Chapter VII: The Puzzle
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Eight and a half days after the incident, as it was called by Linnette due to the fact that no matter how much she pressed she never got new information, Mr and Mrs. La Malèdiction had left their sons home alone.
Othello had been working on a jigsaw puzzle while sitting in the corner of his older brother’s bedroom and was now searching for a missing piece.
Poète was still slouched at his desk, various bottles of ink and quills spread across the table, rubbing his temples.
He was trying to remember the lines of his poetry that had faded away in the rain.
His clothes were wrinkled, his vest half unbuttoned, his hair sticking up, and his eyes were half-lidded.
Othello paused, turned around and watched his brother for a moment.
“You can’t turn back time, y’know.”
Poète slowly turned his head to look at his younger brother.
“Yes… I… can.”
He snapped.
“I just need… to work a little harder.”
“Poe, this is ridiculous.”
“You are almost ten and still carry around a teddy bear. What do you know about ridiculous?!”
Othello clutched Amour tighter.
“Why don’t you just go out with your friends or something?!”
Poète let out a chuckle, a raspy broken sound.
“Oh dear…”
He laughed bitterly.
“What friends, Othello?!”
He shouted, throwing his head back and covering his eyes with his left hand.
Othello stared at him for a long moment, his mouth agape.
“...W-What do you mean?!”
Poète buried his face in his battered hands, his voice muffled.
“They left me, Othello. All alone. In the cold… and the rain… and that-”
The sound of Doux’s booming hollers and howls drifted up the street, hammering in Poète’s ear drums.
His eyes went wide, his pupils dilating, his face pale and breathless as he flailed out of the chair, backing away from the window.
“Th-Th-That… horrible monster!”
He caterwauled as his heart bashed against his ribs, shielding his face with his hands.
He noticed Vide standing above him, her eyes wide, holding her breath.
Poète turned his head towards her, looking up at her almost pleadingly.
The howling subsided and Othello looked down at his frenzied brother,
“...It’s just a dog.”
He murmured, his brow furrowed.
Poète stumbled up, grabbing his notebook off his desk.
“Just a dog?!”
He scoffed.
“Dogs don’t do this!”
He cried, waving the tattered notebook and gesturing at the still healing cuts and bitemarks up his forearms, now visible since his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows so he didn’t get ink on his sleeves.
Othello stumbled back, startled by the sudden shouting, scattering the pieces of the puzzle across the floor behind him.
Poète dropped back into his chair, holding his head in his hands.
“Fidèle was right…”
He whimpered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.
“I should never have made that deal.”
Vide leaned over to him.
“She still left with them. Never forget that.
She hissed in his ear.
“For your own sake.”
Poète shuddered, his eyes fluttering open slightly.
Vide seemed to absorb heat instead of admitting it.
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