“Anthony Boyer”.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

The pencil scratched against the paper as his eyes wandered off, almost immediately trying to get away from doing his essay. He had been putting it off for weeks, Wesley had already gotten his done, which said a lot considering Wesley rarely had his work in on time. Anthony could get essays done like no other, especially when it was an academic topic. But a personal essay? He erased his name.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

And his pencil stopped once more, right before the red line on the left side. He lifted and put his pencil back down against the smooth, creamy feeling of paper the pencil lead snapped. A yell from across the house echoed through the empty halls. Yet all Anthony could do was stare at the broken piece of lead, unattached to the rest of the small, wood-cracked pencil he gripped in his hand. Another yell. And then a meek female voice. And then a screaming match. His hand gripped tighter against the wood before it fractured into splinters, scratching the skin of his fingertips. “Jesus Christ.”

The teenager stood up, opening the door gently, watching through what felt like an eternal hallway and seeing his mother and father spitting at each other, screaming, one significantly louder than the other yet no matter how loud the other was, neither of them were listening.

“Robbie, please-”

“Don’t you fucking call me that, you whore, I would kill you if I had the chance.”

Anthony tensed slightly at the words. He knew his father wasn’t a murderer, nor did he have intentions but sometimes Anthony believed he was close to snapping.

“Tony can probably hear you, quiet down, you’ll scare him!”

“The boy needs to learn what the real world is like, I’ll hit him harder on the back of the head if it means getting some sense into him!”

“He’s sixteen, he doesn’t deserve this, you need to stop hurting him-”

“If he’d listen and start acting like a real man, maybe I wouldn’t have to!”

Anthony watched. That's all he could do. He didn’t want to interfere. He didn’t want to yell back at them. And at this point, the voices were meshing together and he couldn’t decipher which one of them was which. His body felt numb, felt weak. He wanted to lie down but he needed to listen. His parents were arguing because of him. They were screaming at each other because he couldn’t be a person properly. Because he can’t listen to his father or “be a man”. It was his fault.

“Robbie, please, you can’t keep doing this, it’s hurting him,” Susan cried, grabbing Robert’s arm before being slammed into the stove behind her, the skin against her wrist sizzling against the burning grill. She yelped, her tears flowing more as she held it, Robert not having a care anymore. With one hand grabbing her wrist and the other grabbing her hair down to her scalp, he slammed her back into the running stove, the red grates and burners scorching against his wife’s soft flesh. A scream emitted from the kitchen, with her flesh boiling and hissing against the heat. Robert didn’t have anything in his expression other than anger. He had no sympathetic reaction to his wife’s burns and scars forming. Her cries for help only fueled him more, clutching her hair and impacting her face into the burners. She could feel her vocal cords strain, almost rip as she attempted to cry out, with how much agony she was experiencing. Susan’s eyes were wide, shutting her eyes almost instantly as soon as her eye touched it.

Her lips were scarred with the grill imprint on her face.

And all Anthony did was tighten, stiff in his place in front of his bedroom. His mother’s screams went into his ear but never went out the other, instead settling inside his head and crowding it, not being able to hear anything else. His voice was quiet, it felt childish as he called out for her. “Momma…?”

His voice wasn’t heard, his mother and father yelling overpowering it as Susan was yanked and thrown to the wooden floorboards, her flesh bubbling and almost melting and dripping with blood. Grabbing the back of her head and her jaw tightly, Robert split her jaw, dislocating her jaw and kicking her head back down. “Fucking bitch.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat, her head, her scalp, her eyes, her lips, her arms, burned and bleeding rapidly. She was crying and it was unimaginable how much pain she was in. Every tear burned like molten lava dripping down her face. Robert stared down at her, disgusted, uncaring, pissed.

Anthony watched him hit her, watched him rip out her hair, punch her teeth in, dislocate her body parts just to make her pain last longer. She fell to the floor, not getting up, not crying anymore, not breathing anymore, laying inanimate underneath the man she had once loved. As Robert stomped his wife’s head, a loud crack rang around Anthony like a wind, the boy felt his air get sucked out of him, his lungs out of breath and his eyes glassy, his body aching, and his intrusive thoughts replacing the cries of help his now silent mother once screamed. Police sirens were heard outside, loud, so loud that his father covered his ears a bit. Neighbors chattered outside, worried and watching as the police stormed into the Boyer house and tackled Robert. Anthony was still, as still as his mother. His mother was dead. His mother was dead. And all he did was stand there. He didn’t help her, didn’t reply to her pleading for someone to help and fight for her. He didn’t call the police. He didn’t fight his father off. He didn’t run out for help. He didn’t help her.

“Kid, you okay? What happened?”

“I think he’s in shock.”

“What’s your name, bud?”

Anthony finally glanced away from the horror of his mother’s dead body, his green eyes now looking at the faces of the police officers. “Anthony.”

“Anthony? Hey, Anthony, my name is Officer Johnson, we’re going to bring you to the station, okay?” The police officer said softly, blocking Anthony’s sight to the kitchen.

Officer Johnson was tall, taller than him, taller than his father. He didn’t quite remember how tall his father was. Officer Johnson brushed his blonde hair out of his face, and his kind and warm eyes gave Anthony a smile. Anthony didn’t smile back.

“Johnson, I’ll get the mother, you get the boy?” The other officer clarified. Officer Johnson nodded, turning back to Anthony almost as quickly as possible. Anthony nodded slightly. He followed him to his front door and his gaze landed back on his mother. His dead mother. She laid there, her face almost unrecognizable with her jaw too far to the left, her nose crooked, her left eyeball almost falling out of its socket with dripping red burned tissue barely holding it in. Her lip was curled upwards a bit, stuck like that with the wounds intacting it.

“Momma.” Anthony muttered, the officer leading him grabbing his jaw and turning it back forwards to not look at her. The other officer covered his mother in a white sheet, and for some reason, Anthony’s mind immediately went to peace. She wasn’t just dead, she was at peace.

✧—---------------------------------------------✧-------------------------------------------------✧

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

“My momma’s dead.”

“I know, Anthony, I’m sorry. Can you tell me how she died?”

Officer Johnson looked at Anthony with gentle eyes, he’s only ever seen those eyes with one other person. A notepad was on the metal table, a pen in hand.

“Anthony Robert Boyer”.

“Robert Boyer, Susan Boyer”.

“16, birthday 03/19/1938”.

“Family essay??”

Anthony had read over those notes multiple times, and each time he felt like he couldn’t remember past his parents’ names. He stopped reading the notes.“I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Can we talk about something else at least? Maybe about the essay?” Officer Johnson asked, tilting his head again. Anthony stared.

“The essay is ridiculous,” Anthony started, fidgeting with his fingers, his thumb rubbing the palm of his hand to calm his cramping. He never knew why his palm was cramping, it had been cramping a lot recently. And it was only his right one. Officer Johnson gave him a look to continue, his pen clicking with the tip of it ready to write at any moment. “It’s Honors English Literature 3, I should be learning analysis, how to look at the little things in writings, not write an essay on personal experience, what good does that do? I want to think deeper about english, not be a fucking writer.”

