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There’s rot in her soul. She doesn’t know how she got the wound in the first place, was she born with a sickness waiting to activate the moment she understood what villains stand for? What it means to be a child of a villain, the worst of the worst? What her parents’ legacy meant for her future?
Nothing. She has no future, they have no future. There’s only surviving the now, surviving and hoping to see past the next day without a little something missing. Nothing physical of course, the Barrier saw to that. Just something. Every time she’s faced with her own mortality, be it a pickpocketing gone wrong, a turf war gone horribly south, a punishment gone too far, she remembers the first time she bled out like another common street rat. Caught in the crossfire of a turf war. Mother’s reputation can’t help her, an absent father never arriving to save her, her friends? Minions? Allies? Surrounding her with their own injuries, looking down at her with something.
“Poor Mali, are you sad?”
When she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t shock she felt. At age 5, the first thing she felt when she opened her eyes, thinking that when she closed them it would be her last, she felt resentful. Because, of course, Auradonians would never let the villains die an easy death, why would they spare their children? Then, the gears in her head started clicking and she looked up to her..family. Yes, she died and no one came for her, stayed with her, except for them. If they’re not family yet, they will be. There’s nothing as binding as silently keeping vigil over a fallen comrade and killing them as an act of mercy.
It’s them against the world. Eyes flashing green, she smiled. A bloody little thing filled with all the determination her heart can muster, took stock of her family’s injuries and rasped, “I’m back.”
-
There’s an inferno raging in his heart. On the Isle, where every pothole is filled with murky water and the air he breathes carries the scent of desperation, he could feel the burning in his lungs as he ran from the yells and threats.
Another day, another haul. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he went home with his pockets empty. Doesn’t want to think about the phantom copper tang in his mouth. Doesn’t want to think about the acrid smell of bile on the cold, unforgiving cobblestone. Doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he doesn’t get away fast enough.
Run, boy, Run.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that he’d die out in the freezing temperature that is the norm for nights on the Isle of the Lost. Yet, he still felt surprised and disappointed that he died. His death confirming that his father- no, Jafar, only saw him as a tool, nothing more, nothing less. Disoriented by the lack of chilled air against his skin and the warmth pressed against him, no, surrounding him. He felt more than saw small bodies pressed against him, huddled together. He knows they felt him leave, his body temperature lowering as his last breath left his body.
That was the last time Jay cried. Silent sobs wracking his body as he snuggled closer against them, his lips pulled into a trembling smile, “We stick together.”
-
There’s toxin in her veins. Born into the life where weaknesses were exploited, she smiles prettily whilst climbing to the top of the food chain. She flirts and manipulates as easily as breathing, then twists the knife on every soft spot she’s found oh so sweetly. She doesn’t remember what innocence felt like without purposefully bringing attention to doe-eyes framed by seemingly tear-stained lashes.
She couldn’t forget, her mother’s words swirling in her mind. Twisting into every nook and cranny of her psyche. Expectations of being the perfect daughter, the perfect princess, the fairest of them all. She feels the shackles weighing down her bony frame, not enough, never enough. She heard more than saw painted lips turned down with disdain as poison drips from that orifice- she threw herself off their secret hideout that night.
Oh, how sweet the air of freedom, even for a moment.
Children on the Isle have no use for soft melodies, there exist only loud songs of dominance, of triumph in this constant war they wage to survive day after day. Yet, it is a soft humming that greets her, accompanied by calloused hands gently stroking her hair. Hands untangling the snarls and knots in her hair, matted with blood, clumsily but steadily. Hands washing the blood away with their meagre supply of water. She awakes to colours, to green, purple, red, white, yellow, blue and oh- she awakes to love, to family.
Evie pulled their hands together against her heart, bony limbs pressed uncomfortably close against each other. As tangled as they were, she whispers, “I choose you.”
-
There’s smog lingering in his shadow. He wakes up to the scent of cigar, of drugs forever staining the ramshackle building he claims as his home. He opens his eyes to smoke in the air- greygreygrey. The first thing he does every day is to open the windows wide, uncaring of the putrid smell that emanates from the Isle’s sewage system. Anything would be better than the smell of insanity and the bitter tang that’s resting heavily on his tongue.
Incoherent groans and mutterings filled his ears and he puttered around as silent as a ghost. Cleaning up after yet another night of impassioned imbibe of substances. He clears the bottles and sweeps the shattered vials out to the street with the knowledge that he’ll be repeating these actions again and again and again. The consequences of not doing so does not bother him as much as the cause of his demise. Flashes of hands restraining him as he choked against sick smelling chemicals with mad laughter ringing in his ears as he succumbed.
The abyss has started to gaze at him.
They do not touch him when he returns. Instinct tells him he has been moved, his new location smells of dried paint, he hears familiar voices calmly introducing themselves and filling him in. He feels worn leather against his fingertips. When he opens his eyes, he sees stars dotting their secret hideout. He sees the little hole-y lamp before him and knows it must have cost a fortune.
He tentatively reaches for them, signalling his readiness for their touch. They lay on the floor quietly, just looking at these fake constellations. Carlos taps on the wooden floor in their secret code, “I will never forget.”
-
They are villain kids, the discarded children, the abandoned ones. They may not be living, but they will survive their circumstances. If in the process, they’ve learned to sneer and be unimpressed by Death, if this abnormality makes them monsters in the making, then, they will become as monstrous as they must.