vampire jane

“I want to die,” she whispered, looking up into his cloudy grey eyes, taking note of the careful, cautious way his firm hands were holding her up. She whispered it again. “This is what I want.”
He shook his head so slightly it was almost imperceptible. “Jane,” he spoke her name for the millionth time, still savoring the way it tasted on his tongue. If he could assign it a color, it would be pale lavender. It would disappear like cotton candy and leave a lingering sweetness on the lips. “If you go, I go. I don’t think I’m ready.”
Her soft carnation lips tugged into a subtle, amused smile. “But . . .” she paused to gasp for air. He held her tighter. “But you did this to me.”
He cast his storm cloud eyes to the impossibly large cavern in her chest. It looked like a meteor had landed violently above her left breast. In its wake he could see shards of her thin ribs, pieces of tendons hanging like electrical wires across the gaping hole in her body. If he allowed himself to think logically, he would realize with painful clarity that there was no way to bring her back from this place.
“Please, Jane.” A traitorous tear trickled down the slope of his creased cheek. He blinked furiously.
It was Jane’s turn to shake her head. The gesture was slight, but undeniable. “I am going now. This is on your head, my love. This is on your head. You took my heart. You took . . .”
Before the sentence was completed, her eyes clouded over. The honey sparkle was gone from them, and the glisten of moisture that had been present since her first day on earth was suddenly gone. Her eyeballs took on a matte finish that caused Jared’s stomach to tighten and twist. Her body was small in his arms, but heavy with the weight of blood and bones and muscles that no longer have a soul to carry them.
For hours, he knelt there, holding her limp form in his strong, shaking arms. For hours, he relived every moment of their life together. For hours, he sobbed as he felt the heat leave her body, until the words “corpse” and “carcass” and “stiff” were personified by this shell that used to be his Jane. It was well after two a.m. when there was a cautious knock on the bedroom door.
His usually strong voice betrayed him as it hitched and cracked halfway through his call of, “Who is it?”
“Jared,” she began. “It’s time.”
He hung his heavy head over the remains of Jane. He squeezed out one final tear, and watched in sorrow as it fell through the gap in her chest and landed on the back of her ribcage. The bloody surface glistened with the memory of moisture before it dried a crusty, scabbed maroon once more.
“I am ready,” he croaked. He twisted his legs from beneath her form, and slid his arms out from under the solid, icy casing of her once-welcoming back. He couldn’t help but remember the countless times he’d run his broad hands over the sinews and muscles of that back. How he’d counted the vertebrae affectionately, and pointed out the places where she had tension knots. He shook, as if racked again with sobs. But his eyes were dry now. There would be no more tears.
He stood tersely and looked once more at the great hollow hole in the chest of the body that once belonged to Jane. In two great steps he was at the dresser with the vanity mirror. He wouldn’t allow himself to lift his eyes to his reflection, but he pulled open the top drawer and quickly extracted what he was looking for.
He lifted the oak jewelry box in both his hands, not risking letting it tip or fall. He admired for the hundredth time the intricate etchings on the top of the little case. He was not alarmed to find that the wood was still warm against his palms, as if it had been sitting out in the August sun, rather than tucked away in an attic room for several months. He lowered his nose to the hinged lid, and breathed in the cherry scent of the velvet fabric that lined the box. With his hip, he scooted the vanity drawer closed, and still avoiding his shameful reflection, he stepped over Jane’s body, and left the room.
In the living room, an alarming amount of candles were glittering and glowing, casting their flickering light over the somber faces of all those gathered for the ceremony. Jared considered briefly the likelihood of this great amount of candles setting off those new-fangled smoke alarms Jane had insisted they install in the house. He decided there were far more pressing matters at hand, and he turned to his mother at the head of the table.
“You have it?” she asked, the excitement dancing in her diamond eyes. When Jared nodded, she reached her arms over the table, letting the drooping, gossamer sleeves of her dress drift dangerously close to the countless open flames. She wiggled her fingers as an over-eager child might do when being presented with a much-anticipated birthday gift.
Jared sighed to himself, and handed his mother the jewelry box. She reacted in much the same way he had, bringing the intricate trunk to her nose, breathing in the fragrant scent of the contents. His mother was far more interested than what the box held than what it was lined with. He watched, along with the rest of those gathered, as a smile split her ruby lips.
