Patience strained, I pounded my fist against the door once more. This was the fifth house in a row without a response. I expect most ignore me, assuming I’m just another beggar. That wasn’t the case with the house prior. One glance through the peephole was enough to have them relock their doors and pray I leave.
Waiting, I switched my focus back onto the clumps of homeless beside the gravel road. They reeked of some concoction of blood, filth, and maggots. A heavy whiff could summon a gag. Many avoided them for that reason.
The demons and orcs invading from the North had created an influx of refugees in cities like this. They didn’t check the newspaper for good news, but instead, to confirm that they could go another day without receiving an evacuation notice.
The general paranoia meant more work for me. A city covered in dreariness became a feasting ground for Sorrows.
Before I could knock for a final time, the door creaked open. My gaze lowered onto the young girl whose frame hid shyly behind the door. The muscles in her face tensed, her lips falling short of words as she stared deeply into my pine green cloak. Even with children, my friendly face and heightened pitch were futile in easing their fear.
Trying to be gentle, I inquired, “Are your parents home, miss?”
The girl couldn’t have been older than thirteen. The cuffs of her oversized tan sweater were pushed up to her elbows, revealing her twig-like arms. She refused to push back her oversized bangs, as if the curtains offered a place to hide. Or, more likely, a way to remain ignorant of my presence.
Breaking out of her petrified state, she gulped, “N-no. They should be back soon, they’re both at work.” The child spoke quickly, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have answered—I thought you were my father—I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.”
My foot intercepted the door before it could slam shut. Mouth agape, the girl raised her widened eyes as if a nightmare was coming true. Knowing there was nothing I could do to console her, I explained the standard procedure, “Once you open your doors to an Alleviator, I have the authority to enter your home. Please understand that this is just my job: I ensure the safety of the community.”
Without another word, the girl stepped aside as I entered. To the right lay a staircase. The left, a kitchen-living room hybrid; the standard layout for these houses. A set of padded couches surrounded the wooden coffee table, a stack of logs lay ready beside the iron oven, and a row of spices arranged themselves along the countertop.
What caught my interest was how clean it was. These days even women were looking for jobs to keep their families afloat. The houses I inspected were unkept with stacks of pots and pans, floors laced with dirt and dust, and clothes that needed washed decorated chairs and other furniture. That was a common sight. But this was the opposite.
They might’ve had the money and space to afford a maid, “Is anyone else in the house?”
The girl shook her head, reasoning, “It’s just me. My parents should be back soon.”
“Your house is well kept,” I complimented. Out of respect, I slide my boots off, not wanting to track dirt into the home. Joking I asked, “You must help your mom out a lot, huh?”
“My mom has been working for months now,” she put simply. “I do most of the cleaning now. The cooking too. She’s taught me all I need, so I can make things easier for them. . .”
Exhaustion lay in her throat—what kid would be thrilled about chores? But it was her dead distant stare that caught my concern. This was the type of thing I searched for. I’d seen that stare hundreds of times. The defeated look. Exasperated. Each day the same tedious mess, desperate to break free of the cycle. These days everyone wore that look, but there was something about this girl that perked my senses.
“I know everyone is scared of us Alleviators, but we’re not as bad as we seem. I can assure you—”
“You won’t kill me?” Tears begged to stain her cheeks, but she sniffled back, refusing to show such weakness.
“That’s the same thing an Alleviator said to my brother.” Through gritted teeth, she croaked in frustration, “Now his grave is in my backyard! Go ahead! Search my house! Just don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I watched her arms tremble, her fingers twitch. Was it my imagination or had her skin paled? There looked like there were more shadows in the crevasses of her pinched face. But the girl still appeared human.
My lips parted, itching to say something reassuring, but in situations like these nothing ever helped. I defaulted into my safe answer, feeling the forced monotone scratch my throat, “Alleviators are sworn to be indifferent. We don’t favor any individual. We simply do our job so there are minimal threats to the community. Safety is what we strive for.”
“Safety huh? So my brother was a threat to the community? Really? He was—” she clenched her jaw as if to cut off her thoughts.
A fight wouldn’t solve any of this. There were protests—even the press wished for the Alleviators to be dissolved. The public doesn’t see the death of a Sorrow; a being that could slaughter an entire community. No, the only thing they see is the death of a loved one. The loss of innocent lives.
Without another word, she began up the stairs.
A private space where a Sorrow can isolate its target makes it easier for it to strike. Bedrooms are the first places I check. As if the girl knew what I was searching for, she led me to her room first. There would be a Sorrow somewhere in this house. Too much grief and depression held by one person is a dangerous thing.
The room was barren. A simple bed in the corner, a dresser in the other. Nothing else. Even the walls were empty of decoration unless you counted the bleak blue paint, so dull of color it could have been mistaken as white. And like the rest of the house, it was tidy.
Plopping herself on her bed, the girl opened her arms offering, “Go ahead, see if you can find any Sorrows or demons or whatever other monsters you’re looking for.”
