The sheets are soft and cold against my naked flesh, the morning light filters through the window and warms my cheeks, and the bed feels as if I'm sleeping on a vat of feathers.
Not a sound, not a thought; just pure bliss.
Except, it's not the chill in the room that wakes me or the warm glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains, it's not even the weight of my mother's ghost. No, it's the wet and rough feeling of a tongue lapping up my bare shoulder.
I'm dazed and a little disoriented after waking; my thighs sore and my head pounding from the inhuman amount of whiskey consumed last night. My hair is matted and my lips feel as if they may crack from their dryness.
I groan as my lids crack open, wincing from the light in the room, as the events of last night finally come reeling back to me.
Harry. I slept with Harry.
And it was dirty too. So dirty and so very, very hot.
Just, as I thought –Morning Nova really, really hates Drunk Nova.
My head spins and my nerves grow taut as I think about facing Harry and facing what we did last night. It was so very stupid of me and now I have no idea where we stand. It may have been delicious and distracting and the perfect end to a shitty day, but it was irresponsible.
The licking that woke me persists all the while and it's only when the morning fog clears from my brain that I acknowledge just how rough the tongue is... and how small.
I know Harry's tongue more than I know my own and that is definitely not his.
Curiously, I turn my head to peak over my shoulder and my heart nearly rips through my flesh, my life flashing before my eyes.
I'm met with the creepy and wicked amber eyes of a cat. A cat with inky black fur and a penchant for my blood, no doubt.
The scream that rips through my chest is not a sound I've ever heard myself make and the little demon nearly jumps out of its skin from the noise as I scramble away from the monster, dragging the bedsheet with me and nearly falling on my ass off the bed.
Pounding footsteps run down the hall as I eye the cat, reciting my last prayers and memorizing the final goodbyes for my loved ones.
Harry scrambles into the bedroom, shirtless and hair mussed, holding a spatula like it's a weapon, eyes wide in alarm and bare chest heaving from the adrenaline, "What?! What is it?"
If I wasn't so traumatized I might find the scene humorous, but instead, I wordlessly point to the bad omen with a shaky hand as I watch it lick its paw seemingly bored with the whole situation. Or trying to trick me into thinking it's docile.
The spatula lowers slowly as confusion dawns on Harry's face, glancing from the cat and back to me like I'm the crazy one in this room. He's the one who owns a walking talisman of bad luck!
Recognition slowly dawns on his face and the confusion is replaced by an amused grin as he walks over towards the mussed bed and –to my ultimate horror- scoops the bad luck up into his arms.
"Yeah, I thought you might not like this..." He sighs, but there is still a glint of amusement in his eyes as he cuddles his face into the cat's neck, "This is my cat, Hitchcock."
Harry dares to begin walking towards my sitting position on the floor, but I scoot away from him in alarm, holding up my fingers in a sign of the cross as if to ward off the evil emanating from the furball. He laughs boisterously as the monster emanates a low meow that makes my skin prickle.
"Are you insane, Harry?! A black cat? I may as well dig your grave now!"
"Don't be so dramatic, black cats just get a bad rap," He rolls his eyes and snuggles his face into the cat's and I try not to panic, "Look how cute he is!"
I scoff incredulously and pull the sheet up to my chest, "Yeah, that's their trick! They get a bad rap for a reason, Harry!"
I launch into a lecture, keeping my gaze onto the small creature to make sure it doesn't make any sudden movements, "Spanning culture and time, black cats are considered to be one of the most notorious symbols of evil in folklore. Here, they're thought to be a witch's familiar, in America it's considered bad luck if one crosses your path, in Germany it's bad luck if you merely just dream of black cats.
These beliefs are all derived from the Celtic legend of Cat Sith. The Celts believed the Cat Sith to be an enormous black cat that stole the souls of the dead before God could get to them. This belief has been carried throughout time as black cats are considered evil creatures that steal souls and bring bad luck to whomever crosses their paths."
I expect Harry to drop the soul-eater onto the ground or at least look the tiniest bit horrified by the revelation, but quite the contrary occurs. Harry nestles it into his arms and glances at me with raised brows and a smug smirk.
"You know, I've done a little research on that myth myself," Harry takes a deliberate step closer to me again and I stand up this time, wrapping the navy sheet tighter around my body, "And black cats are actually considered good omens in many cultures."
I look away, silent, because of course he's right, there are a few legends that praise these cats. But, I tend to err on the side of caution. I just didn't expect him to anything about either side of the superstition.