“I get that, writing is difficult,” Officer Johnson replied, his hands intertwining with each other as he listened. Anthony had never been listened to this long by an adult except for teachers, but they only listened when he had something academic to say. Officer Johnson’s brown eyes were gentle, not judging, not yelling at him to knock off the cussing. They just listened.

“And Wesley’s already finished his essay which is absurd because he literally never finishes his work but the one time he does, I’m behind and I don’t even know if I’ll have time to come up with something to write before tomorrow,” the boy responded, thumb digging into his palm like a coal miner. The pressing hurt, but it was either the cramping or the pain.

“Who’s Wesley?” Johnson asked, trying to get Anthony to open up more about his personal life. Hoping, praying that the boy would open up about something.

“McCormick, he’s my best friend. He’s going to be an actor, you know? Stars in every school play and he always does great.” Anthony leaned back, chuckling a bit. “Every time after one of his shows, we go to the diner a couple blocks away and we talk about how everyone else did wrong in the play and how he did fantastic. We’ve been doing that since grade school.” Anthony paused for a moment, his hands stopping as he took a deep breath in. “Shit, I’m missing his show..”

“You’re missing his show? Is it today?” Officer Johnson scribbled more on his notepad.

“Wesley McCormick: best friend, actor, school play, diner”.

“It’s right now, he’s Riff in West Side Story, and he really wanted me to come see it, he bought me the tickets,” Anthony said, guilt eating at his flesh like a piranha. His palm hurt again. “I told him I wouldn’t miss it-”

He didn’t know why he was hit with such sudden anxiety, hit with such sudden fear. His leg bounced, the fabric of the slacks rubbing against the metal leg of the table, the shifting noise filling the room besides the heavier breaths. Tears brimmed from his eyes, hands in fists, and body trembling. Touch was the last thing he expected right now.

Officer Johnson laid a hand down against Anthony’s fist, prying it open gently and gripping it. “You are okay. I promise you.”

“I’m missing his show-”

“You are not going to be in trouble for missing his show. Why are you panicking? What’s going on?” His voice was calm, there was no mocking or judging or annoyance, it was just gentle.

“Wesley will hate me.”

“No, he won’t. He’s your best friend.” Officer Johnson wrote in his notepad again, keeping it out of view of Anthony, who was calming his breathing and grinding his right palm into the corner of the table. Officer Johnson wrote more.

“Talk to Martha about counseling”.

Anthony just nodded, he knew he was being irrational, but suddenly he had a constant fear. A fear that he knew wasn’t going to go away, at least not tonight. He wanted to see Wesley, call him on the telephone outside, but he knew he wouldn’t answer. He was performing, expressing his happiness on the stage. And Anthony was stuck here, chained to the invisible ball of his trauma.

“Wesley does acting, you said? Do you have any hobbies? A girlfriend? Hanging out with friends?” Officer Johnson urged, finally putting his pencil down and tilting his head as Anthony began.

“I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Valerie, she’s super pretty. And smart, and fun. She parties a lot and that’s pretty cool because I get dragged along to them. Have you ever, like, touched the petal of a rose? And there’s that softness and smooth feeling? That’s what her touch feels like. If I could marry her now, I would.” Anthony said. He loved Valerie, and she knew that. But he couldn’t help the constant feeling that Valerie didn’t love him, that she was so much farther ahead of him. Her spotlight shone only on her, and with every light there was a shadow.

“She sounds like a delight, do you hang out with her a lot?”

“I do. But it’s usually with friends. My parents never really let me hang out with her because they caught her smoking. Which is hypocritical of them because I saw them smoke all the time.” Anthony said, his voice getting quieter and quieter as he continued. His parents hated Valerie, thinking she was a horrible influence with her smoking, yet Anthony grew up in a house surrounded by gray clouds of nicotine. His parents were just as, if not more addicted. His parents. There was a pause. “Do you think they hated me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think they hated me? My parents?”

“Kid-”

“They wouldn’t hurt me if they loved me, right? Wesley’s parents didn’t hurt him or Jim’s, or Val’s, or Lizzie’s, or anybody’s but mine. Why did I have to have parents that hated me?”

“It wasn’t your fault, kid. Some people aren’t made to be parents and you certainly did nothing wrong. Not even a little bit.”

“Then, why would they want to hurt me? I was four. How could they have already hated me before I was even able to give them a reason?”

Officer Johnson took a deep breath. “..Because your parents were horrible people. They treated you like you were a worthless mutt on the side of the road. They didn’t give you the love you deserved and by the looks of how they treated each other, their own spouses, it looks like they didn't have much love to give in the first place. You were four. None of what they said or did was ever your fault. None of it.”

“I tried to be good.”

“I know you did. All you wanted was to be loved, I know. And I promise you I will make sure that you will get the comfort and love you deserve.”

Anthony could feel tears brimming at his eyes. His hands clenched against the hard wooden top of the table, the cold touch sending a shiver through his body. The room was cold, like ghosts were surrounding the area. Anthony rarely cried in front of people, and it was often that he would shut himself down completely instead of letting the tears spill. But he wasn’t this time. A salty droplet landed on the table, before breaking the molecules and splattering. And it happened again. And again. And again. Until Anthony began to tug at his sleeve and rapidly wipe his eyes, the rivers stopping only for a brief moment before flowing down his cheeks once more. “I hate my parents.”

“And you have every right to. You have every right to feel how you do. They failed you as parents and they failed me as people. You are safe now. I promise.”

His legs curled up against his chest in the chair, the soles of his shoes barely on the edge of the seat as he closed himself off. The pencil met the paper again.

✧—--------------------------------------------✧--------------------------------------------------✧

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 11th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

“I am sixteen years old. I turn seventeen next March. For the sixteen years I’ve lived, my identity felt as if it was set in stone. Us as humans develop ourselves through our environment, our likes, our dislikes, and most importantly: the people we grow with. Our first look at life is seeing the faces of our parents glimmering down at us, and our first interactions and displays of how people act are through our parents, carrying on and moving just with their day to day life. Family defines a name, defines safety, defines love. And us children mimic ourselves after them, attempting to just simply fit in with society. If we see love, we mimic love. If we see stress, we mimic stress. If we see violence, we mimic violence. Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves.

“My identity was carved through fear and violence. The people holding the knives were my parents. My parents started fighting early on in my childhood, screaming or hitting or hiding from each other. I watched my mother cower in fear because my father broke the glass of our gun case. He had threatened to shoot both my mother and I if we wouldn’t stop crying about stupid things. I was six and the stupid thing was being slammed into a wall by him five minutes previous. He had held the gun with one hand, my mother’s hair in the other, and he mocked her as he nudged her temple with the tip of the gun and his pointer finger on the trigger, acting as if he would push it. That was the day that I had first thought I was useless. That I had defined myself as nothing but pathetic and useless. The concept that I believe I am pathetic and weak only creates chains around me and prevents me from keeping myself from ever asking anyone for help because I believe I am not strong enough to deserve that attention.

