- the Dragonborn, 4
My hand clenched so tightly around the rough strap of the knapsack that my knuckles turned white.
Father lay sleeping in his room, his drunken snoring carrying through the house like a familiar lullaby. Britte, my twin sister, followed his lead.
At eighteen, father had expected both of us to have been married by now. Britte spent her time doing odd jobs around Rorikstead. And me… well.
I was always the disappointment, wasn’t I?
The thought stung me
enough to make me consider not leaving. My father and sister needed me. He was a drunk. Britte? My sister, my mirror. Strangely, we’d never connected.
Since I was young, I’d had my own image beating me, berating me. Father’s fists were bad enough but Britte’s were worse only because it was like watching myself hurt me.
Every horrible insecurity I’d held came true each time she yelled and slapped because it was my mouth saying those things, my hands leaving bruises on my face and my arms.
My fingers found a fresh, painful blossom on my forearm. The bright purple and blue would have been lovely on a dress, but on my ruddy skin they were a horrible match.
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