Manifest (Ch. 2)
Chapter 2 of the Novel I'm writing for Booktok. They recently voted for a dual point of view, the female main character's name/ physical attributes, and an enemies to lovers to enemies arch! Find Chapter 1 in my previous post.
CHAPTER 2
Greyson
I find her at the foot of a towering Mirthwood tree. Foolish girl. She’s curled into its woody embrace, legs wrapped loosely in feathery roots. The Mirthwood would simply have to pinch, and Caera could be crushed to death. For some odd reason it doesn’t. I honestly don’t know how these witches survived this long. Caera is the most reckless person I know. She is everything a ruler should not be: rash, impulsive, stubborn, and brimming with searing, volatile anger. She’s sloppy with it. And this is who my father thinks will heal the realms? It’s all hogwash.
She looks terribly young when her brow isn’t wrinkled in the special scowl reserved just for me. I can almost take it as a compliment. Almost. I would if I hadn’t seen her smile the one time. If I hadn’t seen the way it transformed her face into a revelation, into the face of a Lunar Witch from legends, so beautiful it was pain, so alluring, I’d nearly dropped my sword and bowed at her feet. Instead, I remembered. I remembered the other lovely face I’d glimpsed when I was barely into my eighth year– the witch who had cut my mother’s heart out and stuffed it into her satchel before turning her to dust, unaware of the eyes that watched. Yet another insult, that Caera has to look like Artemis, though I suppose she can’t help that they are family. Unfortunately, the more I get to know Caera, the more I see that she is her own kind of monster.
The Mirthwood tree reaches questing roots for her hair, entwining its deep magenta brown with her own, ready to tug her awake, to alert her of my presence. I flip my sword free and silently slap the roots away with the tip. I need another moment to ground myself before she wakes. This hour we’re forced to spend together each morning is pure torture. I’ve never met someone so stubborn, so wretched. You’d not know she is a princess, if you hadn’t been told. She behaves a lot more like the band of Fae Ravingers I met once–all female, all utterly feral. They were ruthless, like her. A small part of me admires her. The larger part loathes her.
I’ve spent every moment of my life being trained in propriety, in the ways a ruler ought to behave, in tradition. She spits on it. All witches spit on it, actually. And something about her causes me to behave with the ill manners of an intemperate youth. I can’t seem to help myself. She gets under my skin, and the little line that forms between her brows when I say something particularly vile, has words flying from my lips I know much better than to utter. She flusters easily, and the sight of it fills me with sick glee. Her attempts to kill me have been laughable at best, though, in fairness to her, she doesn’t fully understand who she’s up against. The same could be said for me, I suppose. I often wonder why she keeps her power on such a tight leash. Surely that would be the quickest means to her ends. Perhaps it frightens her. It should. I can sense it even now, pulsing beneath her skin, mighty and boundless, restless, but somehow subdued. It’s a testament to her control, that she can keep it in check when not fully conscious. It must have taken years of training to achieve that level of restraint. It seems uncharacteristic to Caera, to exercise control, but what do I really know about her? She’s a puzzle.
I nearly jump out of my skin when Caera croaks, “Ya know, that’s creepy as hell.”
I smooth my expression into passivity, “What is?”
“You standing there, leering over me while I sleep,” her hand drifts toward her boot, to the dagger I have no doubt is stashed there, “You come to finish the job?” She taps the side of her neck, where blood from the cut I gave her crusts rusty brown on lightly tanned skin.
“A bit of a hypocrite, aren’t we? You forget, Caera,” I spit her name like a slur and revel when she flinches, just the merest bit, “I am not the one trying to commit murder here.” The truth is, I’d like nothing more than to end her right here– to end this ridiculous notion of my father’s. I don’t want to marry this… creature. But father says the seer’s visions were clear. Only with this woman at our side can we heal our lands. And she has to come somewhat willingly. Gods know it’d be easier if I could just kidnap her and be done with it. I was the idiot who suggested using a witch-boon to secure her. When word had spread about her challenge, I’d leapt on the opportunity, knowing I could defeat her in a duel, thinking I’d just compel her into helping with the boon. It was Father’s idea to tie us together in… unholy matrimony. He’d been smug when he made the demand, “Greyson, my boy, I’ve always promised you a princess. So, a princess you shall have. Make the witch your wife. Secure an alliance for me, son. It may well end the war.” I disagree, but one does not argue with my father. I must simply do as I am bid. More than that, I have no choice, but to comply. Father is not like me. He does not let himself be swayed by a heart that remains stubbornly soft, no matter how much I try to quell it. No, Father is not ruled by emotion, but knife-sharp logic and relentless determination. I wish it were so for me. I will make it so, even if I hate every moment of it. Even if it forces me to get into bed with my greatest enemy, I will make it so. I will steal this witch's affection, if it’s the last thing I do, and then, I will crush it into dust. I will wither her the same way her aunt withered my mother. I must simply bide my time.
With all of this in mind, I extend a hand in peace offering, “Come on, little dove, I’m not going to kill you today– and you aren’t going to kill me, either. Let’s talk about why you continue to fail to do so.”
She slaps my hand away and snarls, “Don’t speak for me,” before leaping to her feet, agile as a cat, “And stop calling me that.”
I smirk, but ignore her request, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand, “So, are you ready to give it up?”
“What?” She groans, limping slightly as feeling returns to her legs and she stalks away.
I catch her in two strides. I know that irks her, too– that I dwarf her in height. I often make her jog a little to keep up. Today, I match her gait. It’s time to move past this pettiness, if for no other reason than the fact that I have to report to father this afternoon.
“Are you ready to give up trying to execute me?”
She stops and turns to me, swiping tendrils of long hair behind an ear and tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Yeah… I don’t think so.” She turns on her heel and continues to the sparring ring. I follow doggedly behind.
A half-hour later, I’ve pinned Caera in the dirt more than a handful of times. She has yet to land a blow. She fights like a rabid squirrel, relentlessly flinging herself at me in a string of vicious attacks, using teeth and nails and shrieking all the while. It’s almost funny. It’s been six months, and her anger with me hasn’t cooled in the slightest. She flies at me, sapphire eyes flashing with that mysterious power she refuses to wield. I step to the side and kick out my heel, catching her in the shins, sending her sprawling into the dust. She flips onto her back and glares up at me where I stand over her, hands braced on my hips. I lift a hand and read the time by the slant of the sun, “By my count, we’ve got another… fifteen minutes of this? Are you going to keep acting like a child, or are we going to spar?” She sucks in a breath, ready to hurl a glob of spit up at me. She’s done it before and I quickly clamp my hand down on her mouth. She sputters and claws at my wrist, digging sharp nails in until she draws blood. I hiss at the gouging sensation, but don’t let go. “Caera. This has got to stop. Stop fighting me and fight me already. I know you can. Let me train you.” I’m surprised to find I mean the words. I watched her cut down a slew of warriors all those months ago. She moved like quicksilver then, all calculation, none of the rage. As much as I enjoy pummeling the witch every day, I itch for a proper opponent, and with the slightest bit of effort, Caera could be that. Instead she hides behind her hatred. She wastes it, when it could be used for so much more. I move my hand from her mouth murmuring, “Let go of the rage.”
