Part 0: Margaux

Kaleidoscopic Colors

I fall to my knees. I'm shaking. It...can't be.

The room, which was once as warm and full of life and music as if it was Christmas Eve, becomes dark and cold and eerily quiet. And my eyes find them. I can't seem to force myself to look away....I-I can't...

The bodies. Three of them, side by side, lying on a bubbling, crimson creek. Their eyes staring past the ceiling, into the nothingness which no one but them can see. What is worse is that I know them, and I had cared for them and I love them...

My father.

My mother.

And my little brother Drew. 

Dead. That is the word and it fills me with a wave of raw, undescribed emotions. Dead. Nothing more than empty shells now. Memories. Still so young and with so many ambitions and dreams and plans in life that are now impossible to fulfill, because they're gone, all gone; their lives ripped to shreds by a single, metal bullet from a madman's gun...And I burst out sobbing like a little child, crying for my mother, my father. Wanting them to embrace me, to kiss away my tears, to hold me long and tell me that everything is alright, everything will still be the same...And Drew to come running in with all his toys, jokes and his big blue eyes and his uncanny ability to always make me smile and laugh...

"Stop it!" A voice as rough and harsh as sandpaper knifes the stillness in the room. I look up, and through a misty haze of tears and pain, see their--and soon-to-be my killer with his green eyes, glowing strangely like a cat's and his terrifying, black gun that ended the lives of the three people that I loved most, now pointed directly at my forehead. He opens his mouth and roars, "Stop crying, you little scum!" 

I hiccup myself into silence and rage rushes almost immediately inside me. I try not to break contact with those deadly green irises, to glare into their depths and to send every bit of the hatred, anger and anguish I feel....As if on an impulse, my lips move and words spill forth. 

Quiet. Soft. Controlled. A voice that is not mine. "Why did you do it?" I whisper, but my voice carries easily to him through the undisturbed air. "Why did you kill them?" 

He staggers back, as if shaken awake from a horrible nightmare. An undefinable expression contorts his face, his eyes narrowing into slits. Is it remorse? Confusion? Horror? And then he shakes his head, as if clearing everything away and laughs so loudly and so ridiculously, it is as if I told him a very funny joke. 

He cocks his gun.

And then something strange happens. 

A glow. A strong, ghostly-blue glow in my hand. And when it fades, as quickly as it came, I am holding a crossbow, an arrow already fitted in it.


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