I could taste the familiar metallic tang of blood in my cheek from where Garth’s fist had struck. I didn’t cry out like the other children would have, my father taught me not to show weakness. This was not my first time taking a beating. I tracked Garth’s movement, he was shifting around as though unable to find a comfortable position, his sweaty hands non-stop moving. He clasped them rubbing his palms together and turned towards me.

  “When your pop’s returns I have a gift for him." He patted the knife strapped to his belt while moving his finger across his throat. "Once he's been dealt with it's your turn, cant have traitors and Bane Blood running around now can we?” Yellow and missing teeth were shown with his dark grin.

  I panicked losing the calm I had held seconds before. I struggled against the bonds holding me to the chair. My hands and legs chaffed where they were tied. The chair was facing away from the rickety wooden table at the back of the room. I choked on the cloth tied in my mouth. I was used to being tormented, but my father was all I had left.

  The other children all avoided me like something rotten, I had long since given up being accepted into their games. Dark words followed when they didn’t think I could hear them, or maybe they wanted me to hear. Bane blood they called me, they said my parents should have left me to die in the wilds at birth, how they were traitors to the tribe.

  The breath whooshed from my lungs, pain spreading, as a punch landed on my side, I sagged into the chair. “Shut it, this been long in the making.” Garth’s hands clasped again, sweaty palms squeezed together, he turned away back towards the door. “Ye want to blame someone, blame ye’self Bane Blood.”

  Garth pulled the rusted knife out of his belt loop. I closed my eyes and cleared my head, I had been taught better than this. ‘Never let your emotions control of your actions,’ my father would say. My heart beat calmed, I opened my eyes and took advantage of Brand’s turned back to look around. A nail was sticking out of the rickety table leg behind me. My father had asked me to fix it, good thing I had forgotten.

  Brand’s footsteps covered the noise as I jerked moving my chair back towards the table, my bonds could reach the nail. The thud of footsteps outside signaled the approach of at least two people, muffled voices grew louder till they were outside the door to the shack. I tried to yell out a warning but all that came out were muffled noises. The voices paused for a second, then there were a few more words spoken and one of the people outside took off.

  The ropes binding my wrists started to fray as I plucked it against the sharp end of the nail. Brand, focused on the person outside missed the thrumming, or paid it no mind. The door began to open, rusty hinges squeaked as they rubbed together. Light from outside lit a widening triangle of floating dust, it was a gloomy day. My father's face became visible to me, his blond beard braided in the style of our tribe. An intricate tattoo flowed down his neck and followed his jaw, lines commemorating his kills in battle. Every time I saw it I couldn’t help but be proud that my father had more than the others.

  I jerked the chair banging the table making noise to draw my father’s attention. The door finished opening and my dad’s eyes grew wide on seeing me tied to the chair. I nodded my head towards Brand against the wall by the door just out of my father’s vision.

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  I watched the knife in Brand’s hand descend, a dirty rusted thing. This couldn’t be happening; how could they do this. Caught unawares my father still reacted on some instinct, He moved and the knife aimed for his heart embedded to the hilt in his stomach. He roared in anger at seeing Brand, grabbing the wrist holding the knife and with great strength snapped it. The knife twisted widening the wound, the linen shirt began dripping blood.

  I no longer tried to be discrete, but the noise of the bindings on my wrists breaking was drowned out as my father’s hands closed on Brand's throat pulling him to the ground. My father landed on top, the knife still embedded in his stomach. Brand’s face turned purple, his dirty fingers scratched drawing furrows of blood on my father’s face.

  I frantically worked on the ropes tying my legs to the chair. At the front of the room, Brand stopped struggling, arms going limp. My father did not release his grip. Finally, the bonds on my legs came loose falling to the floor, my father with a grunt released his hold on Brand’s neck. Bruising began to form in the shape of handprints. A clear cause of death.

  I rushed over to my dad as he leaned back against the wall. He left the knife where it was, in his gut, not trying to remove it. Tears clouded my vision, I fell to the ground putting my head on his chest. I didn’t care that my father’s blood was soaking my ragged clothing.

  “Caelan, I don’t have much time left. Once I am gone, the others will not hold back, you must leave this place. Scavenge what you can then head north into the wilds.” His usually strong voice was weak, as though he struggled to get any words out.

  “Da..” My voice shook with sobs.

  “Stop it, my son is strong. You will hold in those feelings till it is safe to let them out. Remember everything that mother and I have taught you.” His breathing was becoming sporadic blood pumped from the wound pooling around his legs.

  I tried to heed my father’s words, but the tears kept flowing. “y.. you know…” the back of my hand wiped my running nose, “…I n.. never f..for.. forget.”

  My father’s arm wrapped my shoulders, “Caelan, I love you just as your mother did. I will join her in the great beyond and will watch you grow from above. Never forget it, you must live on for...” His words trailed off as his heartbeat slowed finally stopping. His arm fell limp, the feeling of safety his warm embrace had brought was gone.

  “No, no, no no,” this couldn’t be happening, my father was the strongest person I knew. He could not die. A memory surfaced, it was my mother's cold dead face after the sickness had taken her. I had seen just ten cycles at the time of her death, two cycles had since passed. My father had been furious, he believed it was poison, but nobody would listen. Gone, they were all gone. I had always felt alone in the world, but for the first time, it was true.

  It was my eyes, they made it clear to the others what I was. Bane Blood, a monster. I was something that should not exist, something the others hated, but underneath the hatred, I could see their fear. My vision was perfect even in the dark, I had the yellow eyes of a cat. It was said I was the spawn of dark spirits, my parents told me it was superstition.

  The shamans advised my death, and, without my father, I no longer had any protection. I had always tried my best to be kind, to show them I was not something dark and evil.

  In the end, they had taken everything from me. As tempting as it was to follow my father into the grave and let the pain end, my mind was made up. I would become what they feared, the monster that would haunt them all. I stopped crying, I would no longer let my emotions show.