Nodding, I began. It was hard to know where to start. Sorrows hide themselves in objects; cherished items that the owner doesn’t want to give up. I kept the girl in my peripheral. I could discretely observe her reaction when I touch certain objects. An itch, jump, or lean, tells me a Sorrow might be in what I’m holding. But this girl kept a dead stare as I poked through drawers full of clothes, old toys, and other belongings.
As I concluded the girl mocked me in a matter-of-fact tone, “I told you there’d be nothing.”
Shrugging, I continued my investigation. There was an empty bedroom that I assumed belonged to the deceased brother. All that remained were the imprints of old furniture. That was the procedure after an Alleviator’s cleansing. Ridding the family of the boy’s belongings would make it difficult for Sorrows to latch onto the despair.
She walked into the vacant room, steps slow and heavy. Her gaze traveled as if recalling the way it once looked. The way it should look. Imagining the old life where they would yell, tease, and laugh as siblings.
That’s when I noticed a glint of silver hidden by the thickness of her shirt. “What’s around your neck? Hand it over,” I ordered.
“N-nothing,” she tugged her collar before placing her hands on her hips, flashing me a smug smirk.
I paced forward. The confidence melted away as she stepped back, cornering herself against the far wall, “No!” Clutching the locket in her white knuckled fist the girl pleaded, “This is all I have left of him! Don’t take him from me!”
Extending a cautious hand I explained, “I just want to see it.”
A Sorrow was concealing itself—leeching off her grieving while feeding her memories of her brother. Keeping his spirit alive enough for her to cling onto hope. Just how long had the Sorrow been harvesting off her depression? Was it strong enough to consume her?
Falling to her knees, a white-knuckle fist clenched the locket. She begged, her voice like shattered glass, “No! Stop! Don’t take him away from me!”
Black wisp-like smoke leaked out of the crevasses of her grip. The dark wisps swirled around her head, as her fingernails grew into talons, embedding themselves in the back of her hands. A pale lifeless blue tainted the skin at her fingers. The color traveled up her arm, veins popping when it plagued her skin.
“You need to let go!” I demanded, praying I could somehow reach her. “The moment you let it consume you—the moment you give up—it’s over!”
But it was no use. The whiteish blue traveled up her neck, suffocating her. The pink from her lips faded into a frostbitten color. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, removing the last bit of life that she clung onto.
I unsheathed my blade in one motion. A spatter of blood painted the wall. The locket spilled onto the floor, revealing an illustration of the two siblings.
I offered an apology, “I’m sorry this was your only way to escape. I pray you reunite with your brother in another reality.”
My notebook shot out of my back pocket, landing in my hand. Its pages flickered, stopping near the back on a half-filled page. The sheet rippled, glowing with navy aura. The wisps from the locket followed the calling, fusing with my own possession.
Despite my unwillingness, I dropped my short sword, swapping it out for the pen that landed in my fingers. I added the tally. Nine hundred thirteen.
I tried to keep my gaze from wandering onto the splattered corpse. The more emotion I fed my Sorrow, the more it relished in satisfaction. I try to keep myself from feeling anything.
Just this once, I caved in.
I threw the notebook against the wall, its leather seeping into the pool of blood. I collapsed to my knees, letting the tears break out. Children were the worst. Why could they feel such complex emotions? Emotions negative enough for a Sorrow to swoop in, cultivate it, and consume them. Children are worth so much more than that.
And I have to be the one who kills them.
“I can’t take this anymore,” I muttered to myself.
My skin prickled as my Sorrow kicked at the high, begging for my tears to continue. I hated the sensation. Just how long would this go on for? Why had I let myself become its prisoner? How much longer was I going to let this thing control me?
I grasped my short sword, fingers bulging against the hilt. Twirling the blade, I raised my hands above my head. In one motion, I plunged the weapon into my stomach.
Clang!
The blade snapped in two, the tip skitting across the hardwood floor. The second half of the blade remained in my hand; the end of the metal left in a jagged shape. I lifted my torn tunic, finding my skin identical to the girl’s. My fingers ran over the lifeless color, feeling a sleek firmness that rivaled that of steel’s.
My muscles tensed, the Sorrow seizing control. The joints in my arms and legs ached, as I felt its satisfaction transfer into a controlled rage. My lips pursed, a burning sensation boiled in my throat. “You work for me. I decide who you kill. I decide which Sorrows you collect. I decide when and how you will die. Is that understood?”
I refused to move. The wrong decision. My veins burned as though the blood had been replaced by hellfire. My chest hit the floor, my limbs flailing against the hardwood. The Sorrow released its hold on my throat, letting me squeal like an animal up for slaughter. “I understand! I understand! You win! Okay! Okay?” Every fiber begged for the searing to cease. “Please! I’ll give you as many Sorrows as you need. I promise!”
“You mean that?”
My innards felt like they were melting. A beating rattled my brain. “Of course! I promise! I promise I’ll give you as many other Sorrows as you want! I promise!”
It stopped. Frantically, my lungs expanded against the bones of my rib cage. Not an inch of me wanted to move. I just wanted this cycle to end.
But the Sorrow pulled my muscles upwards. The notebook flew back in my pocket, the broken sword into its sheath. It was time to get back to work.
Time to kill more innocents.
