Looming Dread

Blood splatters on my face as I wait. It's cold and metallic, filling my mouth, and I spit it out. It is weird to have someone else's blood in your mouth, after all. I cough, trying to get rid of the unwelcome taste from my mouth. My maroon shirt is perfect for wiping my face clean off the blood. Rugged men carry away his body, his head separated, eyes open, staring at the heavens. All he did was feed his child. With grains from another man's field, who didn't notice until the father's footsteps failed on yesterday's rainy night. His child, the terrified girl watching in the corner, will pay for his attempt as if watching her father's head fly off his body isn't already enough of a punishment. The men kicked around his head to the starving hounds, who sank their teeth into his face in haste. The girl has her head buried in her hands, sobbing loudly. Soon, they will take her away to the Dominion, where she will be made to slave away for the rest of her life. The skin from her gentle hands will peel away with all the rough scrubbing she'll be forced to do. They will hurt at the slightest touch, bleeding like an open organ. 

One of the hounds leered at me, making it clear that if it weren't for the thick chains holding them back, he and the rest of his pack would have no problem eating my head too. Before I could even shudder at the thought, somebody poked me with a large metal stick. One of the guards. "Move, girl," he says roughly and pokes me again. Despite the anger that I feel, I know not to protest. I shoot him a look and move inside. It is my turn for the hearing. Sylas walks out of the room, glaring at me. He spits at the floor in my direction. Despite his awkward limp and his oaf-like features, he's not so laughable when he's angry. I scoff, stand up straighter, and walk into the hearing room with confidence. Here at the justice building, the walls are yellowish and the floors are concrete. Rugged men, the guards, cover every inch of it. It is prohibited to fight, be angry, or show any form of defiance against the judiciator. Unless you want to be the next meal for the hounds.They are fastened to a pole at the side of the entrance towards the justice building; there are five of them. Right in front of them, just outside their reach, is a tree lump, where the guilty must rest their heads on, necks completely bare before the axe swings down on their exposed flesh to behead them. The heads usually roll down towards the chained hounds, who eagerly feast on them. I have no idea what they do with the bodies. The execution must be carried out at the entrance, where all who want to visit the building must wait, as a reminder of what happens if you dare step one toe out of the line. 

The hounds. Vile, dirty creatures. They are the only remnants of dogs we have. Lab bred and experimented to be terrifying. My mother used to insist that her childhood dog was different. Lovable and adorable, a fluffy little thing that used to tail her everywhere, went to sleep with her and ate with her. Until one day, she said, the dog was taken away by the guards to be turned into one of the hounds. She said she cried so hard that day that she ended up catching a fever. When I look at them, I can't believe that humans have ever tamed and loved dogs before. Maybe they were different back then. 

As a little girl, I was terrified of them. The first time I saw them was when the guards came to our door to carry my father away to the Justice Building. That's the last time I ever saw him. Knowing that one of these cursed hounds feasted on him sends a chill down my spine. 

When I enter the little room, a wrinkled old man sits ahead of me on a high platform. Surrounding him were men and women with piercing gazes, setting up parchments and pens that they would use to decide my fate. They all sat below him on lower platforms. 

The seats they were sitting on seemed to be made of some kind of plush cotton, probably worth my entire house. 

I am ushered rudely towards the middle of the room, where they'd all have a better view of me. Feeling self-conscious, I stand up straight, feigning confidence. 

They won't execute me for a silly dispute, will they? I think. If they feed human heads to genetically modified demonic hounds in front of weeping little children and later have them wipe their filthy feet, why can't they? I tell myself to shut up. 

The hounds have to be fed after all. 

I nearly smack myself for these thoughts when a gruff voice pins me back to earth. 

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The hearing went by agonizingly slowly, and I was overjoyed to be walking back home with my head still intact. 

Yesterday, I caught a weasel in my snare. Those are tricky little things, slippery as a fish. But to find out that my wobbly snare caught a reasonably-sized weasel was a pleasant surprise. It can hardly feed one person, but it'll make our bland bread more interesting. 

But before I could even retrieve it, Sylas came through, spitting and screaming like a madman. He tried to snatch up the weasel right off my hands, saying that it was his prey that had escaped; look at its tighs; see the mark caused by his arrow. He said that it was the wound inflicted by him that made the weasel clumsy, causing it to fall prey to my deadly ( wobbly) snare. 

I argued back, finders keepers. Soon, guards came and pushed us towards the justice building, ripping the meat right off my hands. 

I've been at the justice building since yesterday evening. I am parched, hungry, stinky, and sweaty. It is the afternoon of the following day. I was at the justice building, sitting in a far corner, having a glaring contest with Sylas and trying to ignore the presence of the hounds. 

I counted five heads decapitated. Five heads eaten by the hounds. 

Now I am walking back home without the weasel, all because Sylas threw a few pennies at the judicator's feet. 

My family hasn't seen me since last evening when I went out to find food. To search my snares and traps for game. I wonder if they ate. I wonder if they know I'm alive. 

I feel like a failure, returning home empty-handed. In the afternoon sun, I don't know if I'm melting away because of the heat or because of shame. 

In the hearing room, the judge did not seem to hear me. Whatever I said, he did not care. He was distracted by the pennies thrown at his feet by Sylas. 

