《She/her. 15, artist, and LGBTQ+ writer. Highschool sucks｡ Rayburn X Oswald forever. On the spectrum. Blunt/Slow. Will rant from time to time. In love with my best friend. It means a lot when you read my writings.❤️》
《She/her. 15, artist, and LGBTQ+ writer. Highschool sucks｡ Rayburn X Oswald forever. On the spectrum. Blunt/Slow. Will rant from time to time. In love with my best friend. It means a lot when you read my writings.❤️》
In a heart-shaped box, a Mother keeps her children’s teeth. She watches as the lock clicks with a shut; she watches as her hands place it back into the drawer.
Another one gone. Another one lost.
She looks back at the latest one, formed by a random man who just happened to be in her path at the wrong time. Formed from his bloody, rotten teeth, another child is born.
She picks it up from the circle, staring blankly at its smooth face, watching again the moments of first waking. The child looks up at her with pitch black eyes.
It does not cry. It does not frown.
It smiles instead, grinning with a full set of yellowed teeth.
The Mother does not care, though, the mortal women who are cursed with infertility hardly care about apperence for a child. Not even the demons that come with such a creation.
The Mother, as she moves to wrap the baby in silk and place it into the delivery basket, only hopes that this one will last longer than the others.
But of course, her work will never stop. She will continue to create another one—and another.
THOMAS
It’s silent in the van. Everyone is asleep. The moon is high in the sky. The air around me, the silence surrounding me, smells of death—the pungent smell of sorrow and fate.
Holland isn’t back yet.
A wolf howls, its tremor stark against silence’s canvas.
Why isn’t he back?
I stand, the metal creaking against my weight as I make my way to the side door, leaning over myself to avoid bumping my head. When I find the handle and pull the door open, my nose is met with the smells of the forest. Green foliage with the gritty scent of dirt and gravel. I go out of the van, shutting the door behind me as I sniff the air with my eyes closed and my face to the sky.
I search for the buttery scent I know accompanies Holland, but I can’t find it anyway; it sets my brain into a slight panic. Why did he have to get angry at me? There wasn’t anything important today. There wasn’t—
“Oh,” my breath is a puff of warm air visible in front of me, “Today’s our anniversary.”
And I know whatever happens to Holland is my fault. My damn fault. Maybe he’ll come back.
He’ll come back. I know it.
HOLLAND
The bark of the tree is stabbing at my backside from different angles, but I welcome the pain—I cherish it like a child. It’s the only thing keeping me from wiping the tears off my face; the only thing keeping me from running back to the van and throwing myself into Thomas’ arms.
Everything was going so well. Why did it all have to fall apart. I thought we were careful enough. Why me? Why us?
I throw myself out of my pity party as a twig snaps to my right. I raise myself up, not knowing what to do. I’ve never fought bare in my life before—usually I have a weapon or two on me—or Thomas attacks himself. But he’s not here. No one is except me and whoever’s approaching. So I do the logical thing and hide behind the thick truck of the tree.
A large man steps into view, a small, childlike body in his arms. It’s dark, so I have to squint to see his form, but his voice rings loud against the palette of the night as he stares in the sky.
“Do you see the stars, Ivan?” He pauses and looks down at the child in his arms as though waiting for an answer. After a moment, he chuckles and looks back up. “Yeah, it is like that one night, isn’t it?“ He pauses again, then his voice grows soft. “I said that I’d try, Ivan, okay? Calm down.”
I sneak even farther behind the tree as the man sits down on the ground, brushing sticks from a tree across from my own to place the child. Moonlight streams from the canopy and I am surprised by what I see, not disgusted.
The child is dead—blue skin covered in holes and rot, a strip of cloth covering its eyes. There seems to be string sewn into the parts where the joints connect to keep its limbs intact. I look back to the man, who is brushing off some dirt from the child’s ragged pants, and am reminded of Adon.
He couldn’t take his own doll, for we were already in the van and on the road when he wailed for Trinity, but he has been curling up to our sides to make up for the lost comfort. Strangely, though, I don’t think that corpse is just a random one. The way the man cradles him, the way he talks to him, that must have been his child…or a friend.
That corpse does look old.
I leave before the man says another word, dashing through the trees quickly and silently as one can do in the dark of the night.
THOMAS
I smell him before I see him—butter mixed with the bitter, leafy smell of plants. I’ve been out here for minutes waiting for him, and when I see his form wobbling towards me, I go to him and sweep him in an embrace.