His mother pushed a few candles from the middle of the table, and rested the box in the center of the cleared space. With her long, ruby-tipped fingers she unclasped the latch, and carefully lifted the lid. She held her breath as she exposed the contents of the box. Jared felt a swell of energy in the room about them as the heart was exposed.
It was a beautiful thing, really. Everything about Jane had been beautiful. But especially this most vital organ of hers. It was a vibrant red, marbled with deep spots of brick red, and swells of pale pink tissue. It was a beautiful shape, as well. He watched with a very tangible pain as the organ continued beating within the confines of the oaken craftwork.
“Yah, tumah li mio loh tunandrah. Calumi, mio alloh cara,” his mother chanted in a voice so haunting and deep, Jared had to study her face to make sure she was emitting the dark, ominous sounds. Her lips curved and connected to create the words of the spell. He swallowed thickly.
The people gathered around him began to chant along with his mother, their voices not emulating quite the same emotions, but matching word-for-word, nonetheless. Jared moved his lips, but could not allow any sound to escape. His heart, all irony aside, was simply not in it.
To Jared’s left sat a man so old his skin had taken on a grey tone, along with his hair and eyes, which were watery and rimmed in an uncomfortable red. His nose was bulbous and hung remarkably close to his thin lips, which were moving to create the words Vie was speaking at the head of the table. His sun-spotted hands were clasped desperately and resting on the edge of the coffee table. Jared eyed them darkly, remembering all the times he had admired the high arches on Jane’s feet as she rested them in that very spot while she watched the evening news.
His mind ached with the memory of the way she’d looked at him hours before, as the life drifted from her. He felt the burn rising in his throat as her words flitted through his ears again. This is on your head. You took my heart. There was no denying he had done that. But he had asked her, first. He had asked and she had consented. But still, it didn’t take away the pain. Jared knew the tears would come again if he didn’t change the course of thoughts. His mother must have known the same thing, because just as a pool threatened to well over the rim of his eye, she called his name.
“Jared, Son of Vie, giver of Darkness,” she breathed in the same low, haunting voice. “Remove the organ from its tomb.”
Jared did as he was directed, and lifted Jane’s still-beating heart from the box. It was heavier than it looked, soaking his broad, capable hands with deep, cherry-red blood. He knew what was coming, and he doubted very much that he’d be able to go through with it.
“Now, Jared, lift the organ to thy lips and partake of the flesh of the Lover.” His stomach clenched as he saw the light in his mother’s diamond eyes. She nodded eagerly, as if this were the prompting a normal mother would make to her heart-broken son.
Jared swallowed thickly and ran his tongue over his lips. Maybe it would taste like Jane, he reasoned. Maybe it would taste like home. He opened his mouth and pressed his sharp teeth into the merciless surface of the heart. He applied pressure, and felt his pearly teeth break through the skin. His mouth filled with the hot, living flesh and blood of his late lover. His tongue was stained red. He closed his eyes and savored the flavor of her. He had been right. It was undoubtedly Jane. Had he not been surrounded by the dark creatures that had filled his nightmares as a youth, he probably would have gotten an erection at the vivid memory of all the times he’d tasted her so intimately before.
He opened his eyes and looked at his mother. She was radiantly beautiful when she sparkled that way, in the candlelight. Her auburn hair moved like water over her shoulders as she raised her hands, palms-up. “My Son,” she crooned, “Thou hast tasted of the flesh of the Lover. Pass the organ to Demetri, so that he, too, may relish the essence of the Heart.”
Reluctantly, Jared passed Jane’s now-still heart to the old, cryptic man to his left. He watched with something like jealousy as the man sunk his yellowed teeth into the beet flesh of the organ. Jared could feel Jane slipping from him all over again. He watched as the heart was passed from Demetri to Alonso, and from him to Mari and so on, until there was but a single bite of the heart left. Everyone’s hands were stained a glistening red, except for Vie’s. She smiled at her friends and family as she took the final bite between her long thumb and forefinger.
“And with this swallow, we shall make Him whole again,” she bellowed before tilting her swanlike neck back, and dropping the juicy red flesh between her juicy red lips. She chewed with almost theatrical relish. Her eyes closed in ecstasy as the blood ran down her throat, heating her icy stomach from the inside. “Join hands,” she commanded, eyes still closed.
Those gathered around the table followed her command and clasped hands one with another. Jared was alarmed at how strong Demetri’s fragile-seeming hands were. He closed his eyes and listened sadly as his mother chanted another string of dark magic.

