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The cottage feels too small today.
It usually offers some comfort—its wooden beams and sloped roof, a familiar cocoon in the middle of the vast forest—but right now, everything is stifling, suffocating. Perrine stands at the stove, their hand clenched around the wooden spoon as they stir the bubbling pot of soup- rabbit soup, to be specific, as they had caught one earlier that morning. They had already fleshed the hide and left it out to dry; maybe they’ll make some mittens.
The smell of potatoes, carrots, and onions fills the air, but to them, it’s bitter, off. They can feel a sort of tension creeping up their spine, tightening their muscles, their breath coming in shallow bursts. Everything feels off. Their skin is too tight, their head too full, and the simmering frustration they’ve tried to swallow down all day claws at their chest.
Behind them, Cole and Clémentine are sitting at the small kitchen table, their heads bent close together, whispering about something. Kingsley is in the living room, humming softly to themself as they tinker with a pile of old toy blocks, oblivious to the storm brewing inside of Perrine.
“Perrine, do you need any help?” Cole asks quietly, their voice cautious. It’s the same tone they’ve been using with them for days now, careful and measured, like they’re afraid they might break if they say the wrong thing.
Perrine’s grip tightens on the spoon, their knuckles going white. “No,” they snap, sharper than they mean to. They can feel their heart beating faster, pounding in their chest, the blood rushing in their ears.
“Well— okay…” Cole says. They sound a little hurt from Perrine’s tone. Perrine didn’t mean to make them feel that way. They don’t want to make them feel that way. But the anger— the anger is there, pulsing, festering, crawling under their skin. It’s always there now, like a sickness. A wound that won’t heal. Or maybe it is healing— trying to heal, at least—and things just keep scratching the scab open.
It coils inside them, tight and tense like a viper ready to strike, hissing in their ears, whispering cruel things. Little things set it off—Clémentine accidentally knocking over a cup, Kingsley’s loud laughter, Cole forgetting to wash a dish. Stupid things. Things that shouldn’t matter. But they do. They do, and Perrine doesn’t know why .
“Kingsley, stop humming!” they suddenly shout, their voice harsh.
Kingsley, who had been minding their own business in the living room, looks up like a startled rabbit, wide-eyed. The humming dies instantly, leaving the room in an awkward silence.
Kingsley blinks up at them from the floor, their expression innocent, confused. “I—I was just—”
“I know what you were doing! I told you to stop!” Perrine’s voice rises, higher than they mean it to be, sharp and biting.
Cole and Clémentine exchange a glance but stay quiet. Perrine can feel their eyes on them, and it makes their skin itch, makes them want to scream. Why can’t they just stop? Why is everything so…so loud?
The pot sizzles again, hissing in the silence, demanding Perrine’s attention, so Perrine turns back to the stove. Their knuckles turn white as they stir, the potatoes refusing to unstick from the bottom of the basin. It’s a small thing—a stupid, tiny thing—but it gnaws at their insides like itching ant mandibles. The anger feels alive, like a sickness, festering and spreading, filling up every inch of their chest, until they can’t breathe.
Behind them, they can hear Cole and Clémentine whispering at the table, their voices soft, too soft, like they’re hiding something. Perrine’s eyes flick over briefling. Cole leans close to Clémentine, and they’re giggling, the sound light and secretive. They aren’t looking at Perrine, but they might as well be.
Their heart speeds up, hammering too fast. The whispering—it’s about them, it has to be. Why else would they keep their voices so low? They know something. They’re saying something they don’t want Perrine to hear. And it’s crawling under their skin, seeping into their pores, fueling the infection.
The spoon clatters against the side of the pot as they stir harder, and the soup sloshes. It’s getting to be too much, this tight feeling in their chest, like they can’t breathe. Their jaw clenches so hard it aches, and the anger rises like a surging tide—fast, hot, and choking. It swells up, and there’s no space left for anything else.
