This novel has no introduction.
It is a tangle of misfortunes, each knot giving birth to another. I have no beginning to shout, no end I seek, except for one conclusion I am preparing for you from now on: death.
Excuse me if this seems contrived and horrifying. I didn't choose death as the conclusion; it is what befalls every gray story, soiled with blood. The lake is red, and the smoke rises from corpses burned not out of love, but out of loyalty. What I have experienced is not an adventure that distracted me; rather, it is the concerns that have inhabited my skin, and here I am writing them before my earth expels them all at once.
You are asking about the grave? Imagine waking up to find darkness covering your face. You pass your hand over it, touching nothing, only cold air that cuts the palm of your hand. Even your breaths don't echo back; yet, for me, they're a history I've always longed for. If I'd known that these lines I'm about to recite would lead me to a grave like this, I would have burned them before they were delivered. But now, let them be, for the scene has inevitably arrived.
I put the words here because they're the last thing a hybrid possesses: a line that freezes my screams. In reality, I used to hate speech and spent my life running away from it. Now, I indulge in them because lines are power, and at least the idiot doesn't dare interrupt me.
For six months, my mother hasn't seen me. I was in London, and she was in Scotland. A call a week, forty-one seconds, was enough to calm her cold facade: she was checking on the house, while I was just a ghost in the corner. The last call was six minutes: four minutes to investigate the neighborhood, and two final minutes, a stab she inserted into my heart.
The news? Her marriage.
She disappeared for six months and returned with news she hadn't consulted my heart about: she had gotten married without my knowledge. I told you we were in love? Time proves me wrong. Their marriages weren't happy news, but a deep, irreversible stab.
My father died in my arms of an overdose. I was the one who injected the syringe into his vein. I didn't hold myself accountable with a criminal record; his fate was the accumulation of his sin with God, so his dose increased and he leaned toward death. I am his salvation, and he is a slow-witted corpse. I am the one who offered him a glass of water with a cold face, thinking I was making a joke.
Thus are my beginnings: death. And my endings: death.
6:00 PM... A new city.
Finally, we've arrived. I never imagined Scotland could be so breathtakingly beautiful. The city oozes elegance, its people speak with the confidence of wealth and luxury, and the streets are paved as if they were plucked from an ancient Victorian era. The moment I entered, I felt like I was in a scene from a Harry Potter movie... except that I was the only one playing Voldemort here.
I've always had this vague desire to be the "bad guy," the one others enjoy hating in public while privately fearing. Our generation now calls it the "red flag," but deep down, I know that evil is just another mask for survival, a weapon worn by the weak to avoid being crushed. Those who dare to play the villain often win, or at least aren't defeated as innocents are. And maybe... yes, maybe this will be my new face in that game I was thrown into without consulting.
I decided: I wouldn't be the prey at Hogwarts, a place filled with magical pranks. I would be the witch who makes everyone laugh and hides her tears in her sleeve.
"We've arrived..."
My mother's scream interrupted my thoughts as she parked the car in front of a mansion that looked like it came from an ancient legend. I wasn't lying when I compared it to Hogwarts, but it was even more magnificent than I imagined. I'd imagined it to be a white palace, ostentatiously glamorous, gleaming with lights like a house in a fake paradise. But it wasn't. It was sadder, more magical. Its brown colors, its dim lights, were like secrets breathing in the walls. Its beauty wasn't joyful, but rather dark, a beauty that drags you into the abyss.
"Be nice, okay?" my mother said, her voice sounding more like a fearful plea than a passing command. I looked at her and smiled sarcastically, "In which new play do you want me to be the angel?"
I expected to see someone at the palace door, standing in the manner of a lavish welcome, as is the custom of a wealthy family. But the door was empty and silent, as if vanity here didn't need servants to announce its presence, for it loomed from the walls themselves.
We climbed the outer stairs with nervous steps until we stood before the door, which opened quietly on its own. It was better than having a miserable servant open it for us with downcast eyes.
"Welcome to our new home!" my mother said with childish enthusiasm, jumping lightly into the palace courtyard.
I looked at her suspiciously, then commented coldly, "What's all this ease? All alone in the palace?"
I knew my mother only acted so lightly when she wanted to hide something.
But I was quickly caught up in the scene. I raised my head, and found myself in another world. The design exuded a Victorian atmosphere: the smell of old wood, the shadow of damp grass, the dim lights, and the carvings that filled the walls… and all this in the courtyard, which was almost the size of our entire house.
I suppressed my amazement, not letting my features betray me. I liked the palace, yes. But it remained a sign of wealth that didn't belong to me. I didn't belong here, Mother.
"Where is your new family?" I asked her coldly.
