World War Four

Chapter Eleven: Sacrifice

New Years Eve. New year, new you. Stupid quote. It’s not like people are just going to snap their fingers and go from being conceited to selfless in a one-minute countdown. It’s why New year’s eve is one of the worst days. But something else bothers me, too. The fact that men were actually festive this time around. They spent Christmas, that is an actual holiday, as if nothing. But, no. Not New Year’s Eve. This one is special because they get to make empty promises about change that will never happen. Yeah, that makes total sense.

I sat in the kitchen flexing my fingers, feeling the pull on the still healing skin. Xavier was busy making food for company, the first we’ve -he’s- had in a while. I plan on slipping out since I’m still not comfortable with multitudes of men around me just yet. Probably not ever.

The TV blared new year’s coverage from Phoenix and from New York City, going on and on about the world wide “Countries Pledge for Change.” Hypocrites.

“Chrissy, would you be a doll-”

“No, and stop trying to talk like your from three centuries ago, will you?” I paused, resting my hand on the table. “And once your little friends arrive, I’m not Chrissy or ‘Chris,’ alright? I’m Mike.”

Xavier turned to me, a smile on his lips. “Say Mike again.”

“What?”

“Say it. Say Mike.” His smile was taunting, daring me to say no.

“Why?”

“You say it weird, like, ‘ma-eek.’”

“It’s called an accent, stupid.” My attention went back to my hand. I glided my fingers over the tabletop, imagining it as my sketchbook.

“Well, it’s nice,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What?” It was the first time Xavier ever complimented me.

But of course, I spoke too soon.

“I meant, it’s nice that I have something else to make fun of you for.” Xavier winked, earning an honest eye roll from me.

“Yeah, you’re one to speak.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not the only one here with a weird accent, buddy.”

“You’re not?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mario, I didn’t know you spoke crisp English. I must have had it wrong all my life.”

I got up and looked for my sketchbook, knowing I left it laying around somewhere. I just didn’t remember why I left it in the living room. My fingers slipped through the edges of the booklet, leafing past my drawings. I flipped to a clear page and picked up my colored pencils. I didn’t even know what I wanted to draw, so I just let my hand do it.

It curved in and out, and it was after a few seconds that I recognized it.

A bouquet of calla lilies, pure and innocent. They were bundled together with a downy silver bow around the middle, another touch to their softness. With different colored pencils I added details in here and there, shading in the shadow of the flower, adding droplets of red around the edge of the overlapping pedals. I focused in more on the red droplet, adding a puddle around the bottom of the stems. The droplet extended from just a small bead at the edge of the flowers to staining the calla lilies to the point that only a bit of white was left. The bow was soak through and through, some spots a darker shade of red than others. Beads of the melted ruby ran down the stem, leaving behind a trail of blood red.

“That would make a cool tattoo,” Xavier leaned over the table, peering at my drawing.

“What?”