hit man

“Goddamn it, Melinda! Where is it!” I had turned the bedroom inside-out looking for the journal. It was a small little thing, only 80 pages thick. Only about twenty of which had been written on. But this journal meant the world to me, and she knew it. Everyone knew it. I kept the thing in my pocket at all times. I had some of the most important conversations and ideas written in that little book.
“Don’t ask me! Why would I touch your bloody book? I haven’t seen it since you took it out at dinner with my parents last week.” She was scouring the breakfast dishes in the kitchen, and I knew she wouldn’t have taken it. I swallowed thickly and continued turning over couch cushions and opening cupboards in my vain search.
“Can’t you just buy another?” she asked softly, turning off the stream of water. She dried her hands on her blouse and came to where I was standing, frustrated, in the center of our living room.
“I can’t buy another one, Mel. There are things written in those pages that can’t be duplicated. Fuck, I can’t even remember some of the stuff I’ve written in there. There could be some incriminating things. It’s not just that it’s missing, it’s that somewhere someone could have found it. You understand?”
She cast her eyes down. “Yeah, your friends in high places. I got it.”
I ignored her discomfort and asked the next question that crossed my troubled mind. “Can you file a police report for a book?”
“The Bible, maybe?” she offered with no judgment in her crystal eyes.
“Might as well be a bloody bible,” I muttered. I grabbed my coat from the hanger by the door. “I’m going down to the office. Can’t hurt to check it again. See you for supper.” I closed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it.
My search was no more fruitful at work. The desk drawers were nearly empty. I found an old photo of Melinda and myself, as well as some of the early letters she’d written me. I wondered briefly why these personal items were at work, rather than home in my nightstand or somewhere equally safe. I was searching the break room hungrily when I heard the door open and close.
“You looking for something?” His voice was unmistakable. He had an irritatingly big voice, with a big accent. It matched him perfectly.
“Yes, actually. I seem to have misplaced something very important.”
His pig eyes danced. “I hope it wasn’t that pretty little lady you’ve got wrapped around your finger. It’d be a shame to lose something that special.”
It would take an absolute moron to think someone would look for a girlfriend in a break room, and this only confirmed the fact that Anderson was just that. The moron had no common sense, and even less tact. He was easily the worst person to have in ones office life.
“No, I know exactly where Melinda is. I appreciate your concern,” I said tightly before reaching for the doorknob.
“Not so fast, partner. Maybe I can help you find what you’re after.” Again those piggy eyes shone, and I had a sinking feeling inside. Anderson wasn’t in the business of helping people unless he would be taken care of in return. Anderson was the last person in the world I’d take care of.
“I don’t need your help, thanks. I’m just going to check my office again before heading out.” I swung the door open, and swung it closed behind me, leaving Anderson standing on his own in the small break room. The glow of the vending machines lighting his pudgy face.
No sooner had I returned to my office when the phone on my desk began ringing. I pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”
“Camden,” began my boss. “Could I see you a minute in my office?”
“Be there in two,” I replied, clicking the phone off. I pulled open the top drawer once more. The journal still hadn’t appeared. “Damn it,” I muttered before straightening my tie and heading to the elevator that would take me up to meet with my boss.
I nodded at his secretary as I passed. Her eyes looked worried. My emotions matched her expression as I pushed through the door and saw Anderson sitting in front of my boss’ desk. He had his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and his eyes were dancing. He smiled tightly at me, and motioned to my boss, who was reclining behind the large ornate desk.
“You needed me?” I stated.
“Have a seat, Camden.” He waited for me to situate myself uncomfortably beside Anderson. I cleared my throat expectantly. He waited a little longer.
“Anderson here has brought something very crucial to my attention,” he began heavily. “It seems that someone in this office has been keeping some information from the rest of the company. Information that may be pivotal to the success or decline of this company as a whole. Concepts, if you will.”
My boss reached into the top drawer of his desk and produced my journal. The leather cover reflected the expensive light of his desk lamp. My stomach clenched and I felt the sense of self-satisfaction practically permeating from Anderson, to my left. “Yes sir,” I stated. “That journal belongs to me, and I’d like it back if it’s all the same to you.”
“Not so fast, Camden. I’ve read through this little book of yours. Very interesting stuff in here. You ever think of taking a career in writing?”
I shot him a tight smile. “I have a fine career in personal finance, thank you.”
