Asteria Jermain || D2 || [fin]

Asteria Jermain

---

The neck of the bottle is warm in my clenched hand; I count another four scattered around the room. I raise the bottle, twirl what alcohol is left in the bottom, admiring the way it shimmers in the light. I take a sip, cringe. Warm, cheap whiskey—something only my Dad could enjoy. I take up another bottle as I make my way through the house, following the trail of clothes and empty bottles into the living room.

He lays face down on the couch—"Dad, what the hell?"—some girl laying on top of him. Both are covered by a blanket, but I can tell by the suggestive bare legs that dangle off the couch that the trail of clothes I followed here belongs to them. Dad doesn't flinch, but the girl does, smirking at me as she sits up. I ignore her.

"I sent my whore home hours ago," I say, tossing clothes in the their direction. "You have a class to teach in less than an hour, Dad. Get up." He still doesn't move, the whiskey from last night no doubt weighing him down. His friend rubs at his head, whispers something in his ear. I see him smile; I groan and mumble under my breath—"Fuck's sake."

His 'friend' looks at me through thick lashes. "Jealous, honey?" Apparently my look of disgust hadn't quite registered with her. "How much does he owe you?" She shakes her head almost immediately, smiling brightly as she stands. She saunters across the room to me. I fold my arms, a half full whiskey bottle still in hand. "Your daddy is a legend. No charge." She kisses me on the cheek and walks by me. I turn on her, my voice louder than I intended.

"Do I know you?" She laughs, flashes a smile over her shoulder as she lets herself out. "You paid for this whore a few weeks ago," she purrs. Every ounce of anger I had dissolves into embarrassment in a split second. "I've now slept with every living member of the esteemed Jermain family. Good day, AJ." And with that, she shuts the door behind her and makes her way through the gardens.

To keep myself from throwing up, I gulp down what's left of the whiskey before tossing the bottle at Dad, who has since sat up and gotten himself dressed. He smells like sweat, whiskey, and cheap cologne. "You're disgusting," I scowl, swiping another empty whiskey bottle from the coffee table. I begin stalking off to the kitchen, my head aching and stomach churning.

I hear him shift from the couch, hear a drawer close and shut. I stop dead in my tracks. I plant my feet and whirl around just in time to swipe the knife out of the air with the bottle. The blade skitters across the marble floor and I shake my head. "You need to switch up the routine," I say, rolling my eyes. "I'm getting bored." I spin on my heels and continue on my intended path. Some might call getting a knife thrown at your head unusual; I call it boring. With a father who trains Careers, I am never free of training.

I see the trip wire before the bar comes swinging from behind the door frame, but I don't have any time to move—only a split second to regret ever claiming boredom. I stumble backwards with a screech, my free hand immediately flying to my face. As I regain my bearings, I find enough strength to curse. "Fuck!" Blood streams from my nose, tears jump into my eyes. Dad chuckles from where he stands. I glare at him. But he isn't fazed by my anger, continuing to smile all the same.

"What was that, kiddo? Couldn't hear you over the sound of your nose breaking." I growl and whip the whiskey bottle in his direction. He dodges it; the glass shatters on the floor behind him. "Come on, you've dealt with worse," he says, his voice laced with exasperation. A broken collarbone when I was eight, sliced flexor tendons when I was twelve, third degree burns across my back when I was fourteen, a collapsed lung just a year ago—"Oh, fuck off!" I groan and tilt my head back, tasting blood as it runs down the back of my throat.

He advances to me and grabs me by the back of the neck and shoving me face towards the ground, shouting, "Come on, AJ! Head forward! I've taught you better than that!" And though he is chuckling through most of it, I know I've probably really disappointed him by not remembering beginners first-aid. I knew this stuff by the time I was eight years old. It wasn't enough to learn the techniques; you had to endure the situation to understand it. ("No one ever learned anything by sitting on their asses all day.") ...I'm not much of a reader.

