Page 2 of Claimed By Fangs and Darkness
Thirteen-year-old me stared into my eyes, swiping a hand across her dewy forehead. I stared back, my lower lip trembling.
We both stood, and I didn’t hesitate, not this time—not anymore.
I closed the distance between us, and I pulled her into a hug.
“Thank you,” I whispered, inhaling the scent of my childhood home—the hints of candle smoke, sage, and soil. “Thank you for protecting me.”
“I’ll always protect you,” she replied.
I pulled back, peering into her wide, frightened gray eyes. She worked hard to erase the fear from her determined features.
I took her hands in mine, even if it made me squeamish, even if I didn’t know how to be warm, maternal, and comforting. It had never been taught to me; it was a foreign language that felt wrong and clunky on my tongue.
“It’s not your job to protect me,” I said, my eyes pooling with tears. “It’s my job to protectyou.”
I noticed the instant softening of her tense, raised shoulders, and the exhale from her lips.
Her blonde hair was messy, her black dress slightly too small, her sneakers streaked with dirt and grass stains.
“Your only job is to play, explore, and be loved.”
She shook her head. “She doesn’t love us,” she said, heartbroken. “Mama doesn’t love us at all.”
We were back in our childhood home, sitting together in the corner of the room as doors and cabinets slammed beneath us. My thirteen-year-old self sobbed, half afraid of being heard, half yearning to be heard—to be seen, to be held.
I felt Princeton’s presence somewhere close, and I remembered all of his guidance from our emotional healing sessions. Grief clenched my heart, and the yelling from the kitchen downstairs grew louder.
“That was her loss,” I said, lifting my wobbling chin. I pulled her hand into mine again. “We aren’t here in this house anymore. You know that, right?”
She stopped rocking. She stared at me in confusion, shaking her head slowly.
“We can leave. We don’t have to stay here,” I said. “Wealreadyleft. I have my own place, somewhere far away. We live with someone who loves us—Mena, our adoptive grandmother. Idris lives close by.”
She looked around, still perplexed by my words.
“I have a closet full of pretty dresses, none of them black.”
At this, she smiled.
“We never have to come back here again,” I said, mirroring her smile, watching her eyes light up with relief. “Ilove you. You’re safe now.”
The room lit with a faint purple glow, Hekate’s fierce, protective maternal energy drowning out the noise from downstairs.
“I let you down before,” I told my inner child, the part of me that had been burdened with too much pain, too much responsibility—all that had been denied and suppressed for over a decade. “But I’m taking over. You were never meant to hold any of this for me. You’re free.”
Her tears stopped, her face relaxing.
“Do you trust me?”
She nodded. “I can try.”
I could see through her words to the truth beneath. Of course, she trusted me. All she’d ever wanted was to let go.
She didn’t want to be a savior. A protector. An angel or a monster.
She just wanted to be a kid.
We hugged one more time, and my next exhale was as long and cleansing as hers. When I opened my eyes, she was gone.