As I go to pull away, her nails bite impossibly deeper into my skin. She smiles, but it is not the thing of beauty she unwittingly revealed once before–no– this is a grin of pure malice.
“Oh, my sweet fiance,” she purrs, slicing my wrist with her claws until blood drips down in a steady rhythm onto her hair, “I will never forget what you took from me.” She twists her nail, carving the soft flesh just above my palm. I bite my tongue to stifle a wince. The blood flows now, coating her forehead, painting her face into a vision of a queen of some macabre masquerade. I should stop her. I should step away, or incapacitate her, or…something. I should do anything but let her continue to rip into me. But I don’t. I stand there, transfixed in fiery blue eyes she keeps locked on me, barely breathing. They say blue fire burns the hottest. I believe them. Caera could burn the world with a gaze.
I see the decision in her eyes a breath before she acts, too late for me to stop her. She strikes, pulling my arm down to the dirt, trapping the elbow at a painful angle while swinging her knee up to slam into my nose with a sickening pop. She continues in another smooth motion, tucking her legs until she’s curled smaller than seems reasonably possible. Her feet impact my stomach and then I’m airborne. I hit the dirt with a dull thud, any breath left in my lungs leaves in a ragged gasp. And then I’m laughing. I wheeze, trying to suck down enough air to fuel the hysteria. “Bra–vo,” I gasp as Caera moves to stand over me, brow quirked in annoyance at my outburst. She grins that malicious grin once more, and then she raises her boot, pressing the toe of it over my mouth, just as I’d covered her mouth with my palm. It’s a vulgar gesture, but everything about her is.
She leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper, “I will keep my rage.” She presses her boot harder into my jaw. I let her. “You assumed you had the right to claim me,” she laughs bitterly, “Did you think I’d just give you my heart? You thought you’d show me your pretty eyes and I’d throw myself at your feet, thrilled by the opportunity to wed one such as you?” That is what I’d thought, actually. It had always worked before. I will the thought not to show in my eyes. Too late, she's seen it. She chokes on the absurdity of it before continuing, “You assumed you had the right to claim me, so I will assume I have the right to do the same.” She removes her foot from my face and crouches in the dirt, bringing her lips to my ear, as I’d done to her the night before. The hair rises on my arms, sensing what she’ll say before the words slither in. “I claim you, Greyson. I claim your heart.” A thrill spears through me at the words. This is an unexpected development. I still hate her guts, but at least I’ll have something to report to father. Before I can celebrate, though, Caera hisses once more, “I claim your heart. I will cut it out… and I will eat it.” I feel as though I will retch. Visions of the witch carving my mother’s heart pummel me in relentless flashes of too bright color behind my eyelids. A low, choking sound involuntarily emits from my throat. Caera leans back on her heels and punctuates her sick sentiment by dragging her tongue across the tip of her finger, still coated in my blood. Her eyes flare wide, as if she’s shocked by the flavor, but before she can continue with her sordid speech, a voice like rumbling thunder booms across the ring.
“Caera!” Kath bellows her name in reprimand before lowering his voice into his customary buttery tones, “Come. Join me for lessons.” Kath extends a palm and Caera rises, wiping my blood onto her filthy pants before placing her hand in his. They fade into the shadowed arch to the palace courtyards and I lie on the ground, panting. I will myself not to vomit as I slowly put the images of my mother’s death back into their proper box in the back of my mind. But Caera’s words echo, I claim your heart. I will cut it out– and I will eat it. My cut wrist throbs in beat with the words, flaring pain ruthlessly sears through my veins and lodges somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. I lift my hand to examine the vile wound. A jagged letter C is carved into the underside of my wrist. C for Caera. C for her claim on me, my life, my heart. I shiver, ignoring the crowd that gathered, piecing myself back together. Her words ring on repeat, and for the first time in a long time, I am afraid.
~
I’m still in the dirt when a familiar cadence of steps approaches, followed by a wry chuckle, “I never thought I’d live to see the day that the noble heir of–” I kick Con in the shin so hard he cuts off abruptly, cursing low and filthy. When I look up at him, he’s clutching the offended limb and hopping rather dramatically on one leg. He settles and offers me a begrudging hand up.
I swing to my feet, draw Con close with a slap on the back and whisper, “You forget yourself, Con. We have an audience.” I flick my gaze to the handful of witches, warlocks, and human-hybrid soldiers standing at the edge of the training ring, still attempting–and failing miserably– to stifle their laughter at my rather embarrassing defeat. Con follows my gaze and his cheeks stain scarlet. He ducks his head and falls into step beside me as I make a hasty exit, careful to fix each snickering fool with a glare that promises retribution.
“Forgive me, your high–” Con starts, but I cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
I can’t help it when my eyes roll skyward as I grit out, “Falcon, for the love of the gods, shut up before you get us both killed.” He clamps his mouth shut and has the decency to look abashed. Why they sent Con, of all people, here is beyond me. He has no grace for this kind of subterfuge. Still, I’m glad to have him. I love Con like a brother, more than that, maybe, because we chose one another. We’ve been best friends since my ninth summer, when his family visited our estate for Sun festival and Con crashed into my life like a drunken idiot in a room made of glass. To be fair– he had been. He’d been gulping down generous glasses of wine under the table while the adults droned nonsense for long hours over a meal of countless courses. I’d been ready to fall head first into oblivion on my plate of lightly toasted peapods, when Con had burst from beneath the tablecloth, vomited in the shrubbery lining the balcony on which we sat, and then turned and hopped upon the table, kicking goblets and crystal and slurring a bawdy tune he most definitely didn’t learn in the private music tutoring befitting a child of his status. I’d burst out laughing despite myself, and in a rare show since my mother’s untimely demise, I’d seen a smile twitching on my father’s lips. At the sight of that quiver of a grin, I’d decided then and there that I’d make this blessed boy my friend– for surely he had immeasurable power, if he could make my father smile. Falcon’s mother had nearly keeled over from embarrassment, but her husband had laid a hand on hers, and they’d both looked to my father, whose shoulders shook from barely restrained laughter. And then, we were all laughing, chanting Con’s unwholesome ballad along with him, until his father had caught sense and hauled him off the table and chucked him into the fountain. He’d been extracted from the water moments later and given a proper tongue lashing before being sent to bed without so much as a poultice of posey to treat the wicked hangover that was already brewing.
I eye my friend, now a man grown, though his face still holds a quality of the mischief that is boyhood, despite the sharp cut of his jaw. I hope it always will. There is a small constellation of scars along his right temple, the results of a disastrous encounter with lichen lice on our first foray into the Bramblewood when we were twelve, and a smattering of freckles dust his golden cheeks under a mop of sun-kissed brown curls. Con is tall, though not so tall as I, and lean, covered in ropey muscles and more scars from our many adventures– and our less favorable encounters within the legions. One look at my friend and it is clear he is a warrior, but he still wears every emotion on his face as if he’s written it in ink upon his brow. Now he is gnawing his lip, and he’d slipped up in his speech, twice. Something is amiss.