She hesitated for a moment, gathered her ties as if regaining her sense of humor, then began to walk around the courtyard, her eyes scanning the space like someone drawing a map. She raised her hand left and right, muttering mysterious arrangements to herself.
I asked her sarcastically, "Do you need a map to find them?"
She replied firmly, as if she'd finally found what she was looking for:
"The fourth wing… yes, there on the left. Come on, follow me."
My footsteps followed hers. The fourth wing? A name fit for prisons or hospital wards... and this palace was no different, an elegant blend of isolation and discipline.
My mother stopped at a heavy black door, pushed it open, and entered.
"Traaaa!" I shouted with childish excitement, as if revealing a birthday surprise.
I hated having to step up to see their faces. But I did.
In front of us was a family... four people. I expected three, but the surprise was even worse.
The woman first: she wasn't young, but she wore her wealth like a mask that deceived the eye. Her features were taut, her gaze piercing, her makeup dark, and her tight clothes said it all: arrogant enough to think the world was just a mirror.
Then the two boys.
The first: a wide smile, eyes shining with childish enthusiasm, as if he had previously disowned this family and decided to live spontaneously.
The other... was the complete opposite. His gaze at me wasn't one of welcome, but a silent stab. Perhaps I had imagined hatred, or perhaps I hadn't. His pale, white skin, devoid of blood, suggested to me that he was living in a very dark area inside his head... Depression? Hatred? Or simply a nature that would later prove to be open hostility.
As for my mother and her husband, they were busy exchanging kisses as if they were lovers reunited after a long war. I, a stranger amidst this scene, stood in the middle of the hall, not knowing whether to speak or simply remain silent and wait for someone to turn to me.
"So... this is my new sister!" said the cheerful boy as he approached me, with boundless impetuosity.
I looked at him coldly and said, "I'm not your sister, or anything like that. Just a passing guest... and I'll be gone soon."
My mother broke off her hungry kiss with her husband, a slight irritation evident on her face at my tone.
"Diana...!" she said reproachfully.
But her husband, with a smile that concealed more than it revealed, interrupted:
"Hey, it seems our little one hasn't gotten used to the place yet. I promise you, Diana, that you'll love this palace... We'll do everything we can to make it your home. Don't worry, Caster's presence here will prevent any boredom."
His smile reminded me of something I knew all too well: the smile of a man accustomed to wearing a mask, insignificant, vulgar, yet full of malice. My poor mother merely nodded in agreement, as if to say: Yes, he's right.
I looked at Caster, who seemed different from the rest of this strange crew. I didn't like his boisterous laughter, like a clown trying to revive a corpse, but at least he was dressed elegantly, distinguishing him from his other brother, who was drowning in neglect and misery.
"Caster...?" I said his name as if testing him.
He smiled with childish confidence and said,
"Yes... I'm Caster. Don't worry, we have a music hall and a golf course here... We'll have a great time together."
Despite his apparent naiveté, I didn't sense any danger from him. He seemed innocent of everything this house represented.
"Is there a library?" I asked coldly. After all, no matter how short my days here were, I needed a place to pursue my one hobby.
But the simple question triggered unexpected confusion. Caster's smile suddenly faded, and he looked nervously toward his father and the old woman, as if asking permission.
I raised my eyebrows in boredom and said,
"I said a library, not a dissection room..."
Then a cold laugh escaped the old woman, and then she said, her voice heavy with pride:
"Yes... there's a library, my dear. And I hate to say... there's a dissection room, too."
The air froze for a moment. I hoped it was sarcastic, just a playful way to stir up tension. But something in her eyes suggested it wasn't a complete joke.
I turned my face toward her and said nonchalantly,
"Good... they're both my hobbies."
I glanced at their faces, at the hall that smelled of vanity, then whispered coldly, not devoid of sarcasm:
"What a welcome to a new member of the family..."
My words didn't let me pass, as the old woman, sipping her glass of wine as if she were absorbing life itself, quickly said with obvious arrogance:
"Excuse us, little one, we're not the type to cover the floor with silk and serve hot milk when receiving guests. Perhaps your mother didn't tell you... that the day she entered this palace wasn't the luckiest. We barely knew her name, and if it weren't for coincidence, we wouldn't have remembered it."
Damn it... I could see my mother's face burning red with shame. She had lied to me when she claimed they had welcomed her with love and joy. What joy? This welcome was nothing more than a slap in the face, wrapped in cold words, a clear indication that she was an intruder... and yet, she didn't understand, she didn't run away.
Then the old woman added, her voice steady, like someone dispensing orders:
"Caster... take her on a tour of the palace. Introduce her to its rules, and don't forget to explain to her clearly what is permitted and what is prohibited."
I hated to admit that she talked a lot... but she was undoubtedly the invisible hand pulling the strings of this theater.