He doesn’t return it, so he’s still angry, but I ignore it and stroke the sides of his face. “Where have you been?”
Holland’s arms are flat on my chest, but he doesn’t push me away. “The forest, obviously,” he hisses.
“What took you so long?” I ask, sniffing his hair to know for myself. A musty smell hangs there, with the underlying scent of cheesecake. “And why do you smell like a dead body?”
Holland shrugs, staying silent. I bump his forehead with my nose, staying there, staying silent. The forest is not the same around us; the sounds of crickets and owls and other creatures moving around the bush invade my ears. The smells as well. Always the smells. The the most prominent one is the smell of melting butter caressing my nostrils.
“I apologize. I forgot that it was our anniversary.” My voice is gruff.
“Yeah, you did.” His own voice is subdued, and I feel his fingers tap against my chest. “Why can’t we be normal, Tommy? Why can’t you eat like everyone else? Why can’t I stop myself from going along with you—with all of you?”
“You look like an angel, dear.” But your soul is as twisted as the rest of us.
Holland lifts his head up to mine, his blue eyes searching my own. “Are you still hungry?”
“Of course I am.”
His hands find my neck and wrap around them. “Well, let me give you an appetizer, hmm?”
I lean into his lips and forget everything; the smell of melting butter on a warm, steaming bun invites me to go deeper into its intoxicating warmth.
I do.
JACK
I don’t know what goes next. I hate it. I hate it.
Everyone is still asleep, not including Thomas and Holland who are doing who knows what outside. At least I think they’re outside. They could have just ran away. They could have just left the rest of us. They never were attached to me like Adon is; they never cared what happened—what if—what if—
I shake myself out of panic.
Panic?
Panic?
How am I, Jack Holt, feeling panic. Insanity. The—the absurdity. Adon hitches a breath, frowing against my side, before his face becomes slack one more and a smile spreads. His eyes are open, the one to the floor shut midway because of his squished cheek.
He looks at me, then at the cover still resting on us, then back. He smiles again. “You stayed.” Adon puckers his lips expectantly towards me; I kiss him before I can stop myself. Perhaps my mind is not my own today.
I break away first, turning away and ignoring Adon as he grips my shirt, to squint and slightly make out the forms of the women in their corner of the van. Treasure and the Aubrey lady seem to be cuddled up together. Penny is at their feet, curled up in a tight ball with her arms around her head.
I turn back to Adon, whose mouth is instantly near mine, and I do the unthinkable again.
I give him what he wants.
His breath leaves him in spurts; his mouth warm and inviting. I suppose I should be at least trying to maintain my image, but right now, in the dark and the night, I don’t give a flying fuck.
Adon small frame clutches as mine restlessly as the van door opens. I ignore it—and the feeling of relief that accompanies it—and focus on Adon’s lips.
Heavy footsteps pass us, only one pair. Despite myself, I break away—“Again?” Adon pouts—to see Holland in Thomas’ arms. I toss myself away from Adon instantly, those the reason for such abandons me, and slide as far away at the cover allows it.
The other men don’t notice it. They go to their own corner of the van and Thomas lowers them both, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders with silence.
Then, it’s quiet again. Adon has found his way back to my side, contempt with just my warmth.
A plan. I need a plan. I think for a moment:
We can go to the warehouse as I said, but what do I do next? We can’t go in an any town or city or the police will find us. But we can’t just stay in this van in the woods forever. We need money, we need jobs.
Then it pops into my mind.
The mafia.
A frosty chill With the evening warmth
The heat rises With hearts of pure red
Continue, the heat does, And green clovers dance
Then with showers of rain Accompanies the heat, hand in hand
The flowers bud from the ground Embracing the sun
Then Summer comes around Beaches and vacations
Summer begins to go back to rest And the small mortals wave glumly
Then the heat is high one more Sending off the small mortals to an institution
There’s nothing special about this one Just some leaves—red, orange, and yellow
Ghost and creatures dash in the night Going house to house
Then food fills the table: turkey, stuffing, ham As the heat starts to disappear
Then the end is near The cold and presents throwing everyone cheer
♣︎♣︎♣︎
“Fear, truly, is not something to be frightened of. Fear warns you if something is not safe; Fear feeds your adrenaline when you must run.”