“Have,” my boss whispered with something resembling amusement. He was amused at my present tense use of the word to define my job. The man who had ultimate say over whether that word became ‘had’. I felt like vomiting. “Yes, Camden, you have a very nice job. Good office. Good income, good woman. There is a lot of good in your life. Yet I read a lot of bad in this little book of yours.”
“Those are just thoughts, sir. Just things that cross my mind as I move through my life. None of them have any standing in my professional life.”
His eyebrows raised, caushing his broad forehead to crease. “No standing in your professional life? Well, forgive me for being so forward, but there are a few musings in here regarding your coworker, Mr. Anderson.” He gestured to the prick in the leather armchair beside me. “Things that I think require some consideration. Let me read one little passage to you, Camden.”
I watched his square fingers flip through the pages of my most private thoughts. The skin on my arms reacted, I felt like scratching someone. My boss found the page, and licked his lips before reading aloud the things I had written.
“’It never ceases to amaze me that Anderson goes home to bed a woman like Tatiana. How she can stomach the sight of him causes my mind to swirl. I have a fantasy, if you will, of taking out a hit on Anderson’s little dick head and welcoming Tatiana into my own harem of darling women. Talk about a savvy investment. I bet he has an insurance policy through the roof. I’m sure Tatiana would share.’ Very creative of you, Camden. This could be seen as a threat, you realize.” He placed the journal facedown on his desk and looked at me expectantly.
“Just musings, sir. Nothing that would come to fruition.” I coughed into my fist and felt my world beginning to crumble at the edges.
I watched my boss’ eyes slide between me and Anderson. After an excruciating minute or two, he steepled his fingers and nodded slowly. “Alright. I feel that after this little scare, Camden, it’s safe to say I won’t see or hear any more of this nonsense from you. I don’t want to see this journal or any more documented ‘musings’ in my office. We clear?”
“Crystal,” I responded soberly. “May I have the book back, please.”
My boss flicked it across the desk with one push of his index finger. “Get out of my office, boys.”
I pocketed the book and didn’t even offer Anderson a look before turning to the door and showing myself out. I nodded curtly at the secretary and found my way to the parking lot. As soon as I was seated behind the wheel of my Audi, I flicked open my cell phone and placed an urgent call.
“Vick,” I breathed. “Call off the hit on Anderson. Just shut it all down.”

noble project

The wind whips around me, unforgiving as a slap across the face. I am reminded of our last meeting, and my cheek stings with the memory. I cast my eyes to the sea, heaving and rolling and crashing in a fit of rage and injustice against the boulders below. How easy it would be, I think, to toss myself from this desperate ledge and join the ranks of those lost in the clutches of that ferocious water. But no, I must hold on. I know that no matter how many times you leave, and how many empty threats you make, you will always come back. And in spite of myself, I know I will always wait for you.
I look out at the looming, grey expanse of clouds above and around me, and I wonder if you, where ever you are, are thinking of me. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of doubt. My worthlessness tells me that the only thoughts you give on my account are those you entertain only moments before you strike me: physically and emotionally. I bend at the knees and scoop a clump of defeated wildflowers in one hand. I bring the violet and golden blossoms to my nose and am not surprised to find they smell only of rain and dread.
“Mother!” I hear from somewhere behind me. I feel a lurch in my stomach and I know it is only the phantom voice of a child that never was. My eyes smart and sting. I open my fingers and let the clutch of flowers drift and separate on their journey down, down to the waiting water. I watch them until all I can see are the ghost shapes of seagulls crying below. I turn and walk back to the life I yearn to leave.
Not much later, when hunger has found me, I stand over a small pot of gruel bubbling and hissing on the fire. I watch the tan liquid burble and move, and my stomach tightens again. I cannot eat this food another night. I cannot fight my way through another hard biscuit and choke down the sustenance that turns to sand in my mouth. In a fit of disappointment and frustration, I take the pot from the fire and carry it to the entry of the small hut. I push open the cloth that serves as a door, but before I can empty the contents of the bowl into the dirt, I hear approaching hoof beats. I look up and see a black mare trotting down the dirt path to my home. I self-consciously brush a wisp of black hair from my eyes and try to make out the rider as he advances.
My heart jumps when I see the familiar breadth of your shoulders, the girth of your arms. But quickly I realize the figure coming my way does not have your curls or your tanned work man’s complexion. He is pale as a full moon rising over the harvest wheat. His hair is as black as a raven, as black as my own. I squint against the ambient brightness of the clouds above, and try to make out his face. It isn’t until he has come within a stone’s throw that I am able to determine I have never seen the man before in my years.