Why are they whispering? they wonder, the question chewing on their brain. What are they saying about me? Why are they laughing?
Perrine’s fingers tremble as they grip the spoon, the heat from the stove pressing against their skin, almost scalding. They should just stop whispering. Stop pretending they don’t know Perrine can hear them. It’s like an itch in their bones, unable to be reached, this sense that everyone is conspiring against them, like they’re on the outside of some joke they can’t understand. Their whole body feels like it’s vibrating, the anger pulsing through their veins, quick and sharp, cutting through them.
They stir faster, and the spoon knocks hard against the pot, a loud, metallic clank. The whispering doesn’t stop. Cole and Clémentine just keep talking, their eyes darting to each other, avoiding Perrine, like they think they’re being subtle.
But they aren’t. They hear them. They’re smart. They’re aware of these things.
They turn suddenly. “What are you talking about?”
Cole and Clémentine look up at them, startled, wide-eyed like they’re a wild animal ready to lash out. Then, they exchange a look.
Clémentine blinks. “We were just—”
“Were you talking about me?” Perrine demands.
“What? No!” Clémentine says. “No, of course not, love.”
Liar. Perrine’s hands shake. Their vision goes red around the edges. It’s all lies, all of it. They feel like they’re suffocating under the weight of it, like everything inside is tightening, constricting, squeezing the air from their lungs. They want to scream, to throw the pot, to smash it all against the wall and hear it shatter.
They suck in a breath, and it feels like breathing through broken glass. “Stop lying to me.” Their voice is hoarse, cracking at the edges. “I know you’re talking about me.”
Cole glances at Clémentine, and there’s something in both of their eyes—pity, worry… Perrine doesn’t know exactly, but they can’t stand it. It’s like acid, burning through their veins, eating them alive. They feel like they’re unraveling, pieces of them falling apart and scattering.
The rage builds. Swells. Grows. Taints every corner of their mind, every muscle in their body, every inch of their sinew, until it’s all they can feel. All they are .
“Perrine, we’re not talking about you,” Cole says. “Why would we be talking about you?”
Yes. Why would they? But also…why wouldn’t they? There’s so much about Perrine to hate, to laugh at, to whisper about.
“I— I—” The air is poison. Perrine feels like they can’t breathe. Their skin prickles. Their chest is on fire.
Something inside them rears its head and snarls,
Clémentine opens their mouth, about to say something—probably to calm them down—but Perrine doesn’t give them a chance. Their hand is already moving, too fast, and before they even realize what they’re doing, they grab one of the bowls sitting on the counter.
And throws it.
The glass shatters against the wall with a piercing crash, exploding into shards that scatter across the floor, glittering like ice. The sound is deafening, but nowhere near as deafening as the silence that follows, heavy and thick.
Everyone freezes. Cole, Clémentine, and Kingsley stare at Perrine, wide-eyed. Clémentine’s hand is half-raised, as if they were about to stop them but didn’t move fast enough. Perrine’s chest heaves, their heart pounding, but it’s not from anger anymore.
They see it: the look of fear in their eyes. It’s the same look they had as a child when their father’s face would twist with rage, the same look that made their stomach drop and their skin crawl. They feel like they’re standing outside themself, watching as this monster inhabits their skin, as this thing inside them has taken control. Their legs go weak, and their knees buckle, sending them stumbling backward until their back hits the edge of the counter.
The sharp sound of the glass breaking lingers in their ears. They can’t breathe right. Their hands are shaking, their whole body trembling.
Their father used to throw things like that—plates, glasses, anything within reach. He’d scream, and the whole house would feel like it was on fire. They haven’t thought about it in years, not like this. Not with their heart racing and their fingertips burning just like his.
They’ve ruined everything, hurt the people they love the most, just like he used to. They press their hands to their temples, willing the noise in their head to quiet down, to stop replaying the scene over and over again. I’m not like him. I’m not. I can’t be.