“When I was younger, I used to believe I deserved what I had gotten, what cards I had been dealt. And it pains me to say that sometimes I still do. My memories of my home are only devoured by my anxiety by the fact that I even have to step foot into that place again. I can never say that I didn’t learn stuff from my parents, even though I still don’t know how to tie a tie or drive a car or order food for myself at a restaurant; instead, I learned what to say when walking on eggshells, what footsteps belonged to whom, how to identify moods depending on mannerisms. I learned survival, not safety.

“Last week, I watched my father brutally hurt and kill my mother. My name had been brought up in the conversation previous of it. My mother was not my mother when my father was done, she was barely even recognizable, but that was my mother. And to have some of her last words being my name screamed, to hear some of the words that I last heard from my father be my name with such an angry tone, only added to how I see myself. The guilt has eaten at me. I am a horrible son. I am a horrible friend. I am burdening. I am pathetic. I am unlovable. And I am a disgrace to my family’s name. The way that my father defined me, how he saw me, only made me see it in myself more because he was my blood, and the person I was supposed to look up to the most and the person that I was supposed to think did no wrong. And if he thought that I was a horrible son, a horrible friend, burdening, pathetic, and unlovable? Then, so be it. Robert Boyer had shaped my thinking about myself more than I had even thought. Because my parents were who I was supposed to look up to, and who they taught me to be, who they were, had already created the traumatic identity shaped into my very body.

“Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves. My parents are gone, and my stepping stone is twenty feet below the surface level, the level most children start. My biological family created who I am now and with my own actions, my found family will create who I will be. I am not the case of ‘the boy whose father killed his mother’, but I am the boy who survived it. My identity lasts every day but everyday I get to pinch off their effects little by little.”

Shells. It has been days since everything changed. I don’t know what day it is now, and I don’t care. I think I was at work when I heard, but I have no recollection. Did I leave with you? Can I? Time and hope were just a mirage in a feigned utopia that no longer exists. Life with you in it is gone and so is everything else. The universe has collapsed unto itself and what is left behind is nothing but dust and vacancy. A big gaping hole gasping like a fish on dry land. And I can’t catch my breath. I feel guilty when I think about the devastation I feel. This isn’t about me, but that’s who you were. You changed everyone you crossed paths with for the better. We didn’t know what was missing until we met you. The shine of you cast light upon all that was good but also all of our ugly, hidden, dirty, shameful, broken, lonely, and the loss within us, and you loved us like we’d never been loved before. A rebirth. And we will never know that love again. You gave what was once meaningless—meaning. How could someone who carried so much pain deliver so much joy? Your heart opened wide for us and we suddenly knew what it felt to be safe, seen, and accepted. The essence of you swaddled all of us no matter where we were. No matter where you were. I met you when I was at my lowest. You knew how to navigate the rubble I was under, you were there too. Our connection was so deep, a true soul connection. Your words both said and written spoke to me as though we had always been together since the beginning of time. Just thinking about the depth of you moves me. We both struggled, but our souls together could sustain it. And now you are gone. I should have called you more. Texted, written. Reached out more. I cannot process this pain. I know there are stages to grief and so I tell myself, this too shall become tolerable. A new norm. But I know better. You were a once in a lifetime human. And for that, I try to convince myself to focus on the blessing of that. And that’s true, I know that most will never have the fortune to meet a soul like you. But your human death is different. And I don’t think I’m going to survive it. I am ruined, I give up. I love you so much. Your energy is next to me but I don’t think it’s enough. Something changed when you left your body, and I don’t want to acclimate to humanity without you. I feel guilty for being selfish about this. But I know you would understand. And that’s all that matters. How did you make everything okay with just a word or two especially when I know you too were hanging on by a thread. Even when we didn’t talk for months, you existing made life manageable. You were and are an angel. A light. Energy that cannot die. You are a part of me, of all of us, and I feel your presence. I know that you are okay now. I know that peace and love everlasting has washed over you and you are everything you ever were without the pain of flesh. You have been and will always be the purest and rawest and realest of all that is beautiful. But for us here, we are stopped in our tracks. Putting one foot in front of the other because that’s what we do, but where are we going now? What is the point. “It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That’s how the world is going to end.” William Faulkner.

We mounted our horses and galloped towards the Capitol. Before we departed the hospital, the Chancellor promised that our gear would be ready by morning. Including the sword he’d kept from me for the past year. The Chancellor gifted me the blade for my success in training at sixteen. A gift which he'd later used against me. A contingency of my decision to leave the Facet Corps. His leverage to keep me under his thumb. If I left, the blade would stay behind.

So I left without it.

I’d trained with that sword since Casian gave it to me. My comrades wondered how I gained the Chancellor’s favor to earn such a weapon. Some said that being the first female to make it to the ranks must’ve caught his eye. I thought it was more likely a bribe than a gift. A way to earn my favor should he require more of me. Grisham assured me it was nothing more than a gift and reminded me I was ever the skeptic. He wanted to keep me rational, even then.

I would've been a fool to refuse the favor he bestowed on me. A finer sword I'd never seen. As though someone made it just for me. The hilt covered in red and green metal work. The shining blade was strong, but slender enough to offset its weight.

My skill with the sword had earned me the name Silver Blade. A name that evoked denial from those who hadn’t witnessed me fight. I had never picked up a sword until the Chancellor gifted me the blade. But as soon as I held it in my hand, I felt it was an extension of myself. The sword spoke through me when I swung it. Sword fighting felt more like a dance than a fight. It was learning to move like water. The sword slid through the air like water coursed through the veins of the earth. We became one, the blade and I.

But I left it anyway.

When we entered central Divern, we slowed our horses while people crossed in and out of the streets. Folks smiled and waved at us as we passed through. Particularly at Burke and Shelby, who wore their unfettered greens. Some eyed me with confusion. No doubt assuming I’d stolen my jacket from a fallen Facet. Burke and Shelby waved and nodded at the townsfolk in return for their appreciation. Next to them, the remaining three of us looked like prisoners headed to trial.

Just outside of the Capitol building, we dismounted our horses.

“Are you really her?” A delicate voice spoke from behind me.

“What was that?” I turned to the young girl, who stood timidly a few feet from me, waiting for my reply.

“You’re the one who saved us that day, aren’t you?” The girl’s voice was light and hopeful.

I chuckled, “Now who told you that?”

“Stories my mama tells me. We were there that day. They almost killed us. But you showed up. My mama said you were like an angel fighting back the demons from hell. Keeping us safe here. An angel with long red hair and green eyes.” The girl's smile was so bright it drew me in. I noticed she had braided her long brown hair over her shoulder, just as I always had.

“I helped the others keep them out. It wasn’t me alone, but I do appreciate your mom’s story.”

“Why did you quit?” Her eyebrows drew together.

“Well,” I paused for a moment. “I was sick. I had to quit so that I could get better.”

“You look better now. So you’re coming back then? Is that why you've come? You’ll protect us again?”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked the young girl.

