Triangle Of Success
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The three of us stood there in the middle of our living room, staring at each other. I’d told my dad to leave and he’d taken me seriously; it was a very different dynamic between us now. Dad seemed like another person.
My sister’s expression didn’t change as she looked from me to him and back again. The air felt charged with tension like we were waiting for something to happen. It was an uncomfortable situation, but it wasn’t going away unless we did something about it.
“Dad,” I said, “I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m not sure that you’re still safe.”
He turned on me, rage burning behind his eyes, ready to attack me right there. He had no idea how close he came to getting a punch in. “You think I’m stupid?” he snarled, taking a step forward. He looked around and noticed the gun pointed at him and paused.
His face went blank as he took a breath, looking up at me again. “Are you fucking serious? You can’t shoot someone in their own home!”
My sister’s expression hadn’t changed since Dad got here – she never spoke when I talked to her father, which meant he must have been doing something to piss her off too. She knew what I wanted to do; if she had any sense she’d stop me.
But I couldn’t let him live anymore. He’d already tried to kill both of us once. Now that I understood why I needed to be done with it. If I could make him suffer for what he’d done to Mom, then perhaps it would bring some closure.
But I wasn’t about to tell them that. “I just need to know for sure that you’re not going to come after us again,” I said, trying to sound confident and reasonable.
My dad’s lip twitched, almost making him smile; I hated being the cause of that reaction from him.
“What are you talking about? This isn’t funny!” he snapped. “Why do you think I’m so angry all the time?”
Now he did look at me, but it was more as though I was a stranger than anything else. That hurt; I knew it made me look weak and pathetic.
“Because you’re losing your mind,” I said quietly. “And I think I know why.”
That stopped him completely. He stepped away from me and leaned against the wall. I could see his muscles tensing up and his fists clenching into balls as he glared at me with hatred in his eyes.
For the first time, I saw my dad without any pretense or denial; this was what my mother had seen and experienced before they split up. And maybe I was seeing the same thing happening to my own family.
“Do you really think I’m going to believe this shit?” he sneered.
My voice dropped low, almost sounding apologetic. “It’s not easy, Dad.” I swallowed. “This is why I need to talk to you… because you don’t listen to me when I say I want you to stop.”
His eyes narrowed further, and his lips formed a thin line. “Fuck off. Go ahead and shoot me. Then we’ll see who gets to walk out of here.” His eyes flared as he started to move toward me, hand reaching for the gun.
It was only one small step. I could still get myself into a position where I could grab the gun and point it away from his body. He was so angry he might not even notice the muzzle flash if I was fast enough.
I moved quickly. He swung with his right arm as I ducked under his left fist, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm upward as I slammed my elbow down. There was a crackling snap as he cried out in pain; he staggered back, his grip loosening.
I shoved my left arm straight through his stomach and twisted my torso, pulling the knife deep into his gut and ripping it free. Blood erupted as I pulled away; his hand fell slack and he crumpled to the ground.
I jumped forward and kicked him hard in the head as I knelt over him. He slumped sideways, blood flowing freely now across the carpet. I didn’t have any tissues and no one else was in the house, but Dad wasn’t going to die alone. He would die knowing that I was responsible.
“Goodbye, Dad.” I wiped my tears away. They stung my cheek as I brushed them aside. “I hope you rot in Hell.”
***
We stood together on the edge of town, watching our parents’ funeral pyres burn away. It had been arranged by the police; they’d come to collect us after the fight at home and take us away. My dad had gone first, leaving behind two bodies and no sign of his wife.
A few minutes later, my mom’s body had been lowered onto a bed of straw inside its own pyre. The smell was overwhelming, filling my nostrils with acrid smoke until even my throat felt burned.
The wind changed direction and suddenly the flames blew away from us, carrying most of the fire along with them to other parts of the field beyond the city limits. We watched the last of the pyres burn, their orange light slowly fading into darkness. The sky above was blackened; it seemed to go on forever.
Then there was silence. Nothing stirred as we stared out towards the ocean horizon. It was an endless expanse of nothing and everything, a vastness that went on for miles. Only the stars were visible, bright pinpoints of color against the velvet canvas of night.
After a while, I spoke up. “Did you ever wonder if your parents actually loved each other?” I asked him.
He didn’t respond.
“You remember when Mom came back from her honeymoon with your dad?” I pressed. “She kept saying she thought she might be pregnant.”
There was no change in his expression, but he nodded at me.
“When you asked Dad if he was going to marry her, he got very excited, as if he had never considered marriage at all before.”
“It’s true, though,” he said softly, staring away at something I couldn’t see. “They didn’t love each other.”
A sudden gust of wind swept across the field, bringing with it a chill that settled deep into my bones. “But then how can they be responsible for this? Why are we having this conversation now?”
“Because this isn’t what we expected it to be, is it?” His voice sounded tired, weary almost.
I looked down at my hands; the skin was red and raw from gripping his jacket so tightly. “Why are we talking about this now?” I finally said my voice barely above a whisper. “What happened to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’? Or is it ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer?'”