♣︎♣︎♣︎
YANT
I did not go down to dinner.
After what that servant told me, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of bed any time soon. Levan left me as well, following the same servant as they led him to the guard’s quarters. So it’s dark in my room, the candles full and untouched, and the moon screams at me from the sky, howling in laughter as though my death amuses it.
I’ll die if I stay here, I’ll die if I play along, and I’ll die if I make it to the end. I wasn’t expecting to fight while being here—or a possiblility of dying, the real danger here—the King truly told me nothing.
“Oh, Grandma.” I sigh, tucking myself deeper under the covers to entertain my thoughts to the object of sleep. They decline, sadly, being spurred up by this whole situation. Then, they go to the person who is destined to kill me once my time here has ended.
Prince Venus Heart. Why does someone fated to end me have to be so beautiful?
I think about the other royals. The Damsel and the High Prince. Both seem to be on bad terms with the Prince—and with themselves. Both seem unstable, in their own ways. They also obviously find me less than, and I certainly don’t want them near me when my paint falls off. Levan may help me, but I’m still not certain about where he stands in all of this.
A plan, I think as my eyes start to droop, I need a plan if I am to get through all of this. Always a plan. Some structure will help me.
I can’t live without it, for without structure, there is only the fear of what to come.
♣︎♣︎♣︎
♡♡♡
“No one must know. So keep quiet, and stare at the sky ignorantly.”
♡♡♡
BLACKJANE
I stare at the gentle moon, wondering how this majestic sphere of light can handle the wickedness of this side of the world, as I pour the soft, sweet smelling liquid into the cup of Elder Prince Dianthus.
He lays in his bed, long dark lashes framing his purple eyelids that flutter ever time his eyes move restlessly; his dark curls are matted on the sides, for he hardly ever moves from the bed. His thin lips pressed harshly against each other in pain even in sleep, wrinkling the black heart resting beside them. For some reason, I feel regretful to wake him, though, I know myself, and that is not the only thing that I shall regret.
Three black hearts rest on my right arm, where my shoulder and upper arm meet, signifying my ranking. The ugly black of it stares at me, jeering at me in joy for allowing it to take away my original color.
After I’m done filling the cup halfway, I shake the Elder Prince gently, handing the cup to him as he rouses. “Ah. Jane.“ He nods, taking a sip without hesitation. The trust he gives me is not what I deserve, but he is less perceptive than his younger brother and sisters because of his sickness and how he was raised.
He hands me back the cup once he finishes, and I place it on the desk near the head of the bed. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Jane?”
I shake my head, holding my tongue to stop myself from repeating the question back to him. A verbal tic, the doctor said when my mother called for him, should start to disappear as she grows up.
But it’s still here, and once, it almost landed me dead.
I shake my head and respond with, “Doctor Grand told me that he forgot to give you your dose today.” Which was true. What was in the cup wasn’t his dose though. By his face, it seems he can’t tell the difference. “I should be off now. Goodnight, your majesty.”
I make my way towards the door, but a weak grip holds onto my naked wrist. I start to shift into a defensive stance, but I remember where I am and the part I am meant to play, and I hold myself.
“Please don’t leave,” the Elder Prince’s voice is faint as he drifts back to sleep, “We haven’t talked in a while. What’s that about anyway? Do you find me boring now, because I sleep all the time and the sick, almost-dead prince isn’t what you’d thought he’d be?”
I look back, sigh, then walk back to the bedside and place his arm back over the covers. “No, you are everything I knew you’d be.” Another truth. But I was supposed to know everything about him so that he’d like me.
The Elder Prince smiles at my words and leans back against his pillows. “Okay. Talk to me, Jane, tell me again about the stories your mother told you? Those are my favorite.”
I look down at his weak form, regret rising up inside of me once more. But I distract myself from it, I do as he asks. “I’ll tell you my favorite one. Did I already tell you about the Dealer?”
He frowns, opening one eye to say, “That is not allowed in these walls.”
“I know, but this is a different kind of story. This is how the Dealer was created. It is not something for the faint of heart, and there is a lot of death surrounding it. And of course, as you said, the Dealer is a horrible thing. If you think you can’t handle it, though, I’ll leave you—“
“NO!” He shrieks, surrendering to a coughing fit after. I do not know if he really is two years older than me; he seems and acts like a child. “Tell me the story. Tell me now.”