But the evidence is right there, scattered on the floor, a twisted reflection of their father’s temper. They feel dirty, stained by the legacy of their own anger.
They were infected with this illness at birth. They were born angry.
They take a step back, their foot crunching on a shard of glass. What have I done? The horror seeps in slowly, filling their stomach with ice. They’re not angry anymore. They’re terrified. Of themself.
“I—” They can barely get the words out. Their throat is tight, their voice a choked whisper. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
No one moves for a long time. Cole, Clémentine, and Kingsley just watch them, the air around them thick with tension and fear, and Perrine knows. They know they’re afraid of them now. Just like they used to be afraid of him.
They can’t stay here. They can’t handle these stares.
Abandoning dinner, Perrine takes off, sprinting out of the house as quickly as they can and not looking back.
The cold air hits them like a physical blow. They bolt into the woods, their footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves. The trees loom around them, their dark silhouettes reaching out like skeletal hands. The world is an endless expanse of shadows and whispers, but all Perrine can focus on is the relentless thud of their own heart and the echo of their father’s rage.
The forest wraps around them, a blanket of darkness that is both suffocating and oddly comforting. They run deeper into the woods, their vision blurring with tears. The anger within them is a storm they cannot escape, and they can’t shake the feeling that they’re running not just from their home, but from a part of themself they can’t quite understand.
As the night settles in and the forest grows darker, Perrine slows to a halt, their breath coming in harsh, shuddering gasps. They sink to the ground, their back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. The cold earth seeps through their clothes, grounding them in the moment.
Perrine isn’t sure how long they’re slumped there, quaking and trying to calm down, but they eventually pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching. They tense, snapping their mouth shut to quiet their ragged breathing, listening as the person approaches and leans against the other side of the tree.
At first, they think it’s one of the others that has come to comfort them, but then they smell the distinct odor of cigar smoke.
“You were born sick.”
Perrine is frozen. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. They left. They’re long gone by now. There’s no way they’ve been found.
“I knew it from the moment you took your first breath. An heir.”
The words snake through the air, twisting around them like the vines creeping up the tree. The voice is low and gravelly, familiar yet foreign, and it sends shivers racing down Perrine’s spine.
“No,” they rasp.
“Yes. You carry the same burden I do,” he continues, his voice dripping with a sinister sort of pride. “Anger isn’t just a feeling. It’s a sickness, a disease that festers in your bones, pulses through your veins. You can’t escape it; you can only learn to live with it.”
Each sentence is a heavy weight pressing down on Perrine, squeezing the air from their lungs. They close their eyes tightly, willing this nightmare to dissipate, to evaporate like mist in the morning sun. But the scent of cigar smoke lingers, and the voice grows louder, more insistent.
“You think you can run away from it? From me? It’s in your blood. You can’t outrun your own heart.”
Perrine’s heart races, each beat a frantic reminder of the rage that lurks within. They hug their knees tightly to their chest, as if trying to contain the storm brewing inside them. “You’re wrong,” they choke out, their voice trembling. “I’m not like you.”
“Oh, but you are.” His laughter is harsh, echoing in the stillness of the forest. “Every outburst, every moment of weakness—those are your roots, Perrine. You think I taught you nothing? That my anger didn’t mold you into the person you are?”
The bitterness in his tone pierces through them like shards of glass. Memories flood back—shouting matches, broken things, and the way the walls felt too close when he was around. The dread swells, tightening its grip around their ribs.
“Listen to yourself,” he urges, his voice oozing with a sickening tenderness that makes Perrine want to retch. “You just showed it, didn’t you? That explosion, the chaos. It’s the same fire I felt. The same anger that burned in me and still burns in you. It’s not just rage; it’s an infection. A legacy.”
“No,” they whisper again, their voice trembling, barely audible. “I’m not like you!”
“Not yet,” he replies, a chilling finality in his words. “But the sickness runs deep, and one day, you will realize that you can’t fight it. It will consume you. Just like it did me.”