When we’re out of earshot of the others, I grip his forearm and turn him to face me, “Alright, out with it– what’s going on with you? You’re not one to use my titles… unless…”
He meets my eyes with a dispassionate silver stare, “It’s not really a what…but a who, my dear friend.” Now it’s Con’s turn to slap me on the back and stride off into the forest, “You coming?” he calls over a shoulder.
I jog after him, “I thought the meeting was at dusk.”
Con laughs cynically, “It's not gonna change your report, is it? The witch won't hate you any less in a couple of hours, Grey.” He fixes me with a knowing look. I groan, but I know he’s right. A few hours won’t make any difference when it comes to Caera. I’m not sure a few centuries would be enough time to make a difference with Caera. If only I could make father understand that. I tear my fingers through my hair and helplessly attempt to wipe the dust from my sleeves. It’s no use.
“Lead the way, Counselor.” I sigh, gesturing to the tangle of trees. Con chuckles at my use of his title, but ducks his head and leads on. Dread curls in my gut with every step. Time for a visit with dear old Dad.
Manifest
I think it's only fair I share this here, too. I've been polling my "Booktok" followers on what they want from a novel. So far we have a fantasy-romance setting, the enemies to lovers trope, and spice. They are voting on character attributes, names, tense, point of view...basically everything. It's a good bit of fun. They ask for it... I write it. So, without further delay, the first chapter of the Booktok masterpiece, working title of Manifest.
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My fingers are slick with sweat on the hilt of the dagger I pilfered from Uncle Kath’s armory. My uncle has been less an uncle and more my drill sergeant since I could walk–not that I’ll ever be allowed to see combat. No. That privilege is reserved for…well, anyone but me. The fact that anyone can serve in our legions, but I am sequestered behind the safety of the palace walls causes a hot flare of anger to lick down my spine. It doesn’t matter how far I've risen in the ranks. Until my witch gifts manifest, it is too great a risk, I am too great an asset to put into the field. That’s what they tell me, anyway. Uncle Kath often speaks to me of duty, of honor, of all the little ways one might serve their Queendom. “Have patience, child, your gift will make clear the path. Your path may yet not be one of war. Only time will tell. Focus instead on the other ways you might serve. Your duty is to the Queendom first, young ward.” Uncle Kath likes to hear himself talk, and unfortunately for me, he is rarely wrong. There are few things I can do before my gift manifests. No one dares speak the hard truth that I might never manifest. I am already five years late. Most witches get their gifts around the time of their eighteenth sun cycle. I’ve just crept past my twenty third, and not even an ember of power has shown. So, I am forced to focus on other things. My duty lies elsewhere, for now. My duty lies softly snoring in a bed that is outrageously too small for his massive frame.
Greyson is the most ridiculous man I’ve ever seen, all long lines and toned muscle and silvery scars that shine in the light from the window. At the moment, it looks as though he’s lost a battle with his sheets. They are twisted fitfully around his long legs, wadded at his hips. My gaze lingers on the naked skin there, tracing the cut lines that disappear beneath the sheets. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but there is something about looking at him so utterly defenseless in the moonlight that has a different kind of fire snaking down my spine. And the fact that he looks like that just makes me hate him more. Here is the man who stole everything from me. Here is the man who bested me in the ring, who pinned me in the mud and stripped away my future with a gentle press of his blade to my neck. Here is the man who utterly wrecked my life in the span of less than a minute. Everything had been riding on that duel. I’d finally gotten my uncle to agree to the wager I’d spent months crafting, one that I’d written in my own blood upon binding parchments. If I could best the greatest warriors under uncle's command, it would prove I was ready to take over a legion of my own– that I could stay alive, even without a witch-gift. I’d spent two days cutting them down with brutal efficiency. Many of them were considerably larger than I, many had killed more men and seen the battles of which I could only dream, but they lacked something I had in generous heaps: rage. I’d made it to the final duel, the final test standing between me and the freedom, the bloodlust I craved. And gods-damned Greyson Emory chose that moment to saunter into my life. I hate him. Gods, I hate him more than I imagined I could hate. And I’d imagined it was a good bit– I hate a lot of things. I hate the Faelings who prowl the abandoned witch mines of Farthwood, using them as entrance points into Riath to lay siege on Witchkind. I hate the giants who terrorize the mountain peaks of the North. I hate the Deamontics who dwell beneath the soil and send puddles of rot to the surface to infect our beasts with the Black Dread. I hate the heir of the Bog-Witch clan, who dares threaten my ascendency. I hate and hate and hate. Yes, I hate a good many things, but none so much as him. While I was still pinned in the dirt that fateful day, uncle slapped Greyson on the back in congratulations and fixed me with a glare that said, See. I told you. You aren’t ready. Then, he’d asked Greyson, as was customary when one defeated a member of the Regency witch clan, “What be your boon, warrior?” Greyson had stood, twirling his blade without a care in the world, as if he hadn’t just burned my dreams to cinders. And then he’d done the most terrible thing of all. He’d pointed the tip of his saber at me, still reeling on the ground, and chuckled, “Her. I’ll have her for a boon.” My head had gone hollow at that. Every sound drowned in the roaring that descended upon me. No. NO. NO. Everything within me roared. But honor demanded that I accept. Only if I bested Greyson in a rematch or he was killed could I be released from the boon. I’d willed my power to manifest then, to allow me to strike him down, to leave him as nothing but a smoking corpse in the ring, or perhaps to wither him into dust at the touch of a hand, like Aunt Artemis’ gift, but of course, that didn’t happen. I’d just glared. And he’d glared back, lips tugging into a self-righteous smirk, like he knew I’d tried to kill him then and failed. Fucking Greyson.
I glare at his sleeping form and flip him off with my free hand, silently cursing as I adjust my grip on the dagger…again. Just get it over with, damn it. I chastise myself and take a step closer on silent toes. I hold my breath as I stare down at him. His hair is splayed across the pillow in a wave of inky black. It looks longer like this, lying on the pillow instead of swirling around his ears in the perpetual breeze that seems to follow him everywhere he goes. The harsh lines of his face are softer in sleep, too. His lips almost look… well, not cruel when deprived of their usual sneer for once. I can do this. I need to do this. I hate him. I take a quiet breath through my nose and square my shoulders, rooting myself through the floor like Uncle Kath taught me. I’ve killed before, plenty of times. I just need to apply enough force. Human flesh is tougher than it looks and I have a feeling the skin of Greyson’s neck is going to be especially difficult to get through. The room is deathly quiet, a harbinger of what is to come, as I lean in and bring the blade to his throat. My hands shake. Eyes the color of evergreen shoot open, and before I can deprive him of his stupidly handsome head, Greyson’s hand wraps around my wrist and he flips me beneath him in a maneuver that crushes the breath from my lungs. My fingers splay in shock and he deftly catches the dagger and brings it to my neck, pinning my other arm above my head on the pillow. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I can barely even breathe. His face etches with familiar cruelty as recognition lights his gaze. A slow smile blooms on his lips and he clicks his tongue, “I am surprised, little dove, that this is how you’ve come to be in my bed.”
“Fuck. you.” I gasp, forming the only words that really matter with my limited breath.