“Josie.”

“Josie. Such a nice name. My name is Rue. Can I tell you something really important, Josie?”

Josie nodded, her eyes wide.

“Even if I’m not a Facet, you're still safe here. I know that the other Facets will do everything they can to keep us safe here.” I smiled.

“But none of them are as strong as you are.” Josie’s smile dropped. “I told my mama, I want to be like you. I want to join the Facets when I’m old enough and protect the colony. I’ll be the second Facet to be a girl.”

“It’s dangerous, Josie.” I said, unable to hide my trepidation.

“I know. But that didn’t stop you. Everyone was dying, and you just ran right to the front and fought for them. I’m brave like that, too. I can help them.”

“I don’t know, Josie. Doesn’t your mom want to keep you from getting hurt?”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I want. I want to fight with you. When I’m a Facet, I want you to come back so you can teach me… Deal?” Josie stuck out her hand.

“Okay, kid.” I stuck out my hand to meet hers and gave it a firm shake. “But in the meantime, think about being a doctor or an engineer. Okay?”

“Okay, Rue.” She replied. We exchanged one more glance before she skipped away.

“Let's go.” Shelby called from the Capitol steps.

“What was that about?” Grisham asked as we entered the main hall.

“Looks like you're not the only one in the ‘Runel Tormult’ fan club.” I laughed.

“Shocking.” Grisham smiled.

The main hall was as immaculate as ever. White marble accented with red carpet down a long corridor. Gaudy chandeliers adorned the ceiling. All of it was a stark contrast to the rest of Divern. They treated the Chancellor like a king. He lived amidst this opulent display while the rest of us watched from our squalor.

Facets walked the hall and adjoining corridors in freshly pressed greens. They looked at me with disgust and sneered in my direction. My rugged old jacket didn't bring me shame, though. In basic training, they treated us like dogs. Robots who existed only within the confines of the commands they were given. Greens expected to be cleaned and pressed each night after training only to be ruined again the next day.

After a while, the dirtiness brought me such a satisfaction that I stopped cleaning it. The lieutenant's voice of warning wasn't enough to make me comply. Being a female in the Facet corps drew unwanted attention. Being dirty kept grabby hands away when Grisham couldn't. But when my superiors saw my skill with the sword, the punishments for my lack of decorum stopped. I often wondered if the Chancellor played a part in it, but I never asked. I wouldn't question the gift of choice I'd garnered.

“So many new faces.” Grisham muttered as we walked.

I didn't recognize any of the Facets who walked down the hall now. As they stared and whispered to one another, I felt like an outcast in the schoolyard of my youth. Fighting my shame, I stood a little taller.

“Our comrades are probably dead by now.” I replied.

After turning a few corners, we reached the staircase to the Chancellor's office. We ascended it and arrived at his lavish space. The Chancellor handpicked everything about this space. From the uniquely carved fireplace mantle to the commissioned self-portrait above it. This place was him.

It felt familiar. Grisham and I were no strangers here. We had frequented this room when receiving orders, and when I received my sword. This was the space where the Chancellor did business. I blinked my eyes and saw the moment he handed me my silver blade. Just him and I at the center of the room.

“Rue.” He called, standing from his desk. “Please come in.”

I nodded and entered. The rest of them followed behind me. “Hello, sir.” I spoke as we approached him.

“Sir?” His face grew puzzled. “Such formality. You're not in my command anymore as I recall.”

He pushed the frames of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They hid the true color of his eyes, yet I knew they were dark brown. I'd seen them enough times to know. He spoke aloud to us all, but I knew he spoke to me.

“How were your travels?” He kept his eyes fixed on me.

“Fine, sir. Thank you for asking, sir,” Burke replied with the fire of his youth.

“Good.” The Chancellor replied, pulling his eyes from me. “I have your weapons ready, as promised.”

He walked to a long wooden table on the other side of the room. Likely used for council meetings, it now held our arsenal. I walked to the table to search for only one thing. I wasn't interested in the variety of swords and smaller throwing knives. The bow and arrows that always reminded me of Doc and the ax that Grisham would undoubtedly grab first. Beyond the collection of ropes and other leather straps, I saw a long object wrapped in an off-white cloth.

Even through the cloth, I felt it pull me in. Static cracked in the air around me as I got closer. My fingertips burned with eagerness, my heart leapt with an irrational desire. The surrounding chatter faded away and the ringing in my ears punctuated the silence that followed. I reached for it.

“Wait.” A hand brushed my shoulder. A warm voice whispered in my ear, “I need to speak with you first.”

My body grew tense. I didn't bother to turn towards the intrusion. I knew the Chancellor's voice well enough. I nodded my head and followed him towards a door at the back of the room.

“Runel!” a voice called. “Where are you going?”

“It's okay, Grish. I'll be right back.”

The Chancellor shut the door behind us, and the smell knocked me from my daze. The Chancellor’s bedchamber smelled of redwoods and the spices that Mom once used.

“Casian, have I been here before?” I asked.

“Don't be silly, Rue.” He replied with a smile.

“It's strange, but familiar.”

“Well, I'm not sure why.” He placed a finger under my chin. “Does it bring back some memories for you?”

“I don't-” I looked around the room. Nothing felt familiar, just that smell. “No. No memories.”

“Well then,” he took my hand in his. “I need something from you before I give you that sword.”

“We already made a deal, Casian.” I swallowed hard. My heart began to pound incessantly behind my ribs. I hadn't had a smoke since we left, “I have nothing to give you.”

He smiled and took off his glasses. Walking to a table near his large bed, he set them down and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He gestured towards his bed, “Have a seat, Rue.”

“I'll stand.” I took a small step backwards, wringing my hands as my breathing accelerated.

“Rue,” he spoke my name so softly, “You're starting to panic, I can see it.”

“I'm fine.” I lied. Fighting the urge to run from the room, “Just tell me what you want.”

“I've got just the thing.” He reached for a small polished wooden box near his glasses and opened it. Immediately, the color of Indigo radiated from it. I bit my lower lip in an attempt to subdue the urge. He lifted a pipe and the shard from the box.

He walked to me and placed the shard into his pipe. He delicately placed the pipe against my lips. I held it there without question as he lit it for me. I inhaled sweet relaxation. I felt my shoulders drop from my ears. My eyes rolled back and my heart slowed. I exhaled, nearly moaning from the relief.

“There you go.” He said. He brushed a finger across my jawline. The sickening feeling I felt was snuffed out by delight and I inhaled again.

“Now, I need something, remember?” He leaned closer. His warm breath on my cheek.

I nodded my head.

“I need your help with something very important. It's something only you can do.”

My eyelids were heavy, but I tried to listen. This seemed like something I should be awake for.

“When you get back, I need you to move into the Capitol with me. Once you find this latest settlement of Watchers, you'll return here. I'll send the Corps to handle it. But you, there's a very important project I'm working on and you're the only one who can help me.”

“I'm helping you with this project. That was the deal. When I get back, I'm going home.” I groaned.