“Alright then,” I look back out the large window and take a breath. “From the Jesters to the Hearts, a story always starts, then, of course, it must depart—The Birth of the Dealer.”
Then the words flow freely from my mouth, though I have to pause several times to stop myself from repeating.
Oh, how I miss the red, how I miss my Own.
♡♡♡
CHAPTER III
Inside the MPFH, it is almost as busy as my head. Mundanes move left and right, some going up the winding stairs placed in the heart of the bottom floor, some rushing down them to hurry to wherever they’re needed. Sir Wilson, Mr. Turner, and I are hardly noticed as we weave through the moving crowd. My stomach is not punishing me yet, so I take it as a good sign. Though, the world around me feels too real, too sharp, that if I let my mind wander more, it’s sure to cut me without mercy for my lost soul.
Maybe it’s what I deserve, but even people such as myself have the right to be selfish when it comes down to these things.
Sir Wilson stops when we reach a slightly less crowded area that appears to be where the reception offices are. Sure enough, as we pass through the open rooms, I see ladies, young and old, picking up telephones and talking to the other person on the line in soothing voices.
“Over here, Mr. Greyhead,” Sir Wilson beckons to me. Mr. Turner is already through the door the older man opened for him. I go through as well, wincing when I see who’s waiting for us in the otherwise empty office. My stomach twists, as though it’s happy to add some more pain in my already miserable life.
The two, a man and a woman, are bickering in low voices when we enter. The man, who has an amused expression on his face, seems to be the winner of the argument because the woman stops for a moment and regards him with a look of disgust. Sir Wilson clears his throat, gesturing to Mr. Turner and I before leaving us in the room with them.
The man, tall, imposing, with dark chestnut hair and charming green eyes grants me a sly smile. He’s older than me, but by how much, I do not know. I don’t think anyone knows the age of Lord Hawk Moors—though he does have five children, the oldest just approaching forty if I’m correct, so the youngest he could be is sixty, but if he is, he looks nothing of the sort. He looks as young as Mr. Turner, who is staring at him in awe.
The woman beside Lord Moors grants me nothing but a cold look in her eyes. Her blonde hair is flat against her skull, cut so short and curled in such a way that the ends cup her strong, set jaw in a sort of tender way. This woman is nothing of the “tender” sort; my aunt, Lady Loriene Greyhead, even though her husband is six feet underground and has been for a very long time, still dons her surname and has chosen not to remarry most likely for the respect of that name. Her amber eyes, so dark they're almost black, eye me as if trying to see how I’ll react to the two of them. Those same eyes watched with gleeful interest when I broke and absorbed spells over and over again.
I don’t; in fact I don’t move, or breathe.
“My dear, dear Rayburn,” Lord Moors slides to my side, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel his presence there, “What a pleasure to meet you again, though it has been some time since we last met. You’ve grown.” He pauses for a moment, then turns to look at Mr. Turner. “And who might you be?”
Mr. Turner outstretches his hand eagerly, seeming to almost cry from joy when Lord Moors takes it into his own. Aunt Loriene is quiet in all this, and has taken to ignore all of us to glance at her neatly trimmed nails. “Henry Turner, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you—being on the Board and all. I never thought I’d see the day when we would cross paths, but here we are.”
Lord Moors has his daily expression on his face—amused and slightly charmed—and turns to me after releasing Mr. Turner’s hand. “Well, I’m not at all to be compared with your employer here. As we all know, he scored above and beyond on the Scoring Test.” Lord Moors sighs dramatically, leaning his back against a bare, empty desk. “It was quite disheartening when he chose to move to this position, but the world still spins and the sun still shines.”
“But all that magick is still wasted.” Aunt Loriene mutters this low under her breath, but I’m close enough to hear it and my stomach twists. I see her dark eyes peek up at me. Is she trying to get me to leave with a fuss? Thankfully, I've passed all that nonsense and take no mind to her. “What’s the reason you called us here, Lord Moors?” My voice is flat, stern, and hopefully strong enough to get the no-age man to answer me.
Lord Moors, for once in all of our interactions with each other, gives me a straight, and rather concerning answer, taking a dramatic breath before doing so, of course, “Well, Rayburn, as I’m sure you know, Vice attack only Higher-Ups with an overflow of magickal ability,” he raises a hand to me, “You yourself have been in such circumstances. And even though Vice are not a threat to those without magick, the mundanes are getting wary, as the latest creature attacked in a mundane neighborhood. They don’t know if the Vice are only limited in their thirst for magick and they think, if presented an opportunity, the Vice would attack those in the way of their feeding. In this case, the mundane.
