Branches, Birches and Junipers/Chapter 4

"But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me."

- The Killers – Mr Brightside

Life at home was an endless pendulum, swinging between your mother and your brother. You were a fulcrum, balancing both ends with precision and care. The thing is, the ends tipped more than you like.

“It’s the 80s already,” you said to yourself at every opportunity when you’re holed up in your room, the only free moment you have. Hidden by towers of university textbooks, you sulked and griped about how a stepmother fighting for her stepson’s inheritance was the epitome of what you did not stand for.

Once Upon A Time and Once stopped meaning the same thing after a while. To you, Once is the start of a story, a new page, a fresh beginning and another chance to change things. You think of the phrase “Once there were…” and your heart skips with another step of hope. Once Upon A Time is heavy. Like a rock, you feel weighed down, drowning in past regrets.

You sighed, and pulled an Economics textbook off your mountainous pile.

Once Upon A Time, you had a mother who kissed you goodnight. Once Upon A Time, you looked at this mother and felt hope and love and joy. Once Upon A Time, your eyes were closed to the horror of your world.

That was until you saw the scratch-marks on your brother’s arms, the tears in his eyes, the burn of a slap on his cheek. That was until you realised that it was him who took all the hard labour, all the dangerous jobs. It was him that your mother sent outside to run errands all the time, while you got the chance to stay inside and study.

You knew he was breaking and you didn’t lift a finger.

Sure, you might have complained and elaborated on all the reasons why it was completely terrible for your brother. But you complained and elaborated to no one but yourself and your pile of Business textbooks.

You may have been a fulcrum, but you were not a good one.

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You know your mother. Well, you know you know your mother. More specifically, you think you know you know your mother.

You know that she was a rebel and did motorbike tricks and pranked the Headmaster’s office every year.

The only thing you know for certain is that she loves you.

That should have been comforting.

It’s not. Instead of comfort, unease rests in your heart. She loves you, she trusts you. You should be fighting for her, defending your place amongst the legacies of this world.

You’re not.

You might be an only child, but you also feel like the disappointment child.

In your uncle’s house, you remember a cross-stitch, the words “the Devil makes work for idle hands” embroidered. Your mother tried to tear it down once. You know by the visible scratch marks.

You think back to the coffeeshop.

If only you had someone, like a demon or an old god, to help you out, in the most civil of ways.

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As soon as you heard the thud! on the floor, your vision clouded with tears.

Through the blurriness, you make out the colour red and the silhouette of your mother hovering over you.

Hands covering your mouth, you looked up towards her.

“Marlene, you killed your own brother. How could you? Your own flesh and blood.”

No, you did, you wanted to say. ''You snapped off his neck and you’re tricking me. It’s all in the Storybook.''

“So I did,” you say instead.

Your heart and mouth might have been stretching out towards different poles, but you know that your lie was nested in your mind. You know you actually killed your brother. You saw him struggling and you never once cared for him.

When you gathered his body and threw him into a pot, “I’m sorry” were the words edging on your lips. When you sat at the dinner table, eyes averted, “I’m sorry” hung in your mind like restless flies. When you collected his bones and laid them in the soft dirt by the Juniper Tree, “I’m sorry” finally fell from your mouth.

You don’t want to be Marlinchen. But to protect your brother, you do.

If only if you had protected him earlier.

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“Mark Juniper, you are the worst,” you tell yourself, lying on your back in the floor of your dorm. The ceiling light hangs overhead, and you know you wouldn’t care if it suddenly exploded, sending shards across the room. In fact, you stopped caring about anything other than your own self-failures.

You dare call yourself Marlinchen? You’re not sweet or sensible enough. You burn too many things when you cook, you make a joke out of yourself. You can hardly protect yourself, much less your family.

What are you doing with this destiny, anyway?

Another murmur tumbles out of your throat. “Marlene was the worst and still got to continue the destiny. Why can’t I?”

Your mind flickers over to a time, long ago, when you asked about your grandmother to your mother. “She wasn’t terrible because she was possessed. She was terrible before that,” she had said, as she calculated the income of her company, sitting aside your father managing accounts. “My mother is not someone to emulate.”

Well, you’re a terrible person. It’s not like maybe summoning a demon through jealousy, just as your grandmother did, was going to make you any worse.

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Your mother was possessed and you knew it.

Afterall, you had studied every word of your story, you read into Tolkien’s fascination for it, and you escaped into sci-fi to get away from it.

The signs of demon possession were fairly easy to pick up. A inhuman quirk of the mouth, glazed eyes, a sullen disposition. Even so, if you hadn’t studied your story so intensely, you would have hardly noticed a difference.

That was when you realised. Your mother didn’t do this terrible thing because she was possessed. She was terrible enough to do it before. The demon within only gave her the means to.

It became easier to let go of her when later that night, your brother, now a bird, drops a millstone on your mother’s head.

You still averted your eyes when that happened, though.

Your brother had tugged at your sleeve and started pulling you away. Still, you stood, rooted to the ground, eyes glazing over at the corpse.

It was not your mother that you think is dead. To you, she died a long time ago, back when you still wore dresses and trusted fate.

It was your destiny and you’re now free.

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Why was Lea so perfect for the next Marlinchen? Why did she have to waltz into the family, sweet and hospitable?

That tugging sensation came back again. The one that told you that you weren’t good enough. What was that, again?

Jealousy.

That was what it was, right? That was what turned your grandmother haywire.

And that is what’s messing with your mind, right now.

That’s when he appeared, sporting a stupid hat and a patterned bow-tie, floating upside down in the dark room. The guy was translucent, tall and skinny, and would have hardly passed as anyone over 16. Mouth etched with a grin too wide to be human, he beamed down at the Juniper boy.

“Polynices’ the name, being an overly emotional demon’s the game,” he gestured with a cane and bowed with a bow. Reaching out to you with a gloved palm, he said, “Take my hand, kid, and I promise you sweet destiny.”