“My special girl.” he sighed, “You need to help me with so many things.”

“I'm too tired for so many things, Casian. You can't have me cleaning up your messes all the time.”

“This will be the last one, I promise.” He twisted the end of my long braid in his fingers.

“I'm doing this for the Indigo. Not for you.”

“After everything I've done for you?” He pleaded.

“I paid my debts to you, Casian.”

“But your brother. You didn't pay his.”

My eyes narrowed and I pulled the pipe from my lips. I shook my head.

“He threatened an active officer. My Facet was terrified. Such a crime is punishable by death.”

I smirked and shook my head. Casian always got what he wanted. One way or another.

“How long do I have to stay here?” I asked.

“Just until the job is done.”

“And you promise Grisham will be safe? You'll let no harm come to him?”

“You have my word.” He replied.

I should've known Grisham's outburst wouldn't go unpunished. When it came to Facets, civilians have been killed for less.

“Okay.” I said between smokes.

“Give me your word.” He grabbed my wrist as he spoke. The force of his grip startled me. We stood face to face. He stepped closer in our silence, “Your word.” He repeated.

“You- you have it. I give you my word.” I stuttered at the intrusion.

He took another small step closer to me. His nose nearly brushing against my own.

“You smell like her.” His eyes closed and his lips brushed against my cheek. I stood, frozen.

“L-like who?”

The door flew open and relief washed over me. The Chancellor took a step back. My brother stood in the doorway with fury on his face.

“We're leaving.” He said.

I jerked my wrist from the Chancellor and walked past Grisham. I walked directly to my sword and picked it up, leaving the pipe in its place. Energy ran down my arm and my body quivered with excitement. Images of the ways I'd love to kill Casian flashed through my mind. A silent acknowledgement that I'd never leave my blade behind again. We had work to do.

When you look upon another woman, your friend admires yours

April 27, 2025

Shakespeare had it right.

Charles and Avery took their place at the table with Thomas. The soiree was nearly at its peak with scores of society’s best in all of their finest. Avery understood that in such circumstances, Charles felt overly protective of her beauty, often leaving his hand in places often thought of as scandalous in the company not experienced with such announcements of possession. Tonight, the hand of Charles drifted from Avery’s lower back to Avery’s upper rear.

To assure Charles during his angst or jealousy, Avery smiled, feeling his hand. This made Charles go one step further, announcing his ownership, by squeezing her rear, never intended to retreat. Those who knew the couple frequently observed their lack of decorum and thought nothing of it. It was the manner in which they remained happy. Such was their dynamic.

Thomas wondered what series of events must transpire for his hand to substitute for the hand of Charles. If this rare opportunity would manifest, Thomas would not stop as Charles would. Thomas would make Avery his, never permitting another the same thought Charles was (unknowingly) permitting Thomas to hold dear. Perhaps the presence of another with dreams of Charles displaying public attention. Perhaps a blackmail situation where Charles would retire, leaving his wife for specific times, for specific reasons, never once becoming public.

Whatever Thomas could devise, it must be discreet, in which no one could be positioned to reveal the truth of the “arrangement”. He could harm Charles with his actions, but never Avery.

Another taste of his whiskey, another glance at the hand of Charles.

Then it hit him. The public display required those in proximity to watch it transpire, but not watch Charles as it occurred. Charles had his attention on Pauline. Pauline had her attention on Charles. She ran her finger over the circumference of her wine glass. Her legs uncrossed and then crossed again. Almost absentmindedly, Pauline adjusted the slit in her gown to briefly display her stocking welts. Her fingertips traced the lace before her hand readjusted, denying the visible exposure. Pauline was too confident for any of this to be accidental. Charles was too engrossed to see anyone see him.

Thomas took the chance to watch Avery’s response.

It was as flaccid as Thomas should be while looking at Avery.

In checkers, spectators view a sacrifice as successful when what is gained dwarfs what is lost. White moves his checker between the three red checkers, forcing red to capture a single piece, permitting white to capture three times that gain. White will, by being patient, finish the contest with a King, exacting his power, securing victory in the process.

There is a place in the mountains of Southwestern Virginia, in the middle of Appalachia, that was known as a hub of vibrant culture and music. It's hard not to feel... muted, now, there; it's like the mountains themselves, the Valley itself, can feel the loss of things that once were. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Do you know trains? I do. I know how they stop me on my way across town, to a group where children wait for me with the supplies to make their glitter jars to go with our discussion of space, stars, asteroids, nebulas, galaxies. Space Dust. But I'm stuck, right there, the first car in line while the tracks clatter and thunder and that bell comes ringin'. Too late - didn't make it. I never mind, though. And I certainly don't mind this, my very first time witnessing the cocophany of art that is about to unfold for me. Contrary to belief, trains don't go that fast, not through the city. It affords me a country-side view to the best gallery I could ask for, though.

If you've never watched a train go by, you should. The vast surfaces of their cars contain the most beautiful, poetic, raw, tragic, mind-blowing, inspiring, crazed, orbital pieces of art in the world. Graffiti is nothing new. The Romans did it thousands of years ago, and we do it today. And train engineers, also contrary to belief, know that. Here's the thing they might not tell you: they love it too. I'm watching greens and yellows and purple and paint and spray and dripping red streaks with black overtop, I'm watching social determinants take a back seat, I'm watching words of justice, peace, challenge, laughter, *passion* - mostly, it's passion. Art, devastation, hope: stories.

Every once in awhile, there's a freshly painted car. It's never the whole thing. Usually a square, random-looking, sticking out like a sore thumb. It makes it new art, when they have to do it. And you know, deep down, how awful it must feel to have to paint over such pieces of humanity, but the problem is that science, too, is an art. Math is an art. Engineering is an art. And unfortunately, without the right markings on the sides of those cars, telling them which wheels and tracks and cars and fuel and measurements, makes and models, and ten thousand other things that I couldn't tell you but I know are important... well, without that stuff, what you get is a whole lot of hurt.

Railways will do that, you know. They'll cause lots of harm. It's the same harm these mountains know well. Cus' years before this railway here existed, before the GI Bill, before the first infrastructure initiative tore this city in half, destroying one of the most prominent, thriving Black communities and cultural centers in the American South... well, there was music, here. There was no rail. There was a city: intact, accessible from both sides. No "wrong side of the tracks," no Sir, no Ma'am. Lots of love and art and *life*. This used to be a street. The trains don't even know it. The children don't, either. All they know is the innocence of glitter-glue jars like the ones in my passenger seat that they will make today. And they know violence, too - a story for another time. So the kids have no clue, sure.

But I know. The people here know. The earth, air and forest, these mountains, this Valley... It knows. It knows what it used to be, and every so often you can feel it in your bones. You feel the melancholy as these tracks grieve the music, shriek out, and mourn the death of the art that once graced the sides of buildings, buildings which now only exist in the dirt beneath the metal burying the joy which once emanated from them in music, dancing, laughter. I think every time the ground shifts, every time those tracks (now rendered nearly obsolete) creak, it's the remnants of the posters, the newspapers, the fliers that once advertised the Greats appearing on stage. This place is trying to dig itself out.

