A Curse

Desmond



     Of all the 253 years that I've been alive, I could remember everything, and that's not an exaggeration. From the time I was born to now was permanently branded into my memory forever. Most of the time, it was a handy tool, but other times, it seemed more like a curse. No matter how many times I tried to ignore something, or forget something, the memory just slammed harder, and further imprinted itself in my mind, one of these things, being my violent birth.
Even in our mothers womb, me and my twin sister, Jessica, were pretty self aware, and when we decided we were ready to be born, we could feel our father rushing mother to their bedroom. A hospital for us, would be... lets say, inappropriate.
     I went first, and tipped myself down and began to push. My mother was already screaming, but nothing was happening as far as being pushed out, so I began to claw. My nails dug into her soft tissue, and began to bleed. The condensed air began to smell metallic, and I could feel her blood dripping under my fingernails and down my arms to my face, and hear her earsplitting screams that were so full of agony, but being the malevolent, selfish creature that I am, I kept clawing, faster and faster.
     And then I was out. I could feel my fathers hands take me away to the edge of the bed and wipe me down.
     Fresh air filled my lungs as I took in my surroundings. The room itself was a huge pentagon shape, and the ceiling was about 25 feet high (which worked because our father was about 15 feet at least) with a diamond chandelier hanging from it. Instead of lights, there were candles with flames that blazed bright, and were about a foot high. The walls were a burgundy color that looked like fur that matched the carpet. My eyes wondered to the bed spread, now stained with blood. The room looked fit for an evil king. And then to my mother. She was crying pink tears, but she was smiling weekly at me. Despite the obvious pain she was in, she was still really pretty.
     And then her face shifted back into one of agony, and she belted out another earsplitting scream, and my sister began to claw and scratch her way out. Her arms moved even quicker than mine did. When she made her way out she was still kicking and screaming and scratching, her little arms moving even more vigorously with each passing second. Father picked her up and set her next to me.
     She already had hair down to her shoulders, and it was dark and wavy, just like our mothers. Her eyes were also the same bright red.
     Our mother was now smiling even more weakly at the both of us, pink tears still running down her pretty face. But that image once again shifted when father snatched her up and dragged her limp, bleeding body to the corner of the room where chains and shackles lay. He pushed her to the ground, pressing her face against it. Mother tried to fight back, but she was to weak and exhausted to do anything. The chains made clinging sounds as he forced them on her wrists and ankles. He picked her up and dragged her out of the room as she was still trying to kick her way free, and they disappeared through the door.
     That was the last time I ever saw her.
Even though she was still a quarter human, she heeled easily and quickly. Back then I knew this, and I didn't think much of what we had did to her,but thinking back, I feel awful. She was my mother after all, and no matter how many times I tried to forget this, none of the feelings went away. Jessica on the other hand, didn't feel any remorse. She had always despised our mother for giving us even an ounce of human blood. I've tried to tell her many times that it was necessary so we didn't have the sharp teeth to blend in, but she never listened to me. She was stubborn like that.
     My sister and I asked what father did with our mother once. He told us not to worry about it, and that it was for the best, and we listened, like always. We both knew the consequences of not listening.
     My sister was still kicking and screaming when our father bust back into the door. He stomped over to us and pushed her little arms and legs on the bed with just his fingers. “Stop it,” he said in a cold, hard, dark voice that was dripping pure evil, and she listened. Of course, when you're Lucifer, demons always listened to you. Especially your offspring.
     And no one except our little family even has a clue about us.