"In fact, they were actually worshipped in Egypt. Japan considers it good luck if they cross in your path and the Scottish believe that having a black cat in your home brings prosperity."
I flush deeper as he lists off these facts, his satisfied grin only growing wider with each one. My jaw goes slack and I hate to admit that I'm actually impressed by his knowledge.
Is it possible that Harry knows more about a superstition than I do?
My eyes narrow as I remember all the grievance he's given me for this exact thing, "I thought you didn't believe in this stuff?"
Harry shrugs, cheeks tinging a slight pink as he scratches the cat's chin lovingly, "I don't really... But, I think you've made me a tad paranoid and I just wanted to be sure that Hitchcock is as pure as I believe him to be."
The ache in my chest at his statement is almost as painful as the smile that cracks my lips. He meets my gaze with a smile of his own and takes another step closer to me. I don't move backwards, but my pulse quickens as he brings the thing closer to me and I eye it warily.
To my greatest horror, I realize I don't have any protection stones on me.
My life is in your hands, spirits.
"C'mon, give him a pet. He won't bite... Or curse you, for that matter."
Harry's tone is full of humor and I tilt my head in mock laughter as he brings the demon ever closer to me until we are face to face. Gulping, I remember Harry's words... He might be right about those black cat superstitions, but I have avoided this animal my entire life.
That is a hard habit to break.
Not to mention, there is a 50/50 chance these things really do bring bad luck upon those that cross it, so is it even worth the risk?
I mean, look at my track record... Lady Luck hasn't exactly been on my side, has she?
I try to breathe steadily as the cat's beady yellow eyes appraise me, neck stretching out from Harry's grasp to give me a curious sniff. Its fur is unnaturally glossy and fairly long for a short-hair. His head is also pretty small for his body, though I think that's more due to the fact that Harry obviously overfeeds him. He looks harmless... But, that may just be a tactic to gain your trust before he steals your soul.
As if reading my thoughts (can he read my thoughts? Is that possible) he necks stretches out impossibly nearer until I feel little puffs of his breath on my nose.
Oh my spirits, oh my spirits, oh my spirits...
Just when I think I may faint from the anxiety that comes from being so close to something I've viewed as the pinnacle of evil my entire life, the faintest little 'meow' squeaks from his mouth and his wet nose boops mine gently.
So... Cute.
Harry must see my expression shift from ultimate terror to one of adoration and awe because a bark of laughter ushers from his lips and he shakes his head in amusement, "No one can resist Hitchcock's charms."
"Hey, I'm still on the fence!" I chide him even as a grin slides onto my face and my fingers reach out to scratch behind the cat's ears. He leans into my hand, eyes closed in pleasure, and a resounding purr vibrates through my fingers, "Okay, yeah, he's pretty. But, he has centuries of folklore to disprove."
I laugh, my prejudiced fear melting away as the cutie's tongue peeks out to lick at my palm. Feeling Harry's gaze on me, I glance up at him, my breath catching in my throat.
From one terror, to another.
He's close, so close that I can see the flecks of honey in his emerald eyes. So close that I can feel the warmth of his breath and see the faint marks on his neck from where I bit him last night. His gaze is soft and warm, his smile small and full of fondness as he watches me love on his pet.
My hand stills, even as Hitchcock nudges it for my pets, and I gulp nervously as Harry glances down at my lips. The air is charged between us and I feel myself leaning in subconsciously, but something stops me.
I sniff the air, my brows scrunching together, as I lean away from Harry, "Is something burning?"
It takes him a few seconds to acknowledge what I said, the dazed look in his eyes fading into one of panic. He curses under his breath and shoves Hitchcock into my arms, running from the room so fast he nearly slips on the way out.
I stand there quietly, his absence from the room allowing me time to clear my head. Glancing down at the bundle of –evil/cute- in my arms, I can't help but sigh.
In just a few minutes, Harry completely deconstructed a superstition I have held onto my entire life. One passed down by Roux women for generations, one so engrained in history that people who don't even believe in superstitions believe in that specific one.
Erased in just a few placating words and a devilish grin.
What the hell is he doing to me?
At that thought, my mind replays the events of last night over again as I set Hitchcock back on the bed with shaky hands. I rub the sore skin of my throat and try to ignore the aching in my thighs, face flushing with the memory of Harry's fingers around my pulse and his hips pounding into my own.
It was more desperate and animalistic than any other time I've been with him, but just as safe and familiar as always. Honestly... the best I've ever had.
I believe it is this fact that has the shame clouding any pleasure from last night. That has my stomach