One-Half (Short Story)

One-Half

"Is it not a kiss?"

"It is not."

She turned her face away from the glare of the flames reflecting on his golden eyes. The wood sizzled and popped, releasing a few sparks to float slowly down to the ashes.

"Are we running away?"

"We are not running away," he replied. The sound of his voice is thin like ice sheets in spring, and just as cold.

She turned her head and studied the way the flames ate away at the wood. The heat was a welcome respite from the chill of the night. Across her, Brandon sat on a log away from the fire. His silver hair shone like a halo around his delicate features—a stark contrast to the shadows that threatened to engulf his form.

"Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?"

She bit her lip as he echoed her words. This is all very strange and new and terrifying to her...

All her life she had been confined to her room. It had always been that way. The healers that her parents consulted warned of the dangers to her fragile health. They poked around her body, made endless tests of her blood, and her skin, and her eyes, and ears, and nose, and throat. When they think she isn't looking, she spied a terrified expression on their faces. She never understood why.

She was like Rapunzel in her ivory tower.

Only he made an exception. An anomaly.

The day Brandon appeared on the sill of her window, fingertip tapping gently on the glass, was a day she would never forget.

She didn't know how he got there or why and he never gave her a straight answer whenever she asked. He avoided each question so deftly that she never noticed when the topic has shifted to something else.

It was surreal. One day she was hidden from the world and now this. She remembered her parents telling her on her 16th birthday that everything would change. She did not want to get her hopes up so she tried to smile and cheer them up (it was strange seeing their hollow stares after they gave such a momentous announcement).

She remembered it was a Tuesday and she was busy putting away the little trinkets that they gifted her when she heard the steady tap, tap, tap, on the glass. At first she wanted to ignore it. The sound sent a shiver up her spine. It couldn't be a branch of a tree; her room is too high to be of reach by any tree. She thought it was a bird, but it was well into the night and her little avian friends have sure gone back to their nests.

She could still remember the sound of shattering as the tiny, glass wren her father gave her fell to the floor in her surprise. She barely registered the prick of pain as a shard cut her delicate finger.

"Let me in." The glass fogged on his breath. His eyes were slitted like the picture of a cat her mother put on her mantle. She had never opened the glass windows before. Her mother often cautioned her against the things that may endanger. The outside is a forbidden place.

The sound of his voice reverberated inside the vaults of her mind. Wait... how? But before she could finish the thought, her feet seemed to have a mind of their own.

She stopped and stood. A protest bubbled from her lips, "I can't... the outside..."

"You have nothing to fear." His voice was a purr, a soft caress meant to comfort. Her hand rose to cover his on the glass. Her blood smeared. His eyes followed the crimson trail. A soft sound of pleasure vibrated from his chest. "You have nothing to fear."