Greyson only laughs and leans closer, “When I do that, I’d rather not have a knife in the bed...and I’d rather you were wearing less clothes,” he eyes my thick, pocketed uniform vest and his brows rise, “going somewhere?” I struggle to suck in another breath and Greyson adjusts his weight, allowing air into my lungs, but not releasing me.
“The only reason I’m here at all is to put that knife in you,” I spit.
His eyes burn green embers at that, and he leans closer still, the knife biting painfully into the soft hollow beneath my jaw. Hot blood rolls down my neck and pools behind my ear. Greyson’s breath joins it as he whispers, “Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that.”
Faster than I can track, Greyson is off of me and across the room, sheet clutched around his hips, Uncle Kath’s dagger dangles from his long fingers. He isn’t even in a fighting stance. That’s how confident he is that I can’t hurt him. Prick. We stare at each other for a long minute, hatred so palpable, I can taste it in the air, before Greyson clears his throat and I tear my eyes from his, only for them to land on the white knuckles he has fisted in the sheet. My nostrils flare with derision, “Are you–” I swallow, “Are you naked?”
“Why? See something you like?”
I make a gagging noise, shoot out of the bed and fling open the door. I stomp down the hall, heedless of the soldiers sleeping behind the many doors. A few poke their heads out and promptly disappear again at the sight of the wrath that must surely be brewing on my face. This was my third attempt at killing him since he’d claimed my hand those months ago. The first time, I tried poison. The brute had taken a sip, cringed, and pushed the waterskin back into my hand, whispering those same damned words, “Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that.” I’d cocked my leg back and kicked him in the balls, hard. That was the last time he’d let me get a hit in. The second attempt, I’d thought, was particularly clever. I’d set a series of nooses, woven of the transparent silk of Etherworms, directly at head level, matching trip wires at the feet on the path through the Weeping Woods he liked to run in the mornings . I’d hoped to snare him like a rabbit, and then choke the life out of his muscled throat. No luck. One of the Bog witches had narked on me and Greyson had crawled the path on his stomach, flinging his middle finger at me in my perch on a wide branch. He’d called the words up to me, panting, “Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that.” A sane person would have just skipped the run, or brought a blade to cut down the traps, but Greyson is certainly not sane. He seems to enjoy taunting me more than anything else. This time, I’d been certain I would succeed, and I suppose that was my downfall. I’d climbed the tree outside his second-story barracks window and slipped into his room without a sound. I figured that, until I had my witch-gift, the only way I’d best him would be to kill him in his sleep. I’d figured wrong.
“See a healer about that cut,” Greyson calls after me, not one drop of actual concern in his voice, “if you’re not careful it’ll scar.”
I flip him off again over my shoulder and reply, “I'll wear it as a reminder of the love of my betrothed.” The sound of Greyson’s dark laugh haunts my every step. I exit into the cool air of an autumn night, but feel none of its bite, my skin is so flushed in the heat of my shame. A small part of me wishes Greyson had just cut my throat and gotten it over with. The gods know one of us will kill the other sooner or later.
I skitter down the stairs and flee into the night, turning into the subterranean tunnel that connect the barracks yard to the palace training grounds. I don’t bother to be discreet like I was on my way to the pathetic assassination attempt. Everyone will know about it soon enough. Greyson will make sure they do. And then he’ll make sure that we go over all of the pitfalls of my attempt in the private training sessions I’ve been forced to attend since he bested me a little over six months ago. My Uncle says that If some random stranger can walk into the dueling ring and defeat me, I don’t deserve to command a force of my own. I hate that he is right. I also hate that Greyson is now anything but a stranger. My betrothed. My stomach sours at the thought. So, I veer away from the path that would lead me to the palace, to my bed so piled with pillows everyone believes them to be an actual joke–they aren’t, I like comfort–, and make my way to the training yard. There, I unleash my rage on an unfortunate training dummy, and when my fingers are throbbing with numbness, I run. As if I could outrun fate itself, I run, until my legs collapse beneath me and I drag myself into a wobbly heap at the base of a tree and fall asleep, blood still crusting behind my ear. The heat of Greyson’s breath is a soft taunt of remembrance on my neck as I lose myself to dreamland.
Lie A Little More
I lied about watching Yellowstone.
I'd made a new friend and I panicked.
She loves Yellowstone.
I'd refused to watch it on principle.
She didn't know that.
One night at dinner she made a joke with a punchline from the show, and damn me... I figured it out and went along with it, and she squealed with delight, "Oh MY gosh! You watch Yellowstone, too!"
And because I'm too desperate to be liked and the friendship was barely budding, I replied, "Well, duh. Who doesn't?"
We proceeded to talk about the show for half an hour (well, she talked and I bullshitted) and I realized two things:
1. My friend is stupid.
2. I either had to binge-watch Yellowstone or continue to lie to her about it forever.
And because I am an actual asshole, and because a small part of me enjoys toying with people, I decided then and there that I wouldn't watch Yellowstone. I would instead see how long I could keep up the ruse.
It's been two years since I made that resolution.
She still thinks I've seen every episode.
She still texts me, gushing.
I still shoot back theories based on nothing but the breadcrumbs she so charitably litters amongst her texts. I won't even google- that ruins the fun for me.
It's become a game I just can't give up.
So,
I lied about watching Yellowstone.
The lie rolled off of my tongue like smooth whiskey.
And I liked the taste.
It was a little lie,
but now that I've started,
I think I might
Like to lie a little more.
Keep Looking Up
I miss the stars.
When I was a girl, you could see them from town.
Now, only a few are able to wink through the layer of smog and city lights.
Where there were once shooting stars, there are only satellites.
I mourn the stars.
I long to live in a place where they might exist, too.
I used to look at them every night.
I'd look and look and look.
And I'd wonder about who else might be seeing them.
There is something about looking at the stars that makes one feel so wondrously small.
There is something about looking at the stars that makes one feel so wondrously significant, too.
Stars connect us to times and places we'll never truly get to visit. So vast. So familiar.
My father was the one who taught me to look up.
He was a troubled man, but in those moments we stared up at the gaping maw of the universe, he was able to set aside the terror in his heart. He was able to just exist, to be the purest version of himself- the one untainted by the cruelty of this world.
The stars were his escape.
He made them mine, too.
He told me once, that he'd sometimes climb onto the rickety roof of his childhood home to see them. He'd sit under the glory of starlight and pretend that he was anyone else, that he were anywhere else. He said when he looked at the stars, he could convince himself that he was some other boy, one who was loved and fed and whose clothes weren't filthy and tattered. He could pretend that anything was possible.
I liked that.
On clear nights, father would haul out his and Ma's frayed wedding quilt. He'd spread it on the grass and lie down, patting a spot beside him. I'd curl into his warmth and he'd stroke my hair. And then we'd look at the constellations. We'd wish upon the shooting stars. We'd wonder where planes blinking red against the backdrop of galaxies were taking their passengers. And he'd tell me stories.
Stories about before he became a monster.
Frogs he caught with his brothers.
How he'd torment the turkeys on the farm.
The way he'd run barefoot in the grass.
The candy he'd buy for a penny at the corner store.
How his father had loved cameras and radios and tinkering.
How his mother had planted flowers and crocheted.
He'd tell me about growing up poor and filthy and rotten.