And maybe the trains don't know. But the tracks? They do. It's difficult to forget when you are built up from destruction, founded on devastation. Those remnants underneath iron and steel stir every time a train is just about to pass not because they have to, but because they feel it coming. After decades of being reduced to nothing, they get a taste of art, again; and they reach for it. Just as the conductors and engineers do everything they can to preserve the years of art on their traincars, so the Valley itself remains dedicated to maintaining its connection to life as we would have it be: free, flowing, and true to our humanity. Beautiful. Ugly. Call it what you will. But altogether, life as we would have it be is, quite simply, summarized in art, just like we are: Messy, broken, fixed, hopeful, passionate. Just like the trains. And me personally, I think that's kinda beautiful.

You did not break down my walls. You didn't make me blindly trusting and impervious. You caught my interest, and I watched you from inside with a child-like curiosity. Every movement was bewildering, every word was fascinating. Eventually, my curiosity consumed me, and I let you in so I could learn. You helped me rebuild when my fortress was under attack. You made windows so I could still experience life. You brought me paint, and helped me cover every wall with a beautiful mural. I am still guarded. I still have my walls. But it no longer hurts to see their dreary bricks. I feel safe, and I feel happy. You didn't leave me without shelter. You made it into a home, and made me feel comfortable enough to venture out on my own.

1.

The embarrassment coils tightly in my chest, and pools like liquid heat in my belly as I see her walk into the staff room.

Only four more days, I rationalize quietly to myself as I pointedly look anywhere but at her. I hope it comes off natural, but I know she hasn't looked at me once, let alone looked long enough to care. Only four more days, and I will be free of the suffocating shame that comes with drunkenly stumbling into a coworker, who you called friend but did not earn such the same title at a bar when introduced to the flock of men circling like vultures, and confessing harboured feelings that really were her fault because she was the one who would flirt, just for her to say in return: "I've known you liked me since we met."

Incensed, I stalked away to take another sip of my drink. I didn’t even like her as a person then, let alone thought of her as much more than a loud nuisance in the room. Just another body, one that I didn’t even pay attention to because I was working double the hours and had a tumultuous relationship to pay attention to. The crush came on suddenly, and she would stop me to tell me how I deserved so much better. That I shouldn’t settle. She understood me in a way my girlfriend never would. She remembered things about me my girlfriend didn’t. So I ended it, because I am not cruel.

Our respective best friends chat amicably, and try to offer me encouragement. My best friend says she's not even that hot. Her best friend says she's bicurious and I should make a move. Be bold.

So, too drunk to rationalize that this was a terrible idea, I stomp over and suggest just the thing. That we kiss. Soberly, I would've recognized how she stepped a bit away like she was ready to bolt, and how she didn't look at me once. I said bye, and ran tail tucked between my legs to the comfort of more alcohol.

"We only have four more days together." Was her rejection. Whether it meant four more days till she was free of me and my apparent fawning over her— which is that really fair, when I didn't like her as a human being until a month ago and the feelings more or less bodied me two weeks later?— or that it would be too awkward and it wasn’t that she found me completely repulsive. Regardless.

I don't look at her when she comes in. I use my newly bleached hair as a veil, and angle myself toward my friend to stave off the incoming panic attack. When I do manage to jibe at her as I usually do, our eyes meet and she looks as unsure as I do. Once were summer planning for when she moved and we would visit, were just dwindling pleasantries. I wanted to hop out the window, or brain myself on the edge of the chair that I’m gripping too tightly to hide my tremble.

I'm mildly offended, really, that she took my natural charm and humour to be flirting. I'm more enraged that she thinks because I’m a lesbian, I MUST like her. As though it were the most natural progression in the world. That kills the feelings, but the shame curdles and hurts my stomach.

She does not look at me. My mind stays on her.

2.

I wander into the room, my hair having won my rage-fuelled affections that day trying to wrangle it into something cute, so I just slump down in my chair. Our coworkers trickle in, one by one, and I keep rushing to the bathroom to check how I look. It’s a different style than I’m used to; florals and flowing rather than grungy and gothic. I keep the eyeliner in my waterline, because there’s some things I will not give on.

My friend says she likes my shirt and I want to snap that I don't care what she thinks, but that’s unfair, so I say thanks and trickle back to the staff room, my knee bouncing. My attitude had nothing to do with the flower print, anyway. I was still a bitch at my very core. Ruminating on this, I barely notice when she comes in, except for the complete stiffening of my body. But our boss is talking, so mercifully, I don't have to pretend to want to say hi. She looks at me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking or feeling.

Her eyes are so dark, so deep, and I’m struck that there is very little I actually know about her that isn’t surface level of what she brings to lunch everyday. "Your highlights are really coming through today."

I cock an eyebrow, feeling the fight or flight slowly leave me as our eyes meet, hoping I don’t look like a baby deer with legs that barely work under her scrutinizing. "Is that bad? Should I shave my head?"

She grins, a laugh stuck somewhere behind her teeth, “Yeah, maybe." And then our

attention is taken by our boss once more.

My heart practically glows. Thank god my shirt is a horrifying salmon colour, so she can't see how it's trying to upend my chest and land on the table. Something does— a bag of lollipops. She talks about how kids nowadays don't know about these kind of suckers. I think I’m a sucker, with the way the feelings swing like a mallet to knock me on my ass. On a nostalgic train, we chat about our childhood movies and idols. I make her laugh, sweeter than the red candy I roll between my lips. I can finally breathe again.

We get to work, on our own respective projects. My hand stalls on the page I am trying my very best to pretend is important, but she passes by me and she smells of perfume. It's sweet, and sharp, but my hand refuses to move and my coworker looks at me strangely as my eyes follow her until she’s hidden behind the bend of the hallway.

She's never worn perfume to work before.

I feel like maybe I see her staring throughout our brief time together, but she also steps away at times. Gets away from me, more feelingly. Its curious. Bicurious, my mind snickers.

3.

I can feel she’s there like a prickle of heat on the back of my neck before I see her. I'm turned away to the round table of staff busy making plans for the coming months, but the tingling thats more of a feeling than a sensation knocks my slumped spine straight. I fix my hair from where it lay uselessly on my back, check my lipstick surreptitiously in the reflection of my phone. She drops her stuff and says she likes my top that my friend said made me look like I was going to church. She looks expectant. Worship of a kind. I can practically feel my eyes brighten, and how embarrassing is that, as I make a joke about whatever managed to slither out of the slop my brains become. Always making a joke. For the risk of a smile, or the wish of a laugh.

Someone mentions the weekend— suggest we go to a bar. Me and her both freeze, and if I wasn’t frozen in every synapse of my body, I might’ve blushed. She always looks like she’s blushing, so, who can tell. But I stammer through a joke, and her body slumps in relief. I tentatively poke around other places we could go, anywhere but where I remember being shot down and reconcile with the fact I can never go back to my favourite bar again, when that someone won't let it drop.

