Chapter Two

Lillia found herself in the basement. Understandable. She usually wanders down there when she’s annoyed or angry — it’s somewhere she can be sure she’s alone. No-one else makes a habit of coming down here. Why would they? A small, dirty space, crammed with boxes, a low ceiling, cobwebs — cobwebs everywhere. An awful room. Lillia winced everytime she entered, but she did so anyway. When you’re lucky enough to have a house, you don’t complain about the squashed dirthole of a basement, because then you risk not having a home at all, and that is so much worse.

Lillia crawled in and leant up against one of the boxes. She sighed. Heavily. She’d been looking forward to the riot. Of course, she had no idea it would happen for certain, but a parade for the King in one of the most impoverished areas of Ilbion? No way that was going to go down well. Then the letters came saying it was mandatory attendance! Yep, that’s right you poor fucks! Line up for your King! Lillia sighed again, this time sadness washed over her. This is life, she thought. Soon, it would be her 19th birthday, and things have only gotten worse and worse. She remembered what her nan had said: “I’ve been waiting for the revolution for over half a century, kiddo. It never came.”

Hm. Her nan. Lillia wondered how she was doing — most likely okay, not much phased her. She doubted her nan would get jail time for her little performance, but worry still tingled in her stomach. She’s getting old, too old. The type of old people around here never reach. Yet she’s still full of energy, full of drive. Lillia could only imagine what she was like at her age. She heard stories, but her mother never liked talking about them. The general idea — or at least what Lillia put together — is that her nan, Rosemarie May, was a key player in the resistance to the current government's rise to power, or something like that. Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? She obviously failed whatever it was. But Lillia can’t help wondering what it was like back then — back in a time where hope still lived. Lillia would love to dream again.

She let out a huff of frustration, slamming her head against the wooden box she leant against. The wood, it seemed, did not like that. It cracked, contents spilling out, splinters of wood and other solid objects pelted Lillia on the head, scattering across the floor. One of the objects felt heavier than the others. It hit with confidence, leaving a lasting twang of pain. Lillia clasped her head, preparing to have a nasty word with the heavy object. It clattered against the floor, resting next to her right foot. Her eyes caught a glimpse of the culprit. Lillia paused. Then she blinked, shook her head, and looked again. She wasn’t seeing things. Unsurprisingly, the object was metal — rusty from years of rest. The surprising parts were the wooden handle, the copper lever, barrel and trigger.

The gun layed next to her foot lifelessly, as guns did. But Lillia stiffened her movement, carefully moving her leg away from it as if it was a beast lost in a peaceful slumber. She watched it, waiting for any sudden moves, just in case. She positioned her body to be as far from the weapon as possible, while reaching her hand out towards it. Slowly, her hand felt the grain of the wood. Lillia stroked the handle. If it was going to pounce at her, now would be the time. The pistol did not move. She took a deep breath and grasped the pistol, lifting it to her eyes.

Her mind buzzed with questions. She resisted the urge to play with the trigger. It looked so pullable! Lillia turned the gun in her hand, taking in the mechanisms. She’d never held a weapon before, let alone a gun, king of all weapons. She’d seen them, oh of course she had. Everyone has seen a gun. The police carry long guns of metal and wood, a blade under the barrel at the end, just in case. Some even had smaller pistols, like she held, but theirs were bulkier — looked like a pain to carry around. Lillia had never seen one this small and thin. She stared at it a little while longer, mesmerized. Afraid. Curious. What was something like this doing in the basement of their house?

Lillia snapped her eyes from the gun, gently resting it by her side. She studied the rest of the mess she made. There was a pouch — of what could only be the ammunition for the strange weapon — a dust covered book and a couple picture frames. They caught Lillia’s attention first. She turned them over, revealing the pictures the frames held. The glass cover had cracked and one was completely missing. The pictures had tears in them, making it a challenge to figure out what they were pictures of. Not that the quality of the photos were any good. All Lillia could make out was a figure of what looked like a young girl and her friends. It was a blob, but human features could be made out if you looked close enough.

