Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. — Edgar Allan Poe

“I hope you don’t mind the place.”

It’s a dainty thing, the voice.

It’s the voice of a girl, a girl who Nathan knows quite well. The voice belongs to his sister, a woman of twenty-nine. She would be angry to hear that after thirteen years, the sound hasn’t changed at all to Nathan’s ears. That the sound is girlish despite her age. However it’s not only her voice that’s in stasis.

His sister is at the edge of the hallway of the hotel, and a crooked little smirk rests on her face. It doesn’t look right. It’s as if an artist has lovingly drawn out a portraiture, only to hastily pencil in a lopsided grin because time ran out.

Krista tosses her hair, long and wavy, sleek and heroine-like. It swathes over her shoulder like a cascade. It’s entirely too regal for Nathan, the display feels unnatural for him. He doesn't know how to react. Her skin is lightly sheened of bronze, a color that he knows can only be softened under tender rays of warmth. Was she at the beach recently?

A sigh would pass through his lungs if he wasn't holding onto his breath so tight. His teeth gnash heavy against each other, tense and guilty. He doesn’t know anything about her life, hasn’t caught up with her outside of the texts she occasionally sends his way, the ones he’s only read.

Nathan dog-ears the page of the novel he was leafing through, to give full appraisal at Krista’s shining figure.

It’s surreal. There are people who bring out the light in others, sure, but Krista, she's different. She exudes a glowing halo from her core. Her very being is a fairy's ring. Magic. Striking.

Despite that, Nathan can barely feel the muscles in his cheeks shift upward. He rarely uses them, finds little use to nowadays. Even near someone that he should consider the idea, that others would say beauty, Nathan finds he can’t truly appreciate her. He watches her but doesn't see her. Krista is opaque yet invisible. She is the faint beam of sunlight at the edge of the passageway but all it does is highlight the darkness that threatens to cover her.

Amongst the still, dusty bleakness of the hallway, Nathan hears the almost-silent parting of skin—of gloss-sticky lips smacking—and knows that Krista will speak in a second’s notice. But Nathan has adapted; he is quicker.

“I like places with ambiance, let’s say. It helps with my writing,” says Nathan, his eyes drifting down to the book in his hands, filled with sticky notes of his own thoughts. Casually he flips open the book in his hand and stares at the worn-out pages of The Fall of the House of Usher. The book stares back at Nathan with its rambling row of black text. Nathan's eyes full stop upon the word blood.

“...More like creepy places.” His sister's voice skulks in from the far edge of the hallway. Finding no reason to argue, Nathan lets it go. He closes the book and it sinks down to his side.

Noticing that the carpet of the hotel is the color of aged spinach verging on rot, his sight follows a trail of dark red blobs. It’s too little an amount to be considered a pattern of the carpet, but too much to be thought of as a simple stain. The pathway leads to a dark corner of the hallway, opposite to where the light is. He wants to imagine about its origin, but he is interrupted by another truth bomb from Krista.

"You are such a weirdo, Nate." Krista says.

At least it’s a truth that he can acknowledge. Nathan beams because he can nearly hear Krista sticking her tongue out in emphasis to her claim. Chancing a glance upwards, Nathan’s hypothesis is unquestionably correct; a pink flash quickly tucks back into Krista’s mouth when they match eyes. Her face turns a rosy shade but she doesn't look away. Instead her gaze settles over Nathan. A pressure hangs itself on Nathan’s shoulders like a morning fog on the earth, heavy and unrelenting, with a silent beg for a challenge to shake it off.

Nathan rarely takes the bait.

“It’s not creepy, Krista. We’ve been there before,” Nathan answers simply, a subdued smile melting into his otherwise clandestine face. The smile would’ve dissolved in mere seconds if not for his sister’s persistence to pull at him.

She, as per usual, is in the mood for snappy comebacks. Rolling her eyes, Krista doesn’t care to hide her comment under a mutter.