I keep making her laugh. I try to keep the flirting inflection out of my voice because that got us into this mess. Not me. I wasn't nice when I met her. I hated her, really, I did. I don't know why, maybe because she was nice, or loud, or got the job I wanted that she clearly didn't respect if she’d leave so fast. But she would flirt. “You know you love it,” when I say she’s being stupid. With a wink, or a smirk, or a flick of her hair over her shoulder.

She has a problem with straight girls kissing gay girls, but has no qualms about straight girls flirting with gay girls... hm.

But as much as I try, I can't be mad. Even when I try to think of everything she’s done that’s bothered me. Even when I play out our entire brief working relationship. Even when she tries to placate my friends and I by saying we'll hang out when she moves away. We'll take road trips. Rent a boat. It's a lie, but it's said so painfully saccharine I can almost believe her. I don't. The someone from before, sweet and kind, lights up with the idea and I don’t have it in me to snuff it out. My best friend knows it as well as I do with every ticking day that passes like the click of a gun in a game of Russian roulette. But she also believed it for a second, too.

For once, my inability to trust serves me well.

I won’t see her again the second our brief hour before work is done tomorrow. I know this. So, I spend my shift outside standing under the clear sky and flickering sunlit tree tops trying to summon some kind of joy of life back. I’m not depressed. I’m not much of anything.

4.

Fuck.

I wake up two hours before my alarm, my stomach rolling and face hot and god, my head hurts. I dreamt of her. I dreamt of a lot of things, as I always do, but I dreamt of her about to leave. About to leave with her friends on Sunday night like she's set to, and how she hugs our little group goodbye. But I pull her tighter, and she doesn’t drop my hug until I finally unlatch and join my friends, set to head home with heads swimming with liquor. And she stands, torn, between both groups. They call for her. We wave goodbye, and I smile the same smile I have for months. But then she turns on her heel and marches back and grabs my face and kisses me. She kisses me like she means it, not because she's drunk or bored.

I remember my coworkers words from yesterday, as I pickup my best friend to do some shopping. "Well, at least you tried and now you know. So when she moves it's not gonna be like oh my god if I told her she might have stayed because we'd be together.." and she smiled toothily. I scoffed, shaking my head, because that’s not quite how it feels. I’ve never been an optimistic, but I’ve also never been so downtrodden over someone before.

We get her a card and a gift. It was my idea. My friend shrugged it off, but I insisted. I paid. We sign the card together, as unserious as ever, and she grins as she reads it. She props the card— rude to anyone else but apparently endearing to her—up against the drinking game we got and snaps a pic, smile ever present on her face. It’s sweet. I haven’t seen this smile before, but it’s sweet and soft and gentle. I can’t look away.

We take a look through the cards in the game. ‘Drink if you’ve ever been rejected.’ What a joke. I want to crumple the card up and stuff it in my mouth, but instead I show it to my two privy friends and force it into the middle of the deck. We won’t get to it. I hope she doesn’t have a shuffle habit. I hope a lot of things that I shouldn’t.

She hugs me twice. Once for the card that she coos over though I’m not sure for what, and once for the gift. Funnily this kind of felt like the hug from my dream the night before— that half hug. She’s warm beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, and I try not to inhale because I think I would choke to death on the heady feeling it gives me.

Someone says it— let’s hang out tonight. I stiffen, because surely not, and I was right. But she suggests tomorrow at her place— I choke. But it’s not cemented until she texts a time and not an excuse.

The one other coworker, the coworker that’s less than a friend, but more than a coworker that I told the tale of the Great Rejection to is grinning toothy again.

“What?” I ask, my back to the bar of the swing set and the matching hat to my best friend on my head blocking the sun and also her unusually tall head.

“Your four days are over.” She says first with a waggle of her eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. “If you pull the rejection card give it to her and ask for another chance.” Again, I roll my eyes. In the land of improbabilities, so lives this girl.

Later when it’s just my best friend and I and I’m a couple drinks in, wandering around downtown aimlessly with restless hearts and minds, I look to my right and see tulips. Flowers she bought for herself one day because she felt down. She doesn’t like tulips, but they’re cheap. I stamp the thought of what kind of flowers she must like, and the ones I’d pick out for her. I don’t stop thinking about her for a second. My friend is gracious when she doesn’t mention how I won’t stop talking about her, either.

5.

We never hear from her. We don’t see her. But I dream of her, and I talk about her, and it feels awfully like I’m mourning something that I never really had, never really could, and yet it felt perfectly like I should.

You can't pour from an empty cup.

The saying came to mind as Cara washed dishes. She remembered the ignored emails, canceled plans, vague excuses, messages left on read… all the receipts of wasted effort toward her various “friendships”.

Residual heat crept through the kitchen towel as she dried her favorite mug. Cara held it tightly as a tear slid down her cheek. Her sadness ebbed as the mug grew cold. She placed it in the back of the cupboard, no longer easily accessible.

With silent resolution, Cara closed the cabinet.

No more pouring into those that leave me empty.

I couldn’t help my melancholy. It had a strange way of settling into my chest with a weight I couldn't exactly shove off, but he was next to me… Wren was.

He made it feel— better and I know for lack of words that probably didn't sound convincing but it did.

I looped down the exit ramp that circled the side of the parking garage sharply. I hated how it wound up, and my hands only tightened on the steering wheel as I tried to keep my focus on the tightly curved ramp. We finally made it out on the bottom and I almost wasn't sure that I had made the correct turn until it emptied out into the straits right before we started to jump into line to pay for parking.

I hated how we had to pay for something that was so short. It felt unfair. Eighteen dollars down the drain for less than thirty minutes to say goodbye to Denise. It was like someone was making profit off of my pain and I wanted to scream at them.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded at him. “Yeah—” I sniffed, trying to keep my eyes from watering. “I’m just a little sad.” I downplayed it. “But I'm trying to remember how I’m going to stop by my house just to make sure that we’re good and that they didn’t miss anything.” I felt some calm run through me, listening to his voice. It settled me in a way, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

Letting my hands slide down the sides of the steering wheel, I gave the car a little more gas as we exited onto the interstate. “You know I won’t seriously take that position from you, though, right?”

I heard him shift in his seat, and a warm hand slid over my lap, gently squeezing. Carefully, I peeled my gaze from the road to quickly glance over and see Warren staring at me. He was leaning on his fist with his elbow propped against the door's armrest, and just looking at me. “I’m really not that bothered by it,” he smiled.

My ears warmed a little and I felt my sadness wane. “Why?” I asked him, a soft laugh breaking through my calm mask as a smile made its way onto my lips.

“Because you’re amazing and I know you’d be great at it,” he told me.

“Wh-What?” I scoffed, glancing over at him once more before I turned to look ahead. “No. I am not the leader type. I barely talk to your family.”

Still, I blushed lightly at the prospect of it or maybe it was the way he was rubbing his heated palm against my upper thigh and then back down it. Licking my bottom lip, I sucked my next breath in before pressing my lips together. “I can only be myself around you anyway.” I admitted softly.