“So, we—the Board—have spoken to some of the mundane officials, such as Lincoln Tate, the chief of the mundane investigation department, and others. Through that, we have agreed to let one of their most trusted individuals of the MPFH to join and aid us in our investigation in this Vice, or new creature, attack. Lady Greyhead seems to be the only one against this choice. She…explained the situation to me, but this really is the only choice to make sure the mundane are pleased.”
He stops, smoothing the wrinkles of his coat before raising his deceptively innocent green eyes to me. “You will behave, won’t you, dear Rayburn?”
This…this cannot be good. My heart races and my stomach twists as I try to think who the officer who has been assigned to us could be. There aren’t many mundane I’ve had a disagreement with, mostly because there aren’t any that I meet with. Most of my time is spent either in my office, my apartment room, or my studio. “I—I suppose so, yes, I don’t see any reason why I would cause a ruckus during a case.”
“And I’ll make sure the peace stays in place,” Mr. Turner chirps in helpfully. A strange urge to snap at him rises in me, but I quench it down before it causes further trouble and prove whatever point my aunt is making.
Lord Moors clasps his hands together and shuffles over to Aunt Loriene. “You see Loriene, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure Rayburn here has forgotten all about it.” She just shakes her head and levels me with a stare as Lord Moors goes out from where we came, leaving to go get the officer.
I ignore her, and the warning pain in my stomach, and try to stop this endless buzzing in my head. I need my pills; I need the silence they give me. Only a little while longer.
Mr. Turner is quiet behind me. I turn to see him reading from a notebook, one that I saw him bring out during his chat with Sir Wilson in the alleyway. “Mr. Greyhead.” He says, looking up from his notebook to greet my eyes with a questioning stare. As though he was just trying to make sense of something.
“Yes?” I try to put all my attention on him, but the pain in my stomach continues to grow. The sounds of footsteps approach our room and Lord Moor’s words drift into my head.
_ Lady Greyhead seems to be the only one against this choice. She…explained the situation with me…._
A situation? One my aunt knows? A mundane I would have a problem with?
There is only one mundane, one smiling boy and a meadow, one broken boy and the rain, that would cause me to act as such.
“Ah, this is the room right here.” Lord Moors is right outside the door, his voice slightly muted by the wall as I hear the door knob twist.
My legs feel weak, my knees shaky, and as I back away from the door and steady myself against a desk. My head swims. Some invisible force is causing onslaughts to my stomach, and by now I would be muttering something about pills. But no amount of pills can help me if the officer is who I think it is.
“You did hear about the strange blood color—didn’t you? I just wanted to say— Oh. Oh dear, are you alright, Mr. Greyhead?” The door creaks open, loud and slow, slow, slow. A warm hand is on my shoulder. It’s probably Mr. Turner, but I don’t turn to see. No, my eyes are straight ahead, staring at the man behind Lord Moors as they walk in.
My aunt sighs heavily. “Any wound that wants to close is always picked at by that man.”
Mr. Turner steadies me with his hand. “Mr. Greyhead, can you hear me? Oh my, he is really pale.”
The officer startles at my name and turns to face me. He freezes as I do, the only sign of life his twitching eyes. Light-brown skin accompanied by amber eyes that I watched glow in the sun is what I behold. He’s broader now, taller than he was at the age of eighteen. His freckles have all but disappeared, but the ginger in his curly hair is still present, though his hair is shaved down to his head, so it’s hard to tell if you never knew what it looked like before.
Life loves irony, doesn’t it? And I have no choice but to go along with its games.
Lord Moors, who was studying us the moment our eyes caught onto each other, turns to Aunt Loriene and says loudly in the silent office. “See, nothing’s happening.”
I’m going to punch that man.
The officer seems to have been brought back to reality by those words because he straightens suddenly, eyes Mr. Turner still present at my shoulder, then extends his hand to him. “Officer Burtrom, pleasure to meet you.”
Mr. Turner glances my way. He takes the officer’s hand into his and nods. “Uhm, a pleasure as well. But, if you don’t mind me asking, you and Mr. Greyhead seem to have met before. How did that come to be?”