“Sir,” I call in greeting. He says nothing. As he draws nearer the humble hut, he slows his horse, and eventually stops. He dismounts and pats the horse twice on the forequarters. It remains where he left it as he strides towards me with the gait of a confident man, a gait that resembles yours not a bit.
The stranger comes close. If we wanted, we could reach out to one another and embrace. I keep my hands at my side. “I have word,” the man speaks with a heavy accent. It sounds Gaelic. I nod and ask him to join me inside, out of the biting wind. We cross the threshold and my cheeks color at the reminder of just how small my living quarters are. I motion to one of two wooden chairs in what I choose to think of as the parlor. When my guest pauses, I take a seat first. He remains standing.
“My lady,” he begins. His eyes are not sweeping the hut, not evaluating my worth based on my possessions. Instead, he is staring right at me with eyes the color of dark honey. “I bring word regarding your,” his voice hitches almost imperceptibly. When I think of it later, I am sure it will have been imagined. “Betrothed.” When I do not make any motion or plea, he continues. “He has been wounded and is in hospital. When last I saw him, he was under the knife of a very skilled surgeon. They believe he will live.”
For a moment I am not sure how I am to feel. I think of your strong, sturdy form made to lie at the hands of a surgeon and a sense of discomfort grips me. It is an unnatural way for me to think of you. I glance up at the man who is filling the entry way. My heart knocks harder at the gate of my ribs, and I ask him, “How did he come by injury? What has happened that requires a surgeon?”
The man shifts and for the first time breaks contact from his eyes to mine. He glances unknowingly at a pile of straw and fabric in the corner of the room and stares for a bit before realizing that he is peering at my sleeping quarters. His pale cheeks are graced with color and for a fleeting moment all thoughts of you are lost. I am struck by a girlish realization that the man before me is a handsome one. I yearn to spare him the embarrassment of the situation, but I know not how. “Sir,” I say in my softest voice. I aim to remind him of the questions I have uttered moments earlier.
“Yes, of course,” the man stumbles as he tries to collect his thoughts on the matter. “He, Edwin, that is, was working his trade on the edges of Fromouth Forest in Devonshire, and was caught in crossfire. He took an arrow and spear in the side before both sides realized he wasn’t involved in the conflict. The fighting has not ceased, but one kind soldier brought him to safety.”
“Sir, the name of the soldier? I should like to include him in my thoughts and offerings.” I finger the hem of my tattered dress and secretly wish the man would sweep me off my feet, and rescue me the way he has done for you. I can see his humility is battling his honesty, and for a moment I doubt he will grant me his name.
“I am the soldier responsible, my lady. I am called Camden.” He makes a small bow of his head in my direction, and returns to his full stature. I stand and step toward him. In close proximity to him, I am very aware, once again, of his manhood and my womanly nature. The heat courses through me and I bring myself to look into the eyes of this stranger.
Our eyes meet. I am washed in a sense of serenity, elevated to the heights of comfort and well-being. My heart burns hotter than ever before, and I feel secure. The fear I so often feel in such proximity to you is no more. I know with a surety that this man, this particular Sir Camden would never strike a woman. I know not what comes over me as I speak, “He hits me, Sire. Edwin is very free with the blows he issues. I almost would rather he had been mortally wounded in crossfire.”
As soon as the words escape me, I regret them. I duck my head and return to my seat, like a mutt with tail between legs. I shake my head and pull my shawl tightly around my now-shaking shoulders. I know I should not have spoken out against you. It is unbecoming for a woman to speak ill of her man. It is not my place. But I ask this, if not my place, then whose?
“Lady,” Camden begins. His footing is surer now than before. “I will see to it that man never strike you again. It is not out of place for you to tell me this. Do not feel remorse for your honesty. Do not cower for fear of your man.” He has quietly crossed the room and is now kneeling at my side. He looks up into my face with his shining hazel eyes. “My lady,” he whispers as he takes my dirty hand in his own broad one. “Do not fear.” I watch as he places a single kiss on the palm of my hand, and before I am able to collect my breath, he stands and is gone from the house.
I stand as well and try to collect my thoughts. I move to the doorway and pull the fluttering fabric to the side. Sir Camden is already a great distance from the hut, and there is a fire in my belly that tells me I shall see him again.