His face hardened, a look of distaste crossing his features. “I’m not going to tell you anything else, Rachel. I told you I won’t speak until we reach the end of our journey. And I mean it.”
***
Our father was a good man, and so was his family. That night had shocked them both: they were used to being able to rely on each other for help and support and had been together so long that they knew what each other needed before either spoke.
When we were younger, they had been like that all the time, always there to help when we fell or broke something. I don’t think they ever really thought that we would be taken away, though. We were too young, and there had been no signs of anything amiss – at least none they saw.
I suppose that’s why we never bothered to try and stop him because we never realized it was possible.
My mother was beautiful; she would smile at people as she passed them in the street, and everyone smiled back. She could do anything, fix anything, cook anything. I don’t know how she did it, but my mom never missed a meal; she was always feeding others.
People would ask her to make things for them, to teach them how to make things she had learned herself. My grandfather taught her how to use machines when she was just fifteen; he’d bought her one of those newfangled sewing machines which made clothes so much faster than doing them by hand.
He’d given us our school uniforms, and then some extra ones for special occasions; he’d even made my mother a wedding dress. He died when I was still small, and after he passed away, she took over running the business. My dad was good with numbers.
He’d worked as our accountant since my grandfather had retired. There was never any work done without his approval, so my parents had a pretty stable life together. Their house was large and comfortable, filled with laughter and warmth.
We lived there for years.
One day, however, we moved to a new neighborhood. We weren’t allowed to talk about where we were moving until we had reached our new home, but my sister and I were both excited at the prospect.
Our lives had become stagnant and predictable during our last few months in our old neighborhood; it felt as if everything was changing, and it scared me at first. But soon enough it began to feel safe again, comforting even, as if we were finally coming back to where we belonged.
That feeling faded after only a couple of days in our new home. Something about our surroundings made me anxious. In the evenings, I often heard strange sounds outside our windows, like someone walking along the pavement below, or a child screaming in the distance.
The next morning, these sounds would be gone. Sometimes we would wake up and find marks on our front door or walls – scratches like fingers had left behind their prints on the wood.
The strangest thing happened one evening when we were sitting down for dinner. I glanced up at our television set, thinking nothing out of the ordinary as it flickered on. It was then that the screen lit up with bright lines, like lightning striking somewhere far away.
Then we heard a woman scream: an awful wail that seemed to tear through every fiber of its being, making all the hair stand up on the back of my neck. My mother screamed, dropping her knife; I remember seeing it fall to the floor with a clatter.
“Don’t touch that!” my father shouted, grabbing my arm and yanking me up from the table. “There’s something wrong with this! Get upstairs!”
We ran upstairs to my room. I tried turning the TV off, but it refused to respond to my commands. I looked at my sister. Her face was pale, and her mouth was open as she stared into space, as though she were listening to someone else. “Mom,” I whispered. “Tell Mom we’re here.”
“She doesn’t hear you anymore, Rachel,” my mother replied. “You have to come closer.”
And then we heard a voice. A woman’s voice, speaking so softly and quietly that I almost didn’t realize she’d spoken at all. It said:
“Come. Follow us now. There is no more time. Come…”
I couldn’t move. I was frozen. All I could do was stare at my sister who was staring at our mother. They were both watching my mother intently.
“…the end,” the voice continued, whispering urgently. “It’s coming soon…”
Our mother stood up and walked to my bed and placed her hand on my forehead. I flinched when she touched me, and she smiled sadly before saying, “There, that should keep you safe.”
Then I watched as she slowly turned away from my frightened face and walked downstairs, disappearing in the doorway with my father. For some reason, I knew what was going to happen next. I closed my eyes.
“Rachel?” my mom called, coming into my room the next morning. She was dressed in a long grey coat. “Is everything alright? I can see you’ve been crying.”
“No,” I mumbled, not looking at her. “Not really.”
She sat on my bed beside me, smoothing my hair back. “Do you know what happened last night, honey?”
I nodded, closing my eyes as tears fell onto my cheeks. I remembered that awful sound of a woman’s voice calling to me, telling me it was time. And then she told me something else.
“‘The end,’ she said,” I whispered, trying to speak past the lump in my throat.
“What does that mean?”
I looked up at her. Her dark hair was tied back, her blue eyes glinting with the light that spilled through my window. She held her hands together as if they were about to pray, but she wasn’t praying for anything.
“It means…that we are all going to die,” I managed to say.
She took a deep breath and sighed, pulling herself together. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that right now,” she said, reaching for her purse and rummaging inside it. She pulled out two white pills which she offered to me. “Take them, sweetie. You’ll feel better soon.”
They tasted bitter on my tongue. After I swallowed the first one, I began to tremble violently, and then suddenly everything went black.
***
When I woke, everything seemed different. Everything was too bright, and the air smelled sour and hot. The room around me was dimly lit, the walls made of thick, grey stone. There were no windows – just a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. I was wearing a simple dress of white cotton, with a long brown jacket over my shoulders. It felt heavy against my skin.
My parents were there, seated side by side on their chairs near the door. They were looking at me curiously as if I was something special. They hadn’t changed much since I’d seen them last. We looked about the same age as each other, and they both still had the same dark hair and green eyes, although it was slightly greener now that the sun shone through them.