“Please, only when the sun was out and Grandma Ruth was there.” Krista throws one of her hands into her hair and fluffs it up. Appropriately blasé in her simple shrug, Krista stalks off. Her gladiator heels thump like a well-paced heart on the carpeted floors as she crosses by Nathan. She’s probably placing more distance between them, and Nathan doesn’t mind. It’s the most logical thing to do, considering everything. He doesn’t chase behind her.

But even all that, Nathan doesn’t turn around to see her. He just can’t. His ears burn from her words. Listening has seared his eardrums, the words are branded in his mind in such a forceful intrusion that he is reeling from it. It's strange to hear the name said aloud, when Nathan's used to it being squeaked out or whispered in strained regret.

Just like the names of two despised children tied to a family by a single kindred string.

After all that preparation, the bolstering, it’s stupid that Nathan can’t handle a name.

It’s because Feelings are such terrible creatures.

They have no corporeal being but utterly wreck those with form. They can change a person’s mouth completely and permanently.

Nathan's memories of Grandma Ruth are fond but short. He remembers the scratchy Persian carpet underneath his stomach, his own hands streaked with pencil lead. He's smudging everything he touches, and the smell of old paper and white peppermint stain his skin as he actively defaces his grandmother's copy of a harlequin romance.

He half-recalls the raunchy words now as an adult, and chuckles. He cannot believe he didn't think of it much when he was staring down the words in such proximity during his youth. It goes to prove that childish innocence is the best memory block.

But everything else is clear. He remembers being surrounded by books at almost all corners of the room, the few instances of light dribbling over the arrays of volumes through a large and decorated window. The sunlight peeks through the hard-edged crystals in the extravagant chandelier; the result causes the light to dance and fall to the floors after weaving together in the air.

His nose calls back the mix of smoky ash and layers upon layers of secretive dust. Using that stimuli, Nathan closes his eyes and the image materializes: the gallant towers of books, unmoving, in contrast to the sheer curtains flapping when a particularly good breeze blows in. The scent of tuberose drifts like a lazy bird over the ocean waves.

Nathan remembers that day. It’s the one where he is scribbling stories about Intrepid Knights, and a Tireless Princess saving a Kind Prince from a Fire-Breathing Dragon. The crayon glides over old book pages and his fingers are sticky from the wax. Grandma Ruth is sitting in her large recliner, looking outside the bay window. Serenity is a nice word to cauterize this moment.

A soft but hurried sound is what makes Nathan pick his head up. The door swings open and almost hits the bookcases when his mother comes in, hair frayed at her sweating temples, and takes Nathan gently by the hand. She pulls him away as the rest of the adults rush in like water filling in a space.

Grandma Ruth doesn't get up from her seat, but what she does later is why this memory is etched so in Nathan’s mind.

She reaches out to Nathan.

By some magnetic pull or the childish desire of wanting her acceptance, Nathan reaches out to her. But the contact never comes. One of his aunts smacks his hand away. They’re not family might have been what she said.

Next thing he knows is his own mother's hand swooping in around his aunt’s offending wrist and plucking it into the air. It’s a hawk catching insolent prey. There's some shouting but the words age and curl and blur out like a rotting scrap of paper.

Some segments of that day retain pristinely in his memories. Like of his sister. She is at the corner of the room in a crimped purple dress, the material further crinkling under her tight little fists. The adults are grabbing at his mother, and Nathan falls to the gorgeous Persian carpet. He skids on a surface so similar yet unlike the one he had been before; he gets up with red blistering palms and scratched-up knees.

Krista’s cry for him is plaintive compared to the noise, but he finds her. In the corner, there she is. Krista is a violet resistant to wilting amongst the rabble. She has one of her small hands open, stretched toward him.

It’s the gesture he needs so badly but Feelings get in the way. Feeling is what makes Nathan do the only one thing he’s ever regretted.

