I told myself. But the hot water vapor fogged the mirror, hiding my face... and with it, my failed attempt.
A sigh escaped my lips, more broken whisper than relief.
I stood in front of the clouded glass, seeking comfort in that distorted image. I tried, again, that automatic smile. But my face had no strength. No form.
"First believe in your words..."
—They're very busy... you know, adult stuff — That sounds really bad.
—The plane broke down... again — Shit. I already used that one.
I surrendered over the sink, as if each attempt stole the air.
I inhaled deeply, clinging to the edge as if, truly, I could hold myself with just that. Every muscle in my neck tensed, as if that could retain the lie... or at least, the form.
I raised my gaze, as the last breath escaped from my lung.
—Rinn... they're not here, but I am.
The smile hurt. Hollow, like a poorly closed wound.
—I'm an idiot... why would I tell her that?
Doubt devoured me. The reflection distorted by the vapor was no longer a face: it was a mask. One that had to be held up, even if it cracked inside.
Because I couldn't fail her. Not her. Not again.
—What the hell do I make up now...?
Maybe... if I bring her a cake.
I exhaled one last regret. And entered the shower without saying another damn word.
I closed my eyes. The steam filled the space, diluting the reflection I refused to see.
I left the bathroom still soaking wet. And upon reaching my room, a surprise stopped me.
Rinn was on my bed, reading that same story: The Legend of God's Champion.
—Marl —she said without looking up—. Did you know that in the prophecies they talk about someone like us?
I stopped dead in my tracks.
—What?
—It says here... —she ran her finger over the discolored lines—: "That champion with pink hair..."
A chill ran down my spine. For an instant, the words seemed to glow on the page, as if coming to life.
—It's just a story, Rinn. There are many people with pink hair.
—Maybe —she said, closing the book gently—. But it would be great, wouldn't it? To be chosen for something important...