She wondered who they could be. Maybe her mother? Perhaps her ancestors? Could even be her nan. But none of them answered the glaring question: what was a gun doing in the same box as these photos? Lillia believed that whoever was in the photos, the weapon belonged to them. That’s the only logical reason, to her at least.

Lillia glanced up at the wooden roof. It creaked from footsteps above. Who in her family could possibly need a gun? Her great grandfather, in a war maybe? Were guns even around then? She ran through all the possibilities she could think of. None of them made a single drop of sense. Lillia shook her head. The dusty, thick book called to her. She’d neglected it so far, there were more exciting things to deal with first, plus Lillia wasn’t an avid reader. One more thing dissuaded her from the book — it looked to be a journal. She worried it would answer too many things. Sometimes, it’s best to just not know.

But Lillia has been a curious person since the day she was born.

The journal didn’t contain much, at least, not much that was readable. Most of the writing had faded or smudged — the book felt damp, an uncomfortable, squishy damp. Lillia flipped through the pages. Large chunks thumped over, pages glued together by the conditions. Towards the end of the book, the writing became readable. She stopped on a page.

14th Iprali 738 of the 8th Era.

I’m a grandma!! Today my beautiful granddaughter was born, Thalia Marie Ernalin. I cannot believe this day has come, I never thought my life would make it this far.

Though I can’t help but feel a bittersweet twang in my mouth. I’ve got a granddaughter now, I can’t keep going out and, well, getting arrested. Not even that, just making a fool of myself. I doubt little Thalia would want to be the grandchild of the village weirdo. I was never there for Emma, too busy protesting and fighting — I thought I was going to make life better for her, but, being honest, nothing has changed. I might have even made it worse.

Emma if you ever read this please know I never wanted—

The entry cuts off there, the following words lost to time. Lillia wasn’t sure what to think. This must have been her grandmother’s diary. She had always been shrouded in mystery. She was part of the family, Lillia saw her lots growing up, but there was always a tense air when the room went quiet. Now, Lillia began to understand how the air had been heated. She flipped to the next readable page. This one had no date, no title. It simply read:

I tried my best. That wasn’t enough.

Lillia tapped the page, soaking in the words. The lack of context made them hit harder. Surely trying your best is the absolute most someone can do — why beat yourself up about it?

The floorboards above creaked, a painful scream. Lillia lowered the journal and looked up. The boards bowed under pacing footsteps. Two voices appeared, arguing. One, her mother and the other … Lillia’s eyes widened. Her sister’s. She quickly threw the mess she made back into the box — with the exemption of the pistol, which she placed carefully. They would always be here, in the basement for another day, her sister, on the other hand…

Lillia bolted — as much of a bolt you can do when you are on your hands and knees — and re-emerged into the dingy upstairs of the house. The voices got louder.

“Mum, I can’t! Do you not think I’ve thought endlessly about it? Do you think I want this?”

“Well it seems to me that you bloody well do, you spineless coward!”

Lillia barged through the door frame into the living room — if there had been a door there, she would’ve kicked it open, dramatically. Immediately the bickering stopped. Both women looked at Lillia. Her mother glared, but her sister, her face lit up immediately.

“Thalia!” Lillia rushed forward into a hug. They both smiled. Lillia pulled away. “You lucky bastard, missing that dick of a king’s funeral parade!”

“A-hem!” Lillia’s mother announced, “don’t speak of the late king like that! Totally disrespectful!”

“He’s dead, mum,” Lillia groaned, “he isn’t going to care.”

“Okay okay! Let’s not fight over a dead person,” Thalia suggested.

Lillia nodded, reluctantly. “Anyway, what was going on up here? I heard a commotion — you know I love a good commotion.”

“Yeah,” Thalia sighed, chuckling.

“Well,” their mother began, “your sister here wants to kill the baby!”

“No. I don’t.”

“Sounded pretty keen to me!”

“Wrong again!”

Lillia scratched her head. “What baby?”