I know this because that's what Sylas always does,to other people. I should've been smarter. I should've let it go when he demanded my meat, but pride got in the way. 

My father says that I am as stubborn as a bull and that it will do me no good living in the Loom. 

I did not heed his words. But now I see. 

My sister runs out when I reach my stone cottage near the stream. She throws her arms around me, and it's evident that she has been crying. I hug her back, my arms around her torso. My hands feel too long, and I feel awkward. I am terrible at physical affection. 

So I was relieved when she punched me a little hard in the stomach. 

"We were worried sick, you nitwit!" She screams. "You better run before Mother gets a hold of you!" She shouts. 

I would retort and tell her that flaring her nose makes her face look fat, which means she will remain unwed forever, her idea of a nightmare. But now is not the time. I am aware of the worry I've caused. Either the guard or the people would've told them what went down, surely. I was about to apologize when my mother ran out of the cottage toward us. 

She did not look half as worried or relieved as Sylvie did. 

Her features are arranged to showcase her fury. 

I gulp. 

Her hand makes a loud sound as it collides with my skin. My eyes tear up immediately. Sylvie gasps.

The pain comes a second later. I am trying to massage my cheek when she grabs hold of both my shoulders. 

"Stupid, girl!" She was shaking me now. "Picking a fight with that blithering Oaf Sylas! Are you trying to kill yourself?" She was furious, her face gleaming red. I search her face for even the tiniest morsel of relief to see me alive. I only find anger, anger, and anger. 

She goes on and on about how I am a walking disaster, which is why no one in the Loom respects our family. I should've thought of her and Sylvie before I went ahead and argued with Sylas, a fool whose money works uglier than he does. She shook me wildly, getting angrier with every passing second. She asked me what my father would think of all this if he were here. 

"I don't care!" I shout; I've had enough of her hurtful words and her mad shaking. She is shocked for a moment, and she raises her hand to slap me again, I flinch, closing my eyes and bracing for the impact. Sylvie is screaming, "Mother, no!", When someone clears their throat behind us.

I feel my mother let me go immediately and open my eyes. 

A young boy, maybe around our age, is standing in front of us, holding a basket. 

He has brown hair, and he is embarrassed; his face is red. 

"Yes?" Mother asks him, her voice suddenly calm and composed as if none of this happened.

"I - uh... " He stutters awkwardly, looking around at us.

I am heated with rage and embarrassment. And I turned away, my back to the boy who was staring at my cheek. I'm sure he had seen all of my mother's fingers imprinted on my cheek.

How long has this creep been watching?

He saw you getting slapped and disciplined like a child.

Did he hear everything Mother said?

Did he see me flinch?

Is he going to tell people?

I will kill him before he can.

"I am sorry to intrude." The boy began to speak after stuttering like an idiot.

"I am from Sylas's estate," He says

Before he can utter the next words, I turn around furiously and yell at him.

"No illegitimate son of Sylas is welcome here!"

He has the same blue eyes as Sylas. Blue eyes, which are supposed to symbolize the beauty of the ocean, are supposed to be one of the prettiest eye colors to have. But I can no longer appreciate them because of Sylas and his treacherous blue eyes. Same color hair too. Murky brown.

He smiles awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. "Actually, I'm his nephew."

Oh.

I hear Sylvie stifle a laugh.

"Freya, be polite to our guest," Mother commands, her tone brooking no dissent.

"Well then, I suppose that makes sense. Whether legitimate or not, no woman with any sense would ever choose to be with that oaf!"

"Freya! " Mother says angrily, turning to look at me "You-"

And then we hear the boy laugh. It's a burst of boyish, carefree laughter, as if he's laughing at something his pals said. 

We all look at him, shocked. He would laugh this whole-heartedly at an insult directed towards his uncle.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says when he's done laughing. "I am very aware of my uncle's reputation, which is why I am here today with this basket as an apology on his behalf. We have plenty of food at home. He did not have any reason to force away your hard-earned meat except for spite," he says, smiling at us warmly, holding out the basket.

I don't trust him.

where did he pop out of? I have never heard of Sylas's nephew who is like a pocket full of sunshine before.

"We do not require your pity" I retort.

"Freya, I'm tired of your thick-skulled behavior," Mother said, the rage she had smothered earlier threatened to spill over the edges. I can tell the boy regrets coming here.

"Of course, we will accept your kind gesture." Mother says to the boy, her tone suddenly so warm and sweet. I am used to her quick switch-up and chameleon behavior. But it scares the boy, his eyes widen for a split second before he puts on his mask of cordial behavior back on.

"Won't you come in for tea? " Sylvie asks, sweetly to the boy. "we have plenty of sweet dandelion flowers all dried up and ready"

I shoot her a look.

She ignores me and leads the boy home, as he smiles and nods at her.

He did not look in my direction, and neither did Sylvie or my mother.

I am left outside, embarrassed and hurt. My cheeks stinging and my eyes threatening to spill.

I am not going to eat his pity food.

Don't be stupid. You are starving. You need the food, you can't hunt. It's getting dark. Be rational, for once. 

I sigh and walk in behind them.

I am shaking and I am sweaty. I massage my cheek, and it still stings. My mother's hands, which once used to be soft and gentle.

I am so embarrassed and angry and hurt that I wish, for once, that I did not come home with my head intact after all.

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