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You watch the videos a lot. They never bothered teaching you how to speak, assumed it would carry over with the rest of you. But your new mouth is—unwieldy, and words do not come easily. Not in your own voice, anyway. So you watch the videos and take their words and learn about their world and pretend, pretend, that it makes up for what they did to you.
You like the ones about families the best, probably because you've never had one. Certainly not a mother. A father? You used to think you did. But the videos all show fathers taking their kids outside to—to play catch, or whatever it is people do. The thought makes you laugh: Him, going to the park with his pet monster.
(He sat with you, once, while you watched your favorite video. Not really with you, of course, but there had only been a single sheet of plexiglass separating you two which is less than he usually allows.
"This one is sad," he'd said, in that grating voice. "wouldn't you rather watch something happier?"
He didn't understand. You'd sat there, silent, and wished your hands were sharp enough to rip his head off his neck.)
The ones about siblings are confusing. Sometimes they're nice, like best friends. Unrealistic. But you like the others: the ones about jealousy and favoritism and the good kid and the bad kid.
You'd been excited to meet her, before the worst of it. You think this is typical for an older brother—she might be older, actually, but you were the first so that's what you call yourself. I was a gift, you'd thought about saying, if He ever introduced you. They made me for you. Maybe she would be excited to see you, too, even though you're disgusting. Maybe you would get to be friends.
Foolish.
You weren't friends when you met and she didn't recognize you. You weren't friends when she shied away from your touch, even though your hands were still soft and you hadn't lost your eye, yet. You weren't friends when you learned that she got to keep her name, while yours was stripped away from you by everything He did.
You aren't friends now. Not while she still, still refuses to join you. Not while she makes foolish promises of sisterhood to her pink giant while forgetting that you were here first. That if anyone needs her to be scared with them, it's—
Not you. That's childish, and you are not a child.
(You know what happens to children. To bad children. But monsters—they get away with things.)
Though, if she wanted to be scared together, well. You would pretend to be scared for her. You would do anything for her, even if she doesn't appreciate it.
Sometimes, you want to hurt her. It's how siblings are—you think. Sometimes you replay her caged sobs with your broken voicebox and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
(Breaking her eye was an accident, but you can't make yourself regret it much. You match, now. She can't pretend to be better than you any longer. Maybe you could have walked her through it, taught her how to adjust to the darkness, how to recalibrate her vision, if it weren't for that stupid pink thing and the fucking outsider—)
Breathe. Stitching, skin, the quiet whirr of a VHS player starting up.
She will, one day. Appreciate it, that is. When the world ends and all the rest have died. When your Better Place—when the Heaven that you built for her—is finally done, and your infinity ceases to be lonely.
(It's funny, isn't it? You're just like Him. Following the same patterns. Making the same mistakes.)
(It's never about your better place.)
You adjust your position, seated before the VHS player. Your body is too-big, bulky, unable to get comfortable, but that's a small price to pay for ensuring you will never, never be trapped again.
The screen whirrs to life. Most of your old tapes were destroyed during the Hour. Now, all you watch are re-runs of re-runs of shitty commercials. Her shitty commercials—advertisements for toys with your sister's face, voiceover crowing on and on about how she would make the perfect toy for any poor, lonely little girl. A hand attached to an offscreen body pets at the hair of the thing that looks like your sister. You think about dragging your claws—massive things, the first upgrade you ever gave yourself—through the screen, but there aren't many VHS players on this level and despite your penchant for violence you do know when to be careful.
It's funny—for all the tapes you've watched, you've never been in a single one. It makes sense, really. For all His going on and on about how you were going to change the world, He didn't love you enough to think you were something worth remembering.