“The one in there!” their mother jabbed Thalia’s stomach. She recoiled.

“That’s … not a baby yet though?”

“Thank you, Lillia!” Thalia exhaled, “it isn’t even a baby yet, so even if I actually wanted to kill the baby, that isn’t what I would be doing!”

Their mum screwed her face up, Lillia assumed as an attempt to force tears. “But it could be! My beautiful little granddaughter.” She looked up at Thalia, eyes watery. “You’d really take that away from me?”

“No! I don’t want to! I want this child so much — you remember how happy I was when I found out! But…”

“But…?” Lillia asked, genuinely curious. Her sister had been trying for a child for years. Lillia remembered the day she told everyone, the smile that shone on her face. It was a good day. A reminder that amongst all this dirt and shit, there was still light. “Will it kill you to have them?”

Thalia shook her head. “No, and that’s what makes it worse!” She steadied her breathing. “We don’t have the money to look after her.”

The room went silent. Lillia glared at her mother, daring her to say something. She didn’t. They remained stationary, frozen in time. Dust particles danced around the room, not reading the situation isn’t one for dancing. The torn curtains waved gently in the wind. Outside, the splutter of an engine, the clop of horse hooves. Lillia reached for something to say. Her mother got their first.

“Life’s not all about money! A true mother,” her voice raised for those words, “would look after their children no matter what!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want my child to have the same life as me!”

“What did you just say!?” 

Lillia held her tongue with caution.

Thalia continued. “I want my child to at least have some sort of life! Not starving away in poverty like we did!” she shot Lillia a glance, “I don’t know about my sister, but I for one — after everything I’ve lived through — I wish you never had me!”

A hole formed in Lillia’s stomach. A deep darkness that held nothing but sorrow. Did she hear correctly? Her sister, the person she wished she could be, didn’t want to be born? Lillia felt that way too, but she never expected Thalia to hold that feeling. Thalia was the pride of the family. The daughter that got married, got a decent job — always made mother proud. Lillia thought she was her complete opposite. The disappointment. The mistake. The daughter that never should have been. The rebellious, disobedient, life hating child. How could her sister feel the same? Even one mental similarity sounds impossible.

“Oh, so I’m to blame for ruining your amazing life?” their mother snapped. “That was me? Was it? If it was for my retarded mother — your stupid nan — getting arrested all those times for her vile acts, fucking ridiculous protests, maybe we would be somewhere better! Maybe I could’ve had a good life! But no. That wasn't possible. She was too busy caring for fucking strangers, foreingers, what have you, then to care about me!”

Thalia glanced at the floor. “Mum—”

“Oh, and just when you think your mother is actually going to raise you, nope! She’s got to help the faggots and the transvestites now! What a brilliant mother, and you say I am an awful mother? Try having—”

Lillia wasn’t sure what came over her. Her stomach flared up, a tornado of fire exploded throughout her body. She clenched her fists, losing all feeling and focus in all but her arms. Heavy. Tense. Lillia let the natural flow guide her. She brought her fist up, launching it right into her mothers cheek. Her knuckles connected with her jaw, vibrating her whole arm, the fire pushed the pain back, steadying the blow. Once her fist drove far enough into her mothers face, the fire expelled. The hole filled up, all the darkness freed from her body and into the world. 

Her mother stumbled backwards into the wall. She clasped her face, no doubt screaming in pain. Lillia stumbled backwards, breathing deep and sharply. Her knuckles were red, the sting of the contact lingered.

Thalia collapsed her mouth. “Oh my god, Lillia.”

She wasn’t finished. “At least nan tried to help people!” Lillia screamed, her emotions bouncing around inside. A tear fell from her face. “That’s more than you ever did!”

“GET OUT! BOTH OF YOU GET OUT!”

Thalia picked up her bag, eager to leave. She gestured to Lillia, telling her to hurry up. Lillia let the last of the tornado free. Her bones ached, her arm rang, her knuckles stung with pain. Exhaustion washed over her instantly and regret filled up to her eyes.