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Three years and five months ago

I used to wonder what defined a bad person.

Was one evil thought enough, or was it about some dark desires, or perhaps real actions? Where exactly was the line you were not allowed to let yourself cross? After the pain you caused? After a mistake you did not regret?

What would you call a mistake then? What would you call regret?

My grandfather once said nobody meant to hurt one another; to teach a lesson, to scare, to take revenge--yes, but not to hurt for the sake of hurting.

Untrue.

Since the day I had magic in my veins I knew what my father felt when he was furious with me or someone else. He believed that pain was an essential part of life. He'd seen enough, experienced enough, brought enough pain upon others to get to the top and be the best. For him, it was how the world around him worked, he knew no other way.

Only fighters survive, he said. If you aren't the best, you're replaceable. And if they can replace you, they will. Perhaps he thought if he broke me first, then nobody would be able to hurt me anymore. I'd be indestructible. Perfect.

No matter how hard I tried in years to come, I could never get rid of his presence in my mind. My body constantly reminded me of his philosophy, TV news constantly showed his proud face that helped put another criminal in jail. And no matter where I was or what I was doing, I endlessly asked myself if what I'd accomplished was enough to stay atop. And each time I tried to follow my heart, not logic, I felt guilty.

It was a weekend during my first winter in law school, the only days I could come home and pretend the world outside didn't exist. Hundreds of young, socially awkward, and horny hearts of students could be exhausting, and I couldn't just stop feeling all they'd felt--my magic wouldn't let me. Father used to spend his weekends at work, as well as my stepmother who was, too, a great lawyer specializing in Environmental Law, so only my brother Ruslan could be home. His emotions didn't bother me, they were always neat and orderly, like the books on his shelves.

I knew something was off the moment I cracked the front door open and stepped into our penthouse that day.

"Aamon?" I called, but the dog didn't show up.

Alarm kindled inside me, making my vision sharper, my powers alert. Nobody but the statues and paintings and mirror decorating the walls in the hall welcomed me. Aamon had always come out to welcome me, his tail wagging and his tongue licking my hands as I kneeled to pet him. His loyal eyes and his soft fur and his steady heart were the only reason I came home.

That day, Aamon and his loyal eyes were nowhere to be seen.

"Where's my dog?" I asked Ruslan who stopped in the doorway of his room as he heard me in the hall. We'd never looked like brothers. He was neither stocky nor lean, yet something in between what they called the golden mean, pleasing to any eye, while I was all about edges and angles. His dark hair gently framed his round face, and his expression was soft and tranquil, probably even a bit naive.

Ruslan looked over me, then at the muddy snow my boots had left across the floor, and a disturbed line appeared between his eyebrows. His heartbeat stuttered for a pace. Still, he stayed silent.

"Tell me your mother's walking my dog," I said, my alarm increasing. "Tell me you were walking my dog, and Aamon ran off. Please!"

Not a muscle twitched in Ruslan's face, but his gaze grew unfocused and distant. "I'm sorry, Mir." His fingers brushed the air as though touching a memory. "Father was talking on the phone, and he got angry, and...He threw that paperweight into the wall and...Aamon was just playing nearby, you know? And--"

Everything turned to ice inside me.

"I don't think he meant to, Mir."

"No." Please, this can't be real.

Ruslan's lips thinned with concern. Then he was saying something, but I didn't listen. I spun around, and fled. It was the last time I'd stepped a foot into the penthouse.

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I was drowning again, the world around me buzzed, my panic taking over as I ran through the streets. It was too much, too scary, too lonely. I was alone again, and it would never change.

After all, even magic couldn't grace me with such a simple thing as control over my own life. My first friend, my last connection to Grandpa who'd believed in miracles, the only little creature who hadn't expected me to be someone I was not...Gone. I ran until my lungs stung, out of air, and my face burned.

It would never change, I was trapped.

Doomed.

Cursed.

I found myself standing in front of a tall building, its glassy facade gleaming maliciously under the moon. My father's office, his law firm--my legacy. But I don't want this legacy, I don't want to be him. My legs took me in and up the stairs, neglecting the elevator, step after step to the very top. It was late, and few people were still working, but I shooed them out anyway, nudged their emotions with a single thought of mine. Fear me.

Fear me. I am the fright, the terror, the torment here. I'm not afraid because I am the fear. I repeated it in my head until I believed it.

Father wasn't at work, either; I knew it because I didn't see his car parked outside. So I sat in his office, waiting, without even turning the lights on. I didn't know what I was going to tell him, to ask, to demand. I only wanted to see him, to look in his eyes and know that he was sorry. All I wanted was a glimpse of hope that everything could still be fine.

And so I waited for him.

My fingers skimmed over the documents on his desk, I scanned the pictures on the walls, the photos of him shaking hands with the most important persons of the city. And then, my sore eyes noticed the safe in the corner. I knew the passcode, so I opened it, just to occupy my time. There was some money, another bunch of documents, and old keys with an apartment address written by a careful hand on a piece of paper. I'd never seen it before, but I knew instantly it was my mother's handwriting.

"Why are you here?" Father's voice rasped behind my back.

I didn't turn to face him, still staring at the keys. "Where's my dog, Dad?"

It was the first time I'd called him Dad, not Father. And it surprised him for a moment, his heartbeat gave a small lurch, stirring the thorny, resentful energy inside me once again.

"You're not a child anymore, Mir. You don't need a dog now," he only said, no apologies.

I would swear a thousand times I'd always been good at holding reins on my temper and, consequently, on my powers. I was strong, yet my rage was stronger then. It built up inside me, a wall ready to collapse and bury everything in its vicinity. The power in my blood awoke, inspired. It didn't want to toy with people's emotions, didn't want a smile or a tear. No, it wanted to tug until it ripped the strings off, to torch until there was nothing but ashes scattered in the wind.

I'd never felt anything even close to this ever before. Something otherworldly filled my very being with wrath. Power, horrifying and intoxicating. Tempting. I could destroy anything if I let my wrath free.

Why, Mom?

This is not what I wanted for you...

Slowly, I turned around and met Father's eyes. And horrible as it was, there was still no sorry in those eyes of his, no regret, no remorse. His expression was composed and calm as ever. Confident. Perfect.

I didn't want to be perfect.

I didn't want to be afraid.

"You don't need a dog now," he repeated, his voice a death sentence. "You're better than others. You don't need anyone."

But I don't want to be better.

Something broke in me. Perhaps I let it break, perhaps I didn't--I'd never know.

His heart hitched, and then faltered, and then stopped. His gaze went vacant. I suspected Father hadn't even realized what had been happening to him before he collapsed to the floor. Blink, and he was lying motionless at my feet. Dead.

What had I done?

My mind went blank, refusing to process it. I didn't scream for help, I didn't call an ambulance or try to revive him. I didn't feel scared, or furious--or victorious. I just stared. No panic, no worries of what would happen now or how I was going to explain it. No one would ask, blame, or arrest me. Technically, I hadn't touched my father, and the law he had taught me was on my side.

I walked out of the building and into the cold winter night. I walked away as the Grim Reaper would walk away after funerals. For years I hadn't cried, but tears streaked my cheeks now, only to be dried by the wind seconds later, leaving my lips cracked and chapped.

Throughout my life, I awed, I feared, I worshiped my father, but...A word was lacking.

Love.

I didn't cry because I lost a parent that night, I cried because I lost myself. I used to wonder what defined a bad person. A mistake you did not regret? What would you call a mistake then? What would you call regret? They kept talking about the evil, about the darkness in one's soul, but I didn't feel any darkness, I felt...

Nothing.

Was I the villain now?

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