About how he got a job at the mill and bought a T-top Corvette with his sixth paycheck. How the women had swooned for a chance to sit in the passenger seat. It's how he'd won over his first wife.
He'd tell me about our family. About the golden retriever he bought to celebrate my birth, the playhouse he built, the pool table that had a permanent place in the sun-room of our family home.
And all the while we'd lie beneath a blanket of stars and mourn.
He mourned the life he lost.
I mourned the childhood I would never have.
The version of my father who held me and whispered stories under the stars was the only version I could ever really love.
We could both pretend.
I could pretend he didn't hit me and scream and tell me I was worthless.
He could pretend I didn't hate him for it.
We'd lie there until the blanket turned soggy and reality came crashing back in.
There was always a moment when I could see he was entertaining just staying the way we'd been... when he was considering shirking the overcoat of evil he wore to guard his heart and just becoming the father I so badly wanted him to be.
But the moment would pass, and the coldness would settle back into his steely eyes, and we'd go back to the truth that neither of us could escape.
He'd stalk inside with the wet quilt draped over his shoulder like some kind of dead animal.
I'd stand in the yard awhile longer and look up.
And I'd wish.
And my heart would ache for the tremendous possibility that hid in the blackness between the stars.
My heart still aches for that possibility.
My heart still aches for everything that could have happened but didn't.
I miss the stars.
I miss the world of only a decade ago, where I could see them from my bedroom window.
I want them back.
I want to fill up all the empty spaces inside my heart with stars.
So as long as there is even one, I'll keep looking up.
And I'll wish.
*AI art image.
When the Ending is also a Beginning
My feet emit a hollow scrape on the worn hardwood floors. I can't bear to pick them up fully, not anymore. I've poured everything I have into this crumbling facade of a life I built over the last decade. All those years ago, I entered this city, brimming with potential, desperate to prove myself. And I did. I clawed, I begged, I bartered and stole my way up that metaphorical ladder, until I was perched here, at the top. Until... I looked down and realized I'd left nothing but smoldering regret in my wake. What was I thinking, all those years ago, when I threw away my dreams to become that which the world wanted me to be? When I settled down and settled into a job, a relationship, an existence, that would demand everything from me and give nothing in return?
I toss my keys on the counter and wave vaguely at my wife where she sits in her usual haunt, staring blankly from the couch at the television with the volume set unbearably high. She mumbles something, no doubt asking about work, but I don't bother to reply. She's not listening. She doesn't care. Her eyes are glued to the screen, upon which a man with puppy dog eyes is handing out roses to women clad in every hue of silk. Garbage. Utter garbage... and this is how she spends her days. This is what I go to that pretentious job at the tippy top of that gods-damned tower to provide for. I let my rage simmer for all of half a second before dismissing it. I sigh. I can't blame Renata for losing herself in that drivel on the television. It's what I'd do if I were her. Anything at all to distract herself from facing the fact that she's stuck in a loveless marriage... that she's stuck with me. I'm under no delusion about the fact that I am miserable to live with these days. I've been miserable to live with for at least eight years now; ever since I quit my dream- the reason I'd moved here in the first place. Yes, the day I traded in that fool’s hope of becoming a bestseller and put my bachelor's degree to good use in a cubicle at Harvey & Quinn Industries, was the day I turned into this miserable louse.
My shuffling feet bring me to the kitchen, where I brew an ill-advised cup of coffee. I counteract the caffeine with a generous slug of Baileys on top. Renata calls from the living room, “If you’re making Irish coffee, bring me one!” I pour a second cup and leave it in Renata's waiting grasp. Our fingers brush and she looks up at me with something like longing. I clear my throat and turn away, but not quickly enough to miss her face crumpling with disappointment. I am a rotten bastard, that’s certain. I know she just wants to be loved. I know she just wants me to ignore the clacking of keys, the whisper of paper, the acrid smell of ink for once. I know she’d like for me to sit beside her on the couch, to hold her in bed at night, to put in the merest ounce of effort. Ultimately, Renata wants something from me I simply cannot give her. I have but one passion in this life, and it is not her. So I continue on my way, settling in the one place in this god-forsaken flat that feels like home.
My writing desk faces the broad window overlooking the street. Renata wanted to put the couch here, but I refused. The moment we walked into the flat that handful of years ago, I knew this was the spot. I can see life below, a swarm of people carrying on with their day to day, existing as the main character in their own stories, blissfully unaware of the man perched several floors above. I like this window, because when I look down, I feel like more than the author of my own fate- I feel like the author of theirs. There, that woman with the burgundy scarf, black curls glistening with tiny droplets of rain, a package wrapped in brown paper tucked under her arm… She’s hunched to protect the paper from becoming soiled in the rain. But from up here, she might be a spy, delivering intel that will turn the tide of a war with mythical beasts torn from the pages of legend. A man is approaching her. He is tall and broad and from the looks of it, an insufferable gym rat. He stops dead in the center of the sidewalk and gives the black-haired woman an appreciative look, hands braced on his hips, unfazed by the rain. This man is confident to the point of pain. I’d hate this man if I ever really met him… but from up here, from my little window that transcends the bounds of this reality, that makes me into a god instead of a miserable excuse of a man…. From up here, that muscle-head in the street becomes a warrior, an escort for the woman… the beginning of a quest.
My fingers fly along the keys of my typewriter, misspelling words, adding spaces where they don’t belong, and skipping conjunctions altogether in the fervor of getting a new idea inked down. Renata sighs behind me, but I don’t care. I am lost to the words. I am a world away; just me, my grandfather’s hand-me-down typewriter, and the story of the spy with the burgundy scarf. My heart thunders in my chest, and I can taste the apricot the character is eating on the back of my tongue. I can feel soft hands brush along the biceps of her lover. I smell petrichor as she stands in a field on the outskirts of a village at the base of towering cliffs. I choke down fear as a lion stalks her from the cover of long grass. I revel in triumph as she turns to the beast and recognizes it as that stray kitten she saved from the gutter. I become her. I become the story. And when that happens, I feel…free. I am relieved of the burden of my pitiful excuse of a life. I type wildly, like a man who is burning alive, so starved to live the life that isn’t mine that I don’t hear Renata until she is standing beside me, until she places her hands atop mine and forces me to still. I glare up at her. She knows better. She knows better than to interrupt me when I’m in a flow.
“Ben, we have to talk,” she says, and I notice for the first time how quiet the flat has become. She has turned off the TV. The only sounds are those of her staccato breathing and the distant roar of tires on wet pavement below.
I hold her stare for a moment before trying to shake off her hands, “Fine. Just let me finish this page.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, Ben. God. This. This is why we need to TALK.” She lifts her hands off mine but doesn’t step away. She just wraps her arms around her middle as if she can hold some broken shards of herself together before continuing, “I’m done. I am so done with this. Ben, this is not a life.” She waves a hand in my direction, encompassing all of me in one swoop.
My ire roils and words fly off my tongue before I can stop them, “Newsflash, sweetheart– but this is a life. It’s our life. So I suggest you get used to it.” I sound like a villain. No. I am a villain. I grin up at Renata, “So, what do you want to do about it?”