I jam my heel into his foot and swing my arm around to release his grasp from my neck. My knuckles collide with his cheek as I completely spin away from him. I kick at the back of his knee and stumbles, giving me enough time to scoop the knife that he had thrown at me earlier off the floor. I lick the blood away from my upper lip and grin as he stands. I jump up onto the window sill, glaring down at him. "I've got the high ground and the knife," He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek and works the kink out of his knee, watching with what can only be described as a mixture of both anguish and pride. "I win."

He hates losing almost as much as I do. So when he just smiles and nods at me I know something must be coming. I wait for a knife to appear or a trap to open beneath me or someone to burst through the window and grab me. Instead, he laughs. "You look so much like your mother," he says, looking at me and shaking his head. The smile slowly falls from his face and he turns to leave. "You sure didn't inherit my good looks though," he chuckles, though his heart clearly isn't in it.

He doesn't turn around as he stands in the threshold, just pauses. "Don't miss training," he grumbles before disappearing into the endless labyrinth of hallways of the Jermain Mansion. When the room falls completely silent aside from my own breathing, I finally let my muscles relax and the knife drop to my side. I'm so distracted that the blade grazes my thigh; I flinch. I press the side of the blade over the cut, watching as blood surges around the glinting silver. Mom always said not to worry about the prideful. ("They always fall on their own knives.")

She died when I was seven. I remember standing between my brothers, clutching at their pant legs as strangers shook my Dad's hand and offered condolences. I remember her coffin was made of walnut and that it was really hot that day. We all laid roses on top of her coffin, gave her a kiss goodbye, and walked away. Dad started training me a year later. It was about the same time I decided I should just eradicate all the memories I had of her. It would be easier just to forget; the best careers don't let ghosts haunt them.

And I wanted to be the best. My Dad wanted it, so I wanted it. My Mom wanted me to learn to make peace, not war. She wanted me to be smart just as well as strong. She wanted me to know how to fight, but didn't want me starting the fights. She taught me to be humble; I fell on my own knife. But who could possibly blame me? Impressing a headstone is much more difficult than impressing someone whose heart beats. I was seven. I chose praise and warm hugs over morality and celestial kisses.

When my brothers each aged out of training the praise turned to criticism and the warm hugs shifted into choke holds. But I was already in too deep. I'm no good at---"nice." I may share the same blue eyes and the same long, dark hair and the same nose, chin, and cheekbones as the nice woman I used to cling to and call Mommy, but when I look in the mirror I see only differences. My lips do not smile, my eyes do not hold promises of benevolence, and my skin is riddled with scars that only strengthen the argument that I am not a good person.

I sit on the edge of the window sill, letting my feet press into the cold floor. I glance over my shoulder, out the window and into Mom's gardens. I haven't wandered through them for over 4 years, but on nice days like this, if you open the windows, you can smell the roses. I take a deep breath to stifle the swell of my throat as feelings of sorrow threaten to strangle me.

I move to the mirror nearby and examine my nose. The blood is begin to crust around my nostrils, making it all the more difficult to breathe. I run my fingers along the ridge, feeling for the crooked and shattered bones which I will need to move back into position now if I ever want to look the way I used to. I take a deep breath and—CRACK! I gasp and stifle a screech as the bones snap back into place. Tears leap into my eyes as I look into the mirror. A bloodied, sad excuse for a girl stares back at me.

Tears stream down my cheeks, drip from my chin. I startle at the sound of Dad returning. I wipe at my eyes, desperate to hide the weakness he seeks to exterminate. He sees it, so I make up an excuse. "I had to re-break it," I say with as much strength as I can muster into my voice. "Hurt like hell." He looks me over, runs his fingers along the bridge of my nose and nods. He walks away with little more than a grunt and a nod.

I take a stuttering breath as he exits again, this time with a bottle of whiskey in hand. I blink at my reflection a few more times before I tear myself away to follow in Dad's footsteps. But I can still hear her whispering in my ear, the reflection of a girl long lost, begging for an answer: What have you become?

---