Page 115 of The Lies We Steal

Good and Evil.

An early concept that many try to say have a certain likeness.

They like to tell you that good encompasses all the light. It’s the halo of life that does no wrong. It’s the sound of newborn babies crying, soft strands of woven gold hair, and church pews on Sunday.

While evil is the root of sin. It’s the creatures that lurk in the night, screams from the misty woods, and crows squawking over fresh meat. Evil has an image. It is the shade, black, oblivion.

Your whole life they depict these for you, so that when you develop a mind of your own you will be able to see the difference. You will see someone and know whether their intentions are sinister or pure.

They are fucking wrong.

Evil has no fixed image and neither does good.

If that were the case, Alistair wouldn’t be breaking through the door of his family home ready to tear through hell. Dorian wouldn’t have me tethered to a chair with a gag in my mouth, looming over with wicked intent.

By the world’s standard, the man almost holding a PhD, the homecoming king, light brown eyes, million-dollar smile, and well-dressed stature should be my knight in shining armor.

And the morally gray brother, the one with cold eyes, a damning reputation who believes killing people will avenge his friend’s girl is the crooked villain ready to rob me of my innocence.

The moment I’d stepped foot into Hollow Heights. The second I heard about Alistair, he had been painted as the evil one. I was guilty of it myself as he stood beside Easton in that classroom.

I took what they said about him and made assumptions. Granted, anyone in their right mind would think of him as the bad guy after watching him participate in a murder. And maybe that did make him evil. The ability to wipe someone off the face of the earth. At the same time, had someone killed my mom, like Lyra’s, I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t do the exact same thing.

This entire town had made him into something he wasn’t. They started a war within his soul and expected him to find peace. Shocked when he chose violence over harmony.

Raised by a family that he had no chance of surviving unless he became cruel.

My eyes said words my mouth couldn’t as Alistair came into view, stalking into the living room with animosity in his harsh glare.

I thought his white t-shirt would melt off his body, the way it spread across his defined shoulders, and tapped into his lean waist. His hair wasn’t pushed out of his face, instead single pieces crossed his forehead as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

His boots thudded across the floor.

Dorian barely moved from his seat, swirling the melting ice in the whiskey tumbler, looking up at his younger brother with contempt. The barrel of the gun, resting against the leather chair.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.” Dorian speaks first, watching the way Alistair abruptly stops as he sees the gun in his hand. He stood in front of us, his eyes flicking to me and back to his brother.

I know the swelling on my eye has started to show, the blood had stopped running down my face an hour ago and I could feel how stiff my eyebrow was from the caked blood that sat there.

Refusing to let him touch me warranted a pistol whip to the face that left me unconscious for what felt like days but had really only been a few hours. When I woke up I was tied to this chair, listening to Dorian rant on and on about how mistaken I was.

How stupid I was for choosing Alistair over him, for denying him when he was better in every way. How appalled he was by my inability to see that for myself. He paced back and forth in front of me, until he’d finally decided to sit down, leading me to believe he’d had some sort of psychotic break.

He had to have.

“What are you doing?” Alistair questions, fists balled by his side as he keeps his cool, knowing he’s at a disadvantage because of the explosive weapon.

“Doing what I do best, little brother.” I don’t have to look over to see the grin on his face, “Taking what’s yours. Taking what has always been mine.”

My mouth ached from straining around this cloth wrapped around my head, preventing me from speaking anything other than disgruntled mumbles. Tears stung my eyes and even though I had tried to remain as calm as possible, I felt their hot slickness run down my cheeks.

“You’re fucking delusion, Dorian. We aren’t kids anymore and this isn’t a game. Let her go.” Alistair argues.

I feel Dorian’s eyes on me, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” He murmurs and I want to vomit at the thoughts he’s having about me in his head. “It was one of the first things I noticed about her. How her cupids bow is perfectly symmetrical and her eyes, they shine like jewels. Then she had to go and ruin it.”

The creak of leather bowing beneath his weight echoes in the room as he stands up, leaving the whiskey on the side table and keeping the gun in his dominant hand. My heart beats in tune with his steps as he waltzes behind my chair.

I can feel the cold metal of the gun pressed into my hair, the way he draws patterns in my scalp with the barrel, making me wince with fear. I tried to suck in the tears, to silence the cries but I could only handle so much.

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