Without missing a beat, or even registering me and my still presence, he says. “A fire. A meadow. And the rain.”
A boy, small and weak, sat on his hospital bed, watching the night sky as the stars twinkled and shined. Another boy, tall for his age and strong, watched his friend and waited for him to talk. This was how most things were between them: quiet, patient, with the same amount of friendliness highlighting the air.
“You know,” the small boy said, finally, “I want to see the world.” He turned to where the strong boy sat at his side and smiled. “And I want you to come with me.”
The strong boy nodded, reaching over to gather the small boy’s shaky hands in his own. There were tubes protruding out of his knuckles and in his nose, another tube sat. The strong boy didn’t know if his friend would truly make it out of his bed, definitely not see the whole world, but he nodded, stroking the small boy’s thin fingers.
The small boy continued, the smile on his face almost the same shine as the stars outside. “I want to go see the Eiffel Tower, and Pompeii, and the Great Wall of China. I want to eat sugary foods and have my mouth be on fire from the spicy ones. I want to try new things, all the things I’ve missed by being sick my whole life. Promise me you’ll take me. Promise me you will.”
The strong boy nodded again, not in agreement, just in acknowledgment. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Then…you have to make a promise too.”
The small boy tilted his head, twisting their fingers together. “What kind of promise?”
“I need you to promise that you’ll stay alive.”
The air went back to silence, the stars still shone outside, and the boys looked at each other deep in the eyes. A smile slowly slid in the small boy’s face. “Of course I will, silly, it’ll take more than sickness to keep me down! The moment I get out of this hospital, we’re hitting the road together.”
The strong boy didn’t smile back. Instead, he kissed the small boy on his brow—which made the small boy beam even larger—as the door opened to his room.
“Visiting hours have long since ended, young man,” a nurse said, walking into the room with a frown on her face, “Where are your parents?”
The two boys ignored her for a moment, their pinkies interlocked. A thin one around a thick one; a weak one around a strong one.
“Do you promise?”Asked the small boy.
“Yes. Do you?” The strong boy replied.
“Of course. Now goodnight.” Said the small boy.
“Goodnight.” The strong boy waved as the nurse took him out.
_Goodnight, indeed. _Muttered Death.
***
SAMSON
A limp boy is on my back, his limbs stitched together with string and his skin kept together with wrap. I place him on the ground so I can unhook the bag from my belt. I can see him smiling at me as I take out the different cheesecakes I bought for the both of us.
We are in the woods, so I take off my jacket to place the cake on somewhat clean ground. Then, I drag him into my lap so we can both face our bounty.
“Do you like the way the cake looks, Ivan? I do; it smells nice too, right?”
_It smells so delicious, Sam! Thanks for getting me it. But we’ve already had cheesecake before. _
I_ _take his small hand in my larger, older hand and shake my head, though he can’t see me behind him. “No, this one is made from a bakery known for their excellent cheesecakes. Online it said that it was the best in the whole world.“
The whole world, huh, well we haven’t even been out of America yet, Samson. Why aren’t we out there yet? You promised me we would!
I squeeze our hands together, gritting my teeth. “Because you didn’t keep your promise! You didn’t keep it! And now look at you…look at you. Oh, Ivan.”
Tears run down my face before I can stop them, and when I take a deep breath to calm myself, the smell of rot invades my lungs, causing me to cry harder.
Ivan is quiet, his small head against my chest. A cloth covers his eyes, which I had to put on when they started to goop, and his blue skin has holes in it even after all the time I’ve taken to prevent it from happening.
“Oh, Ivan. Ivan. We’ll go see the world if you want to. Just wait, I’ll find a way, okay.“
It’s been nine years, Samson.
“I’m sorry, just wait. I’ll find a way,” I babbling, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand, “Now let’s try this cheesecake, okay? Before the ants get it.”
Ivan stays quiet, as silent as the night.
But there are no stars in the sky, just an endless blue and the sharp rays of the sun.
GABRIEL
Oliver is out of his room for once. I don’t know how to deal with this.
He’s sitting in my lap, a movie playing in front of us as we eat out of a shared bowl of popcorn. This whole setting feels relatively normal. I know it won’t last, though, nothing’s normal about living with your fiancé in a cabin deep in the woods, leaving that same house only twice every month for grocery shopping, and your fiancé, who is meant to give you love and affection, be hooked on ever single serial killer case he can get his hacking fingers on.