She sucks down a gulp of air and steps away as if I’ve landed her a physical blow. Good. At least if we’re fighting we’re feeling something.
“No, Ben. Just no. I refuse for this to be my life for another second. You won’t even try to pretend you care about anything aside from that stupid typewriter.” She glares at the thing like it's sentient and then jabs a finger at it, “That’s your wife. And I’m not going to be. Not anymore. I want a divorce.” Her words hang in the air for a minute, heavy. Something rumbles in my chest at them. Something whispers in the back of my mind: failure. But the rumble isn’t pain. The rumble isn’t the tremor before a quake, set to break apart everything I’ve built. The rumble is an unleashing. Freedom. I laugh.
Renata bursts into tears. They flow as if freed from a dam, landing with audible plops on the wood floor. She backs into the wall and covers her face in her hands. I should get up. I should go to her. I should apologize for laughing in her face– even if she’s divorcing me, I shouldn’t end things like this. I shouldn’t actually behave like the insufferable ass I am. But. I can’t bring myself to rise. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when the story is waiting. Not when Renata is setting me free. So I just sit, hands hovering over the keys, desperate to continue, but not quite brazen enough to cover Renata’s sobs with the comforting sound of typing. An indeterminate amount of time passes before Renata’s weeping ebbs to soft snuffles. Only then do I rise, stepping around her like some piece of broken furniture. I go to the kitchen and pour two generous glasses of whiskey. I use the stupidly expensive cut crystal glasses she gave me on our seventh wedding anniversary. I feel nothing when I look at them– nothing but a small appreciation for the way they warp the light through the amber liquid. I know the whiskey is going to sit like curdled milk atop the coffee and Baileys in my stomach, but the fortification it’ll provide is more important than my comfort.
I stride for Renata on stilted legs, folding down onto the floor beside her, backs against the wall. I hand her a glass and she takes it with shaky fingers.
“Ren, I shouldn’t have laughed,” I speak glumly.
“You think?” Her voice is thick, but it seems she’s put her walls back up at least. She won’t let me see her cry again.
“Yes. I apologize.” She nods and I continue, “You’re right, Ren. Of course, you’re right. I’m not living out here… but I am living— in here.” I tap a finger on my temple.
“I know,” she whispers, “but I can’t live with you in there.”
“I know. I don’t want you to.” She sucks in a breath, but I still her with a hand on her cheek, “Ren, you need to live. You are right. You need to leave me. I can’t ever give you the life I promised.”
She just stares at me for a long minute, before a sad smile curves her lips, “I’m always right, Ben. You just seem to have forgotten.”
I raise my glass, “Well, then cheers– to you always being right.”
Renata clinks her glass with mine before slugging back the contents in one go and coughing. “What will we do now?” she muses.
“You’ll live.”
“And you?”
“I’ll write the story of how you do.”
Renata rises and pads to the kitchen, lugging the whiskey bottle back with her and dropping to the floor at my side once more. She refills our glasses, “Well then, let’s drink to that, Ben. Let’s drink to the end of our story.”
“To the end of our story– and to the beginning of another.”
We smash glasses again and drink.
I tuck Renata into bed two hours later. She promises to go pick up the paperwork tomorrow. In the silence of our flat, I breathe and breathe and breathe, and then I walk– not shuffle– to the typewriter in front of the window. I pull free the page about the woman with the burgundy scarf and roll a new sheet in its place.
And then, I begin:
Once upon a time,
There was a man who hated himself.
And there was a woman who dared to love him despite it.
I smile. Yes, life as I know it is over, but the ending is also a beginning.
The Most Magical Place on Earth
The day before our trip to Disneyland, I woke up with blood in my underwear. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I’d known this was coming, sooner or later, the same way it was always looming for prepubescent girls, but I’ll admit, the timing wasn’t stellar. Still, I wasn’t surprised. Life had always had a way of taking good things away from me. Why should I have hoped to be a child at the most magical place on earth, if even only for a day? I shook my mother awake in the darkness of Grandma’s guest bedroom. “I started my period,” I stated bluntly.
“Oh honey,” Mom moved to cup my face, to give sympathy, but I pulled out of her touch and tucked twitching hands behind my back.
“It’s not a big deal. I just need…stuff.”
Mom sighed, resigned, and threw off her blankets. She shouldn’t be surprised this was how I’d chosen to handle the situation. First blood or not, I’d been an adult for years. It didn’t matter that I was only twelve. I’d stopped being a child the first time I’d offered myself up for a beating to spare my little brother. Dad didn’t particularly care who he hit, so long as he hit someone. I’d been six then and already well on my way to understanding some things about the world I really shouldn’t have. With the first smack of Dad’s beating stick on my back, the last dregs of innocence had left my small body. I should probably feel something about that, too, but I didn’t. It’s just the way things were.
My mother shuffled past, beckoning me to follow her into the bathroom across the hall. She held up a bulky panty liner, “Here. This is all Grams has. We’ll stop and get you something better on the way. Let me show you how to use it.”
I nodded, and let her show me, though I already knew. My best friend had gotten her period six months ago. Sara wasn’t one to leave out any detail and had shared the ins and outs of bleeding and tampons and pads with brutal efficiency to anyone who would listen in our little friend group. Yes, I already knew, but I let Mom show me. It was more important for her to feel needed than it was for me to be comfortable. And so, I shuffled out of the bathroom and packed up my bag, adding a fistful of the low-quality incontinence liners to my purse.
We drove for twelve hours that day. I shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of my grandparent’s minivan, but I wouldn’t dare complain. They were footing the bill for this trip to Disney. God knew my mom, who was in the throes of raising six kids solo, couldn’t afford it. Mom bought me tampons at a truck stop. Every hotel we’d be staying at during our week-long trip would have a pool, and I loved to swim. Mom tried to convince me that I wouldn’t even bleed much, but I knew she was wrong. My body had been hovering on the precipice of this thing for too long. I was more developed than any of the other girls I knew, with heavy breasts and curving hips and standing at 5’8” already. Men had been screaming vulgar things out the windows of their trucks at me for two years as I made my trek to school in the mornings. I couldn’t really blame them for mistaking me for a woman or something close to one. I looked like it. I relished the vile words the men spewed out their windows at me. I knew I shouldn’t, but my father had told me I was an ugly thing for so long, it was nice to know that someone, anyone, thought differently. I pondered all of these things during the twelve-hour drive, and arrived at the conclusion that while the whole period thing was miserable, it wasn’t a bad thing. It was just another step toward becoming the adult I so desperately wanted to be. When I was an adult, I could be free. I wanted so badly to be free. I wanted so badly to be wanted.
By the time we arrived at the theme park the next night, I was an old hat at the whole tampons and pads thing. I had fully leaned into the idea that no matter what anyone tried to tell me, I was a woman now. I’d demand the respect of one. And I did. Grams and Mom were the first to notice the shift. They just met my gaze with a knowing glint and subtle nods. I’d not be treated like a child anymore. Mercifully, they didn’t try to. They stopped giving me orders and started deferring to me for opinions and on the fourth evening of the trip, Grandma handed me a tattered copy of her favorite romance novel and informed me, “You’re old enough to read this now.”