They looked tired, worn out somehow. Their mouths were drawn tightly over their lips, and they kept looking nervously at each other.
“How do you feel?” asked my mother, looking closely at me with her piercing eyes. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to ask again, but the words wouldn’t come out. “Are you feeling any better?”
I shook my head. “Where am I?”
“This is your new home, honey.” My dad reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. “Open it up and read it later; there are important things you need to know about your place here.”
I nodded and watched him go back towards the door, leaving my mom and me alone. She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Now that you’re feeling better,” she whispered in my ear, “there’s someone waiting to meet you.”
I followed her to the door and watched it open, revealing the figure standing there. It was old and bent, but she was beautiful. Her pale face was wrinkled like a crumpled piece of paper, her skin smooth and cool against my fingers as I ran them over her cheek. I knew this woman. I’d never met her before, but I’d seen her many times before. I knew exactly who she was: Mother Gassenau.
“Hello,” she said, smiling kindly at me as she opened her arms wide and welcomed me into the room. “Welcome to our home.”
***
I spent the entire afternoon with Mother Gassenau, asking her questions and learning how to live in her house. As it turned out, we shared a lot of the same beliefs. When I told her that I’d lived in the orphanage, she frowned at me and told me that orphans were bad luck – that I would be happier living with those of us who believed differently.
“We believe the end comes soon,” she told me, “and we must prepare for it. This is a good thing.”
After lunch, we walked outside and along the narrow road that led away from our village. The ground was covered in tall grass and wildflowers, and the wind was soft and warm across my cheeks as we stepped out of the shadow and into the sunshine.
“There are three others in our village,” she said, “who also have gifts. They came here when we were young and left their families behind to live here among those who will survive until the end.”
I stopped and looked at her, confused. “Survive what? What happened to the world?”
Mother Gassenau shrugged. “You’ll learn all about it eventually. For now, let’s get some exercise and see where it takes us.”
We walked down the path, past a few more houses made of stone with shuttered windows and doors. I caught sight of another woman walking towards us, carrying a basket on her back. As she approached, Mother Gassenau greeted her warmly. “Hi, Mary,” she said. “What are you doing on such a lovely day as this?”
Mary smiled politely. “I’m visiting my sister, Anne, who lives just ahead of us.”
I watched the two of them chatting, wondering what they might say to each other. It was easy to forget that not everyone could talk to animals the way I could. It had always been that way with the orphans. Most of the adults couldn’t understand them – or so they thought, anyway. Sometimes the truth was far more complex than that.
After we passed the last house on the left side of the road, Mother Gassenau pointed towards the sky. “That’s the forest over there,” she said, indicating the line of trees that stretched off beyond the horizon. “And these hills are our fields.”
The land looked flat and peaceful, dotted with occasional clusters of bushes and low-growing flowers. In places, the ground rose up and became steeper, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. We walked together in silence for several minutes before she spoke again.
“When we die, we become one with the earth and return to it once more.” She paused, watching me silently as I thought about what she’d said. “But first we must pass through the darkness of the forest; only then can we enter the realm of those who will remain after the end.”
“Why does everyone think that the end will happen?” I asked.
She laughed softly. “Because it always has. There’s no real proof, except for our belief.” She held out her hand and pointed towards a cluster of tall trees, dark against the sky. “Look over there. What do you see?”
My heart skipped a beat. That’s where we’d landed. “It looks like the trees are reaching for something,” I said, “but I don’t see anything in their branches.”
“They’re looking for the sun, honey.” She looked back at me and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you recognize any of your people here or even your friends? Don’t you know any children?”
“Only the ones in the orphanage.” I felt myself growing angry suddenly, and it wasn’t because I was being mocked by Mother Gassenau. “This is the only place in the world where I’ve ever known anyone.”
She took hold of my hand and squeezed gently. “You don’t need to stay here,” she said. “There are other places.” She patted my shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “If you want to leave, all you need to do is walk through the forest until you reach the sun. You can take your things with you if you like, but remember – everything you own belongs to someone else here and you should not steal it.”
She released my hand and started walking down the hill, heading deeper into the woods. After several moments she called me over, gesturing with her free hand toward an open patch of grass. “Here, sit down and watch the birds.”
She went further into the trees, disappearing between the rows of dark trunks. I sat on the ground beside a small tree. It was hard to make out its shape in the shade; there was no light coming through the leaves at all.
I watched a pair of birds flitting from branch to branch, pecking at the grass below them. One was much bigger than the other and had bright red feathers. The smaller bird had brown feathers and was grey, blending into the background easily.
“How come you speak to birds?” I asked her, curious about how she could hear their thoughts.
“Not every bird has the gift of speech,” she replied, “so most of the time I use mine to communicate with animals. I’ve got a knack for finding them, wherever they might be hiding. Now, tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
“I’m thinking… I want to go home,” I said slowly. “Where my mother’s waiting for me.”
Mother Gassenau nodded. “That’s not such a bad thing to wish for, you know.” She paused for a moment and then added: “But you’ll miss me too.”
The End