Love is something hard to define, often felt, yet most of the time, misunderstood. It can be as cold as winter or as warm as the summer sun. There is what they call the "perfect temperature," a love that blooms like the blossoms of spring. It must feel good to have that kind of love.
But as a child, I felt a different type of affection, one that was bone-chillingly cold.
My family was a gallery of pathologies. A narcissistic mother who believed beauty existed only in her own flesh and bones. A father driven by pride and an obsession with power, who loved grooming his daughter to maintain his sense of control. A brother, Noah, a hedonist who harbored a disturbing hunger for everything he desired. He was an olfactophile, often savoring my presence when I was near.
"It's your sweet pheromones, Hana," he would say. "Make sure you don't lose your scent, okay? Do it for your brother."
Little Hana didn't understand what he meant then. Now, I only wish I hadn't lived long enough to find out.
Then there was the brother who rotted in a chamber of pigs. He was a tech genius but a lovesick predator who sought "love" through a collection of doll-like, well-groomed girls. He craved their innocence, but once they entered his dollhouse, they were never bright again. I watched as each of them left his sanctuary battered, ruptured, and forgotten. Little Hana never intended to enter his paradise, even when invited.
And finally, there was the malignant narcissist, a brother pathologically envious of anyone who stole his spotlight.
"Hey, Hana. Look! Your big bro made a sandwich. I call this the Mortem Sandwich! Aren't I good at these things?" Niccolo said with a glee that didn't reach his eyes.
Five-year-old Hana, innocent and kind, returned the smile. "Wanna give it a taste? I promise it's good!"
Hana took a big bite. She smiled because she felt a bond, but then a familiar, forbidden flavor hit her tongue.
"Why does it taste..."
Niccolo chuckled. "Silly little sis. It's just cheese spread... and peanut butter."
"But... I'm allergic to peanut butter, Brother."
Niccolo acted surprised, his face a mask of false concern. "Oh, are you? Oh no, Hana. What will happen if you die? Our little sister who is so annoyingly loved by everyone? I wonder who would take your spot when you're gone?"
Hana was terrified. Her throat began to clench, the anaphylaxis setting in.
"Well, that's life," Niccolo whispered, leaning forward. "That's what happens to disgusting adopted dogs who are adored by others. They deserve to stray on the streets and beg for used bones. Do you know why I named it the Mortem Sandwich? Because Mortem means death in Latin."
Hana collapsed. Niccolo immediately shifted into his role as the hero. "Help! My sister lost consciousness! Please help me, I don't want to lose her!"
When their parents arrived, Niccolo spun a web of lies. "I saw her eating it and I tried to take it away, but she hit me and threw a tantrum! I was too late!"
Their mother pampered him. "Oh, my good boy. You did great, love."
Their father, however, was cold. "You should have protected her more." He couldn't lose his "replacement" wife so soon.
But the crowd whispered. "What a worthless mother. She doesn't even know her daughter's allergies?"
The shame ignited a fire in the mother. Later, she cornered Hana.
"I TOLD YOU," smack, "DON'T YOU EVER," smack, "EMBARRASS ME!" She ripped apart Hana's artworks, her easel, her paintings. "Why do you even draw? Your drawings are useless. I'd rather burn them for the chimney. You have no talent!"
Then, she caressed Hana's cheek. "Hana, dear. Mommy loves you. But you need to be obedient so everyone praises Mommy. Do you love me?"
"Yes..."
"Then stop drawing. You're bad at it. It wastes our money. Now go make up with Niccolo. He was only trying to save you."
Hana walked into the garden and saw Niccolo being praised by neighbors. "Such a hero! Such a loving brother!"
Niccolo looked at Hana with a sly, impudent smile. "It was merely my way of showing love," he told the neighbors.
Recalling this, Hana felt a deep, hollow gratitude that she had escaped that madhouse. "Love itself is disgusting," she muttered.
The two angels were speechless.
"How could a mortal commit such a sin?" Night asked, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and pity.
Lunx sighed, trying to break the tension. "Hey, how about we cook something else? Miss Hana, do you have a preference?"
Hana didn't look back. "Anything is fine. Food is food. It all tastes the same to me."
Inner Monologue: It was true. I lost my taste buds years ago when Niccolo pushed me down the stairs. My head hit the floor so hard it caused mononeuropathy. My world is flavorless.
"She is a vessel of scars, Lunx," Night whispered as Hana walked away. "The sin is theirs, yet she carries the weight."
"Love is synonymous with poison for her," Lunx added. "A Mortem Sandwich was her last taste of the world."
Night stepped forward. "We can't let her core freeze over."
"We cannot interfere with her will," Lunx cautioned.
"If you won't because of the rules, I will," Night snapped, walking out.
Hana sat on a park bench, her hands resting in her lap like a doll's. Night approached her softly. "Hana, if you won't choose a dish, choose a color for the day. It doesn't have to be a happy one."
"Cyan," Hana replied. "The color of distance. Deep water you can't touch. A high sky you can't reach. The color of being far away."
"Distance is an illusion," Lunx said, appearing from the shadows. "It is just space between things still connected."
"Then I want the illusion," Hana retorted. "I want to be untouchable."
"Wait," Night said, blocking her path. "We must discuss your brother Matthew. He didn't rot in a chamber. He's a 'Digital Groomer' now. He creates AI avatars of innocence, environments where he can exert the control he perfected at home. And he uses your art."
Hana froze. "My drawings?"
"He digitized the pieces your mother tried to burn," Night confirmed. "He used the soul you poured into them as the foundational code for his digital dolls. He's monetized your trauma in the deep web, selling your innocence to the highest bidder."
The illusion of distance shattered. Pure, cold rage ran through Hana.
"Show me," Hana demanded. "Show me the gallery."
Lunx handed her a folder. Hana scanned her own discarded dreams, now distorted and sold. She laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "Then let him have them. They are discarded. Why would I take back what I threw away?"
"Because you are their true home, Hana," Night said.
"Nonsense. Focus on the mission, not childlike side quests."
Night sighed, her new goth form silhouetted against the twilight. "Fine. Let's focus on the mission. But if you aren't planning to take your paintings back..."
Night's eyes flashed with a celestial, terrifying light.
"Then I'll take them instead."