During our breaks from the sticky, sweaty excitement of the park, I devoured the book. It confirmed some things that’d been pondered over pillows at many a slumber party. The book gave vital information on how to fully wield the power that’d been bequeathed upon me in the form of generous hips and cat eyes. On the last night of the trip, my bleeding had stopped and I clutched a towel around my breasts and left the hotel room with a mumbled, “I’m going to the pool.”
Surprisingly, no one challenged me. They let me slip from the room, twelve years old, clad in nothing but an orange bikini and a towel.
I smiled with wicked delight as I made my way to the pool yard. I’d been watching, these days past, hoping for an opportunity to test my hypothesis, but in order to do that, I needed to get away from my family… and they’d just… let me leave. My heart pounded as I exited the building. The thick, warm night air of a Los Angeles summer blasted me, and I gulped down lungfuls and told myself to be brave. I stepped into the poolyard and let my towel drop. It pooled around my feet, and when I looked up, six pairs of eyes were running up and down the length of me. I met a pair of glittering blue and grinned. I let a little bit of that heat I’d been kindling flare in my eyes, too, “Can I join you?” I purred in a voice foreign to my ears. The minor league baseball player across from me smiled lazily and trailed his fingers through the steaming water next to him.
“Sure,” he said, taking another sweeping look down to my toes and then slowly back up before he met my eyes again. Something stirred in his gaze and I bit my lip before climbing into the hot tub beside him.
I’d been watching the baseball team for a few days. They had rooms down the hall from ours. I’d overheard them talking about their spur-of-the-moment decision to stay a few nights and explore the theme park before continuing on their way. All of them were young, in their early twenties, and all of them were outrageously good-looking in the way only aspiring male athletes can be. They were all also, mercifully, on good behavior. I took for granted the danger I was putting myself in, not having learned the other truths about the way men might behave when confronted with an almost-naked young woman. And that’s what they thought I was: a young woman. My body, my face, the way I held myself told them. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t bother to correct them. I spent hours in the pool that night, riding on their shoulders, swimming beside them, running my hands all over them, their hands all over me. I reveled in it. I laughed and they echoed, and when the one with striking blue eyes invited me up to his room, I thought for a long minute about going, but this man was a gentleman and he saw the hesitation in my eyes and tipped his head.
“I get it,” he said, “you’ve got other attachments.”
I smirked and nodded, allowing him to believe whatever conclusion he’d come to.
“Either way, this was,” he smiled, “...fun. Thanks.”
I twined my fingers in his and looked up under my lashes, “Sorry.”
He ran a tentative hand down my cheek. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Let me know if you change your mind. You can find me in room 402.”
I nodded again and gave him the sultry smile I’d spent an hour cultivating in the mirror earlier. He grinned and turned away, exiting the pool yard with his friends elbowing and gently ribbing along the way.
When they were gone, I sank back into the hot tub and laughed. Though they didn’t know it, those men had just given me the keys to the kingdom. My hypothesis was confirmed. There was power in this woman’s body. I’d just had no less than ten men dancing for me like puppets on strings. I palmed my round breast and grinned at the sky. Yes, there was power in this body, power in the truth I now beheld. And I would use it from that moment forward to get everything I ever wanted.
When we left the most magical place on Earth the next day, my metamorphosis was complete. I was a woman, and the world wasn’t ready for the terrors I was poised to unleash upon it.
The Life I Chose
I woke to dust motes. They drifted lazily, basking in the light from my open window in the early sunrise. I rolled my eyes at them. A year or two ago, I might've gotten lost in the way they looked like a thousand shards of glitter. I might've smiled softly and lifted my fingers to send them stirring on a tiny, frantic breeze. Today, like every other day for the last six years, they only reminded me of my utter ineptitude. I couldn't keep my bedroom dusted, for Christ's sake, how could I be expected to achieve anything truly substantial at all? Not that I wanted to. No. I'd greedily retreated into the mundane, into normalcy, routine, whatever. This. This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose.
The words haunted me as I scurried into the bathroom and slathered body wash under a tepid stream of water. They slithered along my skin along with the brisk toweling down I gave myself after. They sang with every sweep of the hair brush. Hell, I could even hear them in the spritz of perfume I applied: one spurt to my wrist, one splash on my collarbone. Like every other day, it was the same. My body fell into a rhythm, moving without me giving any conscious thought at all. It was so mindless, I was hardly surprised when I found myself sitting at my desk at work with no memory of the drive, stacking paperwork tidily, as I did every morning. I settled into my chair and nursed at my coffee. My insulated mug kept it a little too hot, so I pried off the lid, let the steam fog my glasses and took in my cluttered desk. The stacked papers were the only thing that looked vaguely organized. Little trinkets were scattered beneath my monitor, a tiny carved dragon, a chipped miniature disco ball, and a bottle cap my daughter had colored with swipes of rainbow crayon. A stained floral mouse-pad sat under my keyboard, the passage of time marked in splashes of spilled coffee and remnants of sandwich crumbs. When I'd gotten the promotion, Daniel had bought the huge mousepad for me. He'd handed it to me nervously, unable to meet my eyes under trembling lashes and muttered, "For that dreary office... something pretty," his voice had caught in his throat as he'd dragged his eyes up to meet mine, "pretty. Like you." I smiled at the memory. That'd been the beginning of the end for me. Those words that'd so obviously taken every ounce of Daniel's bravery to utter had been my undoing. They'd been the beginning of my stagnation.
Daniel was... comfortable. I'd fallen into him like a feather bed. He'd wrapped me up and offered up everything I'd ever dared to dream: a house in the suburbs, two gorgeous kids, a nice-ish car, and a decently good-looking and kind mate to share it with. What more could a girl want? My smile turned bitter and broke, falling off of my face and drowning in my now lukewarm coffee. This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose. I didn't have anything to complain about. I should be happy. I was happy. If I said it enough, maybe I'd finally believe it.
I spent the next three hours clacking away at the keyboard, organizing figures into columns on my spreadsheet until my eyes went foggy from staring at the screen. I leaned back and pressed my fingers into my eyelids, rubbing a bit to dislodge the fog. A soft knock sounded on my door and Patrick poked his blonde head in, "Hey, you know what day it is, right?" A mischievous grin unfurled above his sculpted jaw.
I smirked, folded my arms, and rocked a little in my chair, "Nah. Enlighten me, Patch."
"Well, muchacha," he snickered, "it is noon, on a Tuesday. I saw Mateo's food truck parked on the avenue. Taco Tuesday. You in?"
"Thank fuck. Yes, I'm in."
Patch barked a laugh, "Is that any way for a boss to speak in front of her underlings?"
I grabbed my coat and gave him a shove as I passed him in the doorway, "Oh, screw off," I chuckled, "you know you love me. And you, Patrick, are not my underling."
He held up placating hands, "Whatever you say." His eyes sparkled with glee and my stomach dropped a little. I took an extra second to look him over, knowing that was as far as it'd ever go. Was Patrick nice to look at? Yes. Very. Did he and I like to flirt? Yes. Was he the only thing that made this miserable job worth it? Also yes. Would either of us ever act on the current of white-hot attraction that flowed between us? No. A resounding no. I had everything I ever wanted, and so did he. Both of us were married with the kids and the house and the doting spouse. So we looked... and looked... but never, ever touched. Well, not really, anyway. Not the way we wanted to.