Night has fallen over the hut by the sea, and I am watching the flames flicker and dance, reminiscing on my life. It seems half-lived in so many ways, but not so different from the lives of many women with whom I am acquainted. I wonder why it is that women never go to battle, why women have no trade other than cooking, cleaning, and childbearing. My mind wanders back to my childhood, and just like a ghost from the past, my sister knocks quietly on the door post.
“Arie,” she whispers into the folds of the tattered curtain. “Arwen, it is me. Pray tell, is Edwin at home?” She knows he has gone to share his trade, and will not return for some time. She is only playing.
I stand and gather my night clothes around my shoulders. The chill hasn’t set in yet, but I will be prepared for it when it does. I walk quickly to the doorway and whip the curtain open to greet my sister. Her face lights up like springtime when she sees me well and unscathed. Her arms wrap tightly around my midsection. For a fleeting moment I am reminded of a night much like this, when my sister came to visit and brought herbs and spices to apply to my swollen stomach. I am reminded of the hollowness that is there now. My sister pulls away and searches my face. When she is satisfied with whatever she finds in my own expression, she pushes past me and into the sitting room.
“Arie, I am so elated Edwin is not here to mar another evening! Oh bless, were you sleeping?” she cries as she spots my rumpled bed and my attire.
I pat my hair self-consciously and shake my head. “No, no. I was only thinking and preparing for sleep.”
“What were you thinking about?” my sister asks, pulling a chair closer to the hearth and filling it with her narrow bottom.
For a moment I debate whether to tell her about your injury, and the guest I entertained so briefly earlier in the day. But as a woman I find it so impossible to suppress such tantalizing gossip! I offer my sister a cup of tea and I set in, telling her of the stranger, and everything of your visit to the surgeon. My sister is such a wonderful audience. She listens with such rapt attention and she cares not a mite for your well-being, but wants to know everything of Sir Camden.
“Laurel,” I breathe, calling her by name. “He is a most spectacular human. Strong and sharp, with a voice like thunder in the distance. I should shiver to think what Edwin would do to me if he knew. But I shall not worry about him any longer! Camden assured me that I would never fall at the hand of that tyrant again.”
My sister’s bright brown eyes are shining. She sips from the nearly-clean cup I have given her. The tea is bitter, as I have not one grain of sugar in the house. She does not complain. “When will you see him again?” she asks with the eagerness of a child.
I shake my head. “I know not. I suppose if he returns it will be with news of Edwin. Or likely he will send another page or squire. I am certain he is far too busy to be troubled with the domestic matters of my courtship with a monster like Edwin.” I almost cower, preparing for a blow for uttering such ill words.
“There was talk of you today in the village,” Laurel says quietly. I am led to imagine all manner of negative things the townspeople have to say about me. So many among them think ill of me for living with you, for carrying your child. They think I am cursed. They think I deserve all the toil that befalls me.
“What have they said now?” I ask wearily, certain it will sting.
“Fear not, Arwin. The people have nothing bad to say of thee. They only share my elation at the absence of that tyrant you live with. There was speculation of you being with child again, and what you should do if you are indeed carrying.”
Before she’s even finished speaking, I shake my head. I cannot be with child. I shudder to think of the possibility. All the reminiscence and phantom voices might be explained if there were another spirit within me, but I know in my heart I am hollow. “No, I am not with child. Just fat off all the gruel and tack I no longer have to share with my man.”
Laurel places an open hand on my knee. “Sister, you will tell me if you are with child. I will not let him strip you of that joy a second time. No one will.”
My eyes begin to sting again as the memory of my lost child comes back with full force. As you know, Laurel was the one I ran to when the blood came. Laurel helped me bury the child you wanted nothing to do with. Just as I cannot go through a loss like that again, I know Laurel would also be hard-pressed to survive it a second time.
“I would tell you, Laurel. I would protect myself far better a second time. Fear not.”
Having exhausted all our words and our emotions, my sister stands to leave. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me how strong I am. I want to believe her, but you have instilled within me such an immense sense of self-doubt, I wonder if I shall ever feel strong again. I watch her leave, her silhouette blending into the night until she has returned to the faint, flickering lights of the town.
As I return to my bed and prepare to sleep, it is no surprise that your image does not fill my mind this night. I think only of Sir Camden sweeping me into his arms and carrying me far, far away from this cliff, and the life I live dangling on the edge.