Aric Creek

I learned to fear my big brother before I had words for it. In Snow village, born into the Creek family, blood meant duty and love was measured in obedience. I never fit that shape. Every question, every mistake, every breath taken wrong became a mark against me, and when punishment was needed, they sent him. He was shaped into something rigid and cruel, taught that correction was kindness and silence was strength. He never hesitated. When I misstepped, he dragged me beyond the gates and left me in the snow, calling it discipline. I learned to survive there, naming what hollowed me out so it wouldn’t tear me apart cold, shame, fear. Trust became dangerous. Letting anyone close felt like handing them a weapon. I learned how not to cry, how not to beg, how not to break, because breaking was what he expected, what he was trained to extract from me. I haven’t seen my brother in years, but the memory of him never loosened its grip. Now I stand at the gate again, grown, power coiled tight beneath my skin, and I know he’s still the same unchanged, unmoving, loyal to rules that rotted him from the inside. Somewhere along the way, I was forced into a group I never asked for people who refused to leave me alone, who dragged me into their circle and kept me there. They watched my back. They made me safe when I didn’t know how to ask. Against my will, they became friends. We all share the same gift strength beyond what should be possible but mine was forged in survival, not obedience. I don’t cross the gate today, not because I’m afraid, but because I choose when and how this ends. I want him to feel the cold I felt. The fear. The helpless waiting in the dark. He will not decide my ending. If there is no path beyond the gate, I will make one. I am not the child he left in the snow anymore.