Patch and I took a long lunch, though that wasn't unusual. We got lost easily in conversation and went over our hour nearly every day. Sometimes when we sat at the sticky picnic table on the sidewalk beside Mateo's Famous Tacos truck, Patrick would let his knee brush mine. He did it today and something sparked when his eyes met mine. I jerked my leg away like I always did, but I knew he'd seen in my eyes that I'd relished the touch. Like he always did. He smirked. I grinned. We both laughed in quiet knowing as we made our way back to the office. This constant hovering on the knife's edge with Patrick was the only thing keeping either of us sane.
The next hours passed in a blur of stirring papers and clicking pens. When it was over, I made the drive home in much the same way I had made the drive to work. I arrived without really knowing how I'd gotten home. Had I stopped at the red lights? Had I gone the speed limit? What music had played? I didn't know. I didn't care. I smacked a kiss onto Daniel's cheek and plopped one on the top of my daughters' heads as I made my way to my customary seat at the dining table. We ate spaghetti and spoke of the same things we always did. How was school? The girls grumbled some half-hearted reply. How was work? Daniel and I muttered about something or other. Anything exciting happen? Everyone mumbled a dead-hearted no.
After dinner, it was our customary race to be free of one another's presence. The girls sequestered themselves in their bedrooms, where angsty music echoed off of the walls. Daniel made his way to the sofa loosening his tie and picking up the remote. I scrubbed dishes and guzzled two glasses of red wine before settling into an armchair with a book. We all made our lazy way to beds, after checking locks and brushing teeth and slowly slipping out of the day's wrinkled clothes. I settled under the covers next to Daniel and the both of us continued what we'd been doing in the living room until finally heaving a mutual sigh, turning off our lamps, and whispering goodnight before turning away from one another in bed. When Daniel sighed a third time into the darkness, I knew it was coming.
He rolled towards me and twined his fingers into my hair. My toes curled...a little. Daniel knew me well. He knew I liked it when he pulled my hair... a little. He ran kisses down my neck. I ground my bottom into him, but didn't roll over. I reached behind me and shoved my fingers into his hair, too, urging him to keep pelting my neck in kisses. I wished he'd bite me, but he didn't. His fingers were clumsy as he pulled the waistband of my night shorts down and ran an exploratory thumb down my center, making sure I was ready enough. I was. That'd never been a problem for us.
We fucked like lazy spoons, clacking about in the cutlery drawer. When I came, I pictured Patrick's face. I'd done it for so many years, I didn't even feel ashamed of it anymore. It's not that Daniel wasn't attractive or that I didn't love him, even. He was just so... ordinary. Safe. Normal. We were bored of one another. It's why we always turned out the lights before finding release. He didn't want to see the faces I made in the throes of...well, whatever it was we did to emulate passion. And I didn't want to see his face, either. His face was as familiar to me as my own, and-- there wasn't any magic in that.
Daniel handed me a tissue and kissed my cheek. "Good night," he said.
"Good night," I echoed. But I didn't fall asleep. I couldn't, though it'd just been an ordinary day. A heaviness settled over me, an ache at the center of my chest that grew until it felt I'd tear in two. I stared at the silhouette of my closet door until it blurred into meaninglessness. Daniel's breathing turned thick and wet, asleep. And with every breath I heard those words I kept telling myself: This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose.
Maybe if I said it enough, I'd believe it.
An Affair with Death
An excerpt from a novel in progress by thePearl.
CHAPTER 19
Shamus: An Affair with Death
They’d come for him in the night, pulled him from his bed, and shoved him into the flight craft without so much as a hello. Shamus didn’t mind that, though. He was a man of little words, and the less he must exchange with Ethereals the better. He’d save his words for the ones who mattered. He couldn’t help but allow a smug smile to unfurl on his lips. He was going home to Agatha. And yet.
He felt a small tug of disappointment at leaving this place behind. No one was more surprised than he. Some small part of him would miss this. It’d changed since he’d been stationed here all those years ago. Yes, he’d miss the gardens, now grown up from pitiful sticks and bare branches into a lush paradise of blooms and green. He smiled to think of the dried flowers hidden between the pages of a large tome he’d pilfered off of the wretches’ library shelf. The flowers were every shade of purple– every shade of Agatha. But a pang stole his smile away again at the thought, he’d miss another flower, one who’d bloomed unexpectedly, stubborn as a dandelion through concrete cracks: the woman. She’d had a love of growing things, too. He felt a momentary wave of regret that he’d stolen the book. Gabriel wouldn’t care, he knew, but Lorelei would. She’d miss that big, unwieldy text. She liked to steal them off of the shelves, too, when she thought no one was looking. Silly wench, didn’t she know that he was always looking? He smiled at the thought, then cursed himself. Dammit. He would not go down this path. He would not allow this little obsession with the silver haired bitch. Bitch. That’s what she was. No better than the ever-breeding dogs that waddled with such pride about the Reaper towns. What a waste. What a terrible waste. He’d told the Authority as much, in his most recent report. He’d let the words flow with reckless abandon, sent the file, and immediately regretted it.
Dread settled around his shoulders, warmer, more familiar than the cloak he’d donned for this summons. They’d called him back to account for those careless words. He hoped the reckoning would be for Gabriel and not for himself. Though he’d only uttered the truth, and perhaps that’d be enough to save his sorry skin. The Authority treasured truth above all else, and when he’d reported that Lorelei was wasted on a life as some humble breeder, he hadn’t lied. For better or worse, she was meant for more. She was made to destroy– anyone could see it, should they really look. That strange flash in her eyes, the way her skin lit from within when she burned with some unfathomable conviction. Hairs on his forearms rose a salute to that kind of power, an electricity that reeked of ozone and set the heart to pounding in terror, whether a man cared to admit it or not.
He’d seen it twice, and that’d been enough. They’d been in the garden– always in the garden– the last time it’d happened. Shamus had reached out to touch a small constellation of bruises along her inner wrist, his hand behaving entirely without his permission. She’d stumbled back from him, leaving the tingling of hellfire untouched along the tips of his fingers where they’d caressed a meager swipe on her skin. He snatched his hand back in horror, “He hurts you.” He’d meant it a question but it came out an accusation. She looked at him with those haunting eyes and a pressure built in his inner ear as he returned her stare. When the painful buzzing was too much to bear, he tore his eyes away from her stare, forced himself to look at his feet, to somewhat unwillingly bow his head in her presence.
“Yes.” She uttered the one word, echoing with a hollow ring in his ear before she fled on silent feet back into the mansion. The tree she’d fallen against in her hurry to be away from him groaned. Shamus looked on in terror as it burst into spontaneous bloom, swelled like a river freed from the entrapment of a man-made dam, and then began to crack, starting at the uppermost branches, weaving spiderwebs downward, until the ground where roots tunneled began to shake. The tree tore asunder and lay dead across the garden walk. And he knew then, she’d done this terrible, powerful, inexplicable thing. He knew then, that she held something more wonderful than life itself inside of her. She’d an affair with death, and he wanted in.