He chuckled at my response and it sounded endearing. “Maybe I’m biased then.”

“Maybe a bit,” I smirked, my nose wrinkling at him as I kept my focus dead ahead. I lifted one hand from the steering wheel, my right and pinched my forefinger and thumb together to give a hint to how small I was talking. “Just a tad.” Letting loose another deep breath, I felt my body relax a bit more as I leaned back against the driver's seat instead of leaning forward. “I really hope Denise will be okay. I wanted to see her board the flight.”

“She’ll be okay,” he assured me. It sounded genuine and I really did appreciate him consoling me when I felt so insecure. It was nice to know that he wasn't saying that just out of hope, but also because there was a pack nearby that was going to be committed to making sure that she wasn't going to be a target.

“I know. My aunt is supposed to already be there, waiting to fly back with her and you said your family has connections…” My smile waned. “I just- I worry. I went through a lot and I don’t want her to experience anything I went through, but you’re right. She’ll be fine. I guess- I guess I’m just afraid to part with her.” Admitting that out loud made me feel so much closer to her, like the distance of the years gone by hadn't really made us feel like we were worlds apart. But honestly, I didn't know too much about my little sister. I spent so much time trying to stick around dad until that accident that I really didn't know as much about her as I could readily admit. Denise was her own person and she had her own life and she had been uprooted from that because Dad made decisions that neither of us were able to reconcile. Hell… those decisions had a ripple effect and here I was, riding the wave with Warren. “She’s my little sister. I love her, you know?”

Saying that was the truth. I didn't feel any better putting Denise out in the middle of nowhere, away from everything she knew while I got to stay here. I'm sure that she probably felt like it was unfair, and I know that I told her that the state wasn't going to let us stay together, but it really felt like a cop-out. I felt like I wasn't trying hard enough and that I wasn't giving her the fight that she probably thought she deserved.

She definitely deserved the fight.

It just wasn't as apparent that I was fighting for her as much as I wished it was.

“I understand. I’d be more worried if you didn’t care.”

“No!” I gasped, my grip on the steering wheel loosening. “Of course I’m worried. I’m not a monster.” Though, mentally I felt like I was on my way to becoming one. I blinked, wide-eyed as I stared at the road, and I gaped a little at my internal confession. “I mean, yeah, sure…” I rattled out, my voice shaky, “I was contemplating burning my parent's house to the ground after this as my last ‘fuck you’ to those assholes my dad was working with, but—” I laughed sorely, “I really need money so-” I shrugged, trying to suppress my pain with some dark humor.

Wren laughed at that, and I figured he was ignorant to how much this still hurt or I was just really good at seeming okay. “Ah-” he whispered. “I love you.”

I snorted, smiling through watering eyes. “You love me even though I could pass as potentially insane.”

“Insane?” he asked me. And I nodded, laughing as I tilted my head back and to the right to give him a quick sideways glance.

“Mm,” he shook his head, still smiling. I felt his hand squeeze my leg. “Maybe more– Violent… Yeah.”

Surprise had my brows rising. “What?” I asked, coughing as I choked back a laugh.

Wren shrugged at me. “Either way, I fucking love it.”

My heart felt like it nearly skipped a beat as the weight of the turmoil let up. “I can’t wait to be out there with you.” I wanted to feel the thrill and rush of this new life, to shake off the impending dark at the back of my mind, and I was confident Wren would help push that all back. “I’m sure… I’m sure you’ll show me the ropes,” I snickered low under my breath, shaking my head. I gave him a side-eye for a moment as we pulled up to the gate of my neighborhood.

“I’m sure,” he answered, and I did a quick double take at that devilishly handsome smile. For all it was worth, it definitely made my stomach swirl.

Glancing at the slow gate, I watched it take its sweet time to open from the clicker before I flashed him a half-grin. “What kind of competitions are we going to have with each other anyway? Capture counts? Kill counts?” My brows rose at the last question as it set in and my heart started to race. I let loose a laugh to suppress my nerves, then gave the car a little gas as we rolled into the neighborhood and I felt my ears tune in for his response, eager. When I didn’t hear an immediate response, I quickly added. “Thoughts?”

I think he shook his head at me, probably laughing low under his breath. It was kind of weird. Though all the noises of the car had me distracted—especially because I was still getting accustomed to the louder sounds of noises and smells— and I couldn’t exactly make out his response next to me.

“All of it.”

I internally scoffed, my chest heaving with that exaggerated breath as I shut the car off and hit the clicker of my seatbelt.

“All of it?”

“All of it,” he reassured me, like he was more intent on watching me do the job than engage in competition with me. I had a feeling I knew where his head was going with this, because he had already surprised me more than once before since my transition.

“Why do I get the feeling that you wouldn't try as hard as I would?” I asked as I laughed between my next inhale. It sounded incredulous. This guy… I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at him before I turned to give him my full and undivided attention. My eyes set on him, on the cool jet black hair that made his blue eyes tinge brighter than they probably were. Or maybe that was the predatory refraction of light gleaming through them. Either way, he always gave me such a heated look with them because they almost always seemed to light up when looking at me.

What was he thinking now?

“Wren.” My voice nearly vibrated with the sound of his name pulling up from my throat to my lips, as I tried to take a more playfully chastising tone with him.

He flashed those pearly white canines at me, and I swore I could see the sharpness in the smaller incisors next to them. Even if I didn’t, it got my heart racing because his next words came out rough and almost husky.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told me. Before I could protest to him, he kissed me, and I shrank back slightly in surprise as he caught my wrist to keep me from jerking back entirely.

A whisper breathed softly through the verdant green foliage of the forest. A voice so still, at first I mistook it for sheer imagination. Yet over and over it called my name. It wasn’t menacing, nor was it rank with foul ambition. It rang clear and strong through the quiet darkness, piercing my heart and breaking walls built long ago. Darkness shrank away at its touch; light filled its volume.

“Come to me.”

It was not a siren song, rather the call of a heartbroken father wishing his child were with him again. Strangely, my heart leapt at its kind touch. I wanted the speaker’s warm embrace to wash away my sins of self and hate.

“No.” growled a cold, calculated voice. “He is mine, and mine alone.” A pang of paralyzing fear shot through my entire being. Somehow, I knew this new voice was that of evil, nay, the Father of it.

The greens of the leaves and trees around me slowly curled into the darkest shades of black. The figures of demons and ghosts of a life poorly lived closed in around. Apparitions of the blackness of my own heart crushed me, trying so desperately to drown out the luminous, loving voice.

“Help!!!”

Beams of pure sunlight tore through my self-imposed cage of anxiety and damnation. Soft hands lifted me out of the sour pit I had sunken myself into. If I were to try and describe the face that smiled down on me in that moment, my heart would break with the sheer force of joy.

Coursing through my veins was a cleansing grace so bright and hot it burned away the barricades in my soul. It gave me the hope of a bright future, and a life lived in honor of the one who had rescued me from my own devices.

I was redeemed.