No. Nothing normal at all. Still, I stroke his face softly against my chest, and watch as his bagged eyes grow heavy while his curls rest across his forehead.
“Oliver,” I kiss his head slowly, softly, scared to break this rare moment, “What’s all this loving for, sweetheart?”
Oliver sighs, nestling his face closer to my heart. “The Judges of Man are on the run.”
My jaw tightens. Of course it’s about them.
“Oh. So you’re just so bored. Are you now?” My voice is flat as I straighten, Oliver sliding out of my grasp.
Oliver doesn’t notice. He continues to talk, a hand going into the popcorn bowl. “Yes. Of course I am.“
“Then why don’t you go find them!” I spit out, pushing him off of me and watching him stumble on the floor. “Since you put your attention on them so much instead of me—your fiancé, may I remind you—why don’t you just go and join them because you watch them so much!”
My chest hurts, burns, but it has never felt lighter. How long have I wanted to say that? How long have I wanted to call Oliver out on his crazy behavior and obsessions with these absolute psychopaths?
He watches me from the floor as I leave the room, running a hand through my hair. “I’m leaving, okay. We were supposed to love each other, Oliver. We were supposed to get married months ago. I wanted us to. But you, you just—“ I scream, unable to form words when I tear open our room door and lift my suitcase from beneath my bed.
“Fuck you, Oliver! Fuck you!” I open our shared wooden drawers and pick up all the clothes I can. I don’t need them all, I just need to leave this place. “What was the point with toying with me if you never fucking cared?!” I go in our bathroom and take my self-care stuff, then grab some money and put it in my back pocket. Oliver hasn’t responded; I don’t even hear a footstep.
That’s why I’m surprised when I feel a cold, wet cloth on my face. I struggle, thrashing against his unbelievably strong hold. Tears rise in my eyes and my heart is pumping like a rabbit’s. A metallic smell invades my nose, curls in my lungs, and pulls my life from me. My eyes start to droop. My limbs start to numb. All the while I hear Oliver in my ear.
“Calm down, Gabby, calm down. I don’t know why you accuse me of these things. I would never go to find them. I only watch, you know that.” His breath is soft against the shell of my ear as he slowly lowers my crumbling body to the wooden floor. My eyes close on their own; I can’t stop breathing in the drug whisking me away. “Go to sleep. If you want my time, you only had to ask. You can sit with me as I watch, if you’d like. We can watch together; we can have fun together; we can get married. Anything you’d like. Just stay with me. I love you so much, Gabriel. You can’t leave me.”
His words are registered by my brain, even as it’s putting me to rest, handing me off to unconsciousness. Sadly, I know he isn’t lying.
And that’s what scares me.
(It all started with a rumor…)
MAIN SERIES (In Chronological Order)
Judges of Man
Judges of Man: A Foe and An Ally
Judges of Man: Enter Aubrey
Judges of Man: Investigation (PT. 1)
Judges of Man: A Spectator
Judges of Man: Investigation (PT. 2)
Judges of Man: Penny For Your Troubles
Judges of Man: On The Run (PT. 1)
Judges of Man: On The Run (PT. 1.5)
Judges of Man: On The Run (PT. 2)
Judges of Man: Watch And Watch And Watch
Judges of Man: To See The World
Judges of Man: On The Run (PT. 3)
SHORTS (THE PAST; NOT IN ANY ORDER)
Judges of Man: How A + J = ◎
Judges of Man: Sweet Thing
Judges of Man: Weak
Judges of Man: ¿ ａｕｂｒｅｙ¿
Judges of Man: 2. ¿ ａｕｂｒｅｙ¿
Judges of Man: Less Than
(Thomas, Holland, and Penny’s past together)
Fruits
Love (A Fruits Story featuring Holland)
Fruits: (Another Tool)
Now I’m not really a poet And I actually don’t like poetry (If you can believe it)
But a poem is like a story It has a purpose (Only a little bit)
And I’m here to say From one to another (No, it’s not going to be lit)
That a poet is as only as good As their poem (And that’s saying shit)
For what one puts down Is what one thinks of themselves (If you don’t believe me, search it)
And poems, I guess Are the embodiment (Of humans, of course, nitwit)
And when we put our mind To the task (Of poems, writings, what’s it)
We think of not only ourselves But our world and put it down (And that’s it)