Nathan shakes his head at Krista. He innately commands her to wilt. He understands what is happening around him, and will let the rout overtake his body. In quick response—as she’s always been a quick one—Krista drops her mouth, un-grits her teeth. Her eyes, which are babe-wide, are accusing, and are dark, burn up from inside her. It doesn’t stop there though. That heat radiates over to Nathan; it poisons him.

He sees that Krista, with her straight back and a staunch little chin, a little upturned because of her height and her complexes, is more like their mother than Nathan will ever be. She carries the posture of resilience. It's been like that since they were children, and it's the same now.

Nathan looks up at the mottled ceiling of the hotel, finally tuning into what Krista is saying. Little splices of dialogue here and there cobble up a general patchwork of conversation. Something about how Nathan shouldn't accept, proximity of blood… and nothing new. He's heard it all before, and he’s never been a type to listen to repeat lectures.

Before Krista further explains her points Nathan says, “I thought it was often strange that Grandma Ruth was named Ruth, I mean, it’s such an old lady name... It’s as if she knew she was going to be a grandmother—"

“Nate. Really?! Focus!” Well-done French-manicured nails snap in front of Nathan’s face. Nathan rolls his eyes and gives Krista one raised eyebrow in silent rebuttal. Instantly, she blanches and lowers her hand, but crosses her arms. Her dress shifts back and forth in her fidgeting. “I know they don't like how it's been arranged, and you know I'm all for you..."

He follows up. "But?"

"...But I really don't like it, Nate.” Krista sighs and drops her folded stance to tuck a long strand of hair behind her ear. “They think it's not yours...”

“It was in her writing.”

“I know that,” Krista snaps, “don't interrupt me. I know it's yours by her words, but there's people willing to fight over that weird place. It's just... Can you please consider what I said? Promise? One year. That's all.” She clutches the front of her jacket and Nathan's stomach sinks. Feeling strikes. Realization is the last to arrive to the party, it seems.

Christ. He's worrying her. Of course he has been.

Guilt urging him on, Nathan slides his free hand out of his pocket. It lands over hers, warm and firm. She looks up at him, and Nathan, observant as he is, can see the tired lines under her eyes that's hiding under a coat of concealer. They might as well be arrows indicating anxiousness. Nathan has to look away.

God, what an idiot.

How could he think that Krista would actually relax? Finally cashing in her vacation days at the real estate agency, after all those years to lounge now? Unlikely.

It hurts to continue looking at her, but he doesn’t stop. He returns to her face as if she is his own reflection. To her he says, “Yeah. I'll keep it.”

Her hand lets go finally, mostly to clutch at her mouth and chin after one of her self-proclaimed ugly wobbly smiles. She hates them so much because she says she just feels too much, but Nathan loves her for them.

Really, how cool is his sister that she is able to walk hand-in-hand with destruction?

If anything, Nathan can be called stoic. That’s the nicest route to go, to describe him. But even he’s not built to withstand everything. Her ugly wobbly smile breaks him. He angles his face to the wall when he pulls away to grab his suitcase that's been sitting at the side of his room's door. She’s a trigger crier too, his sister. If she sees that his eyes are wet, they’d have to run for Kleenex. Faking a yawn, Nathan wipes at his eyes and erases the evidence.

“Man, looks like it’s almost two. Mr. Edwards will be here in about a minute. He’s never late, you know.” Nathan says.

Krista freezes, but it’s so quick that it could have easily been mistaken for nothing. Oh, but she’s never been a subtle one. Krista's heels paw at the carpet, over and over. She doesn't reach out for a hug. She doesn't tell Nathan to not go. Nathan doesn’t blame her, as she’s been perched on this fence for a while now. And it is scary high.

“Did they finish moving everything in?” Krista asks right when Nathan moves to the elevator, and Nathan gives her a smile to soften what’s to come.

“Didn't have much when I left, remember?” Nathan shrugs, checking his watch. It's time and both of them know it. “I'll see you later, Krista.”

Krista doesn't say anything as Nathan walks down the stairs. Even if she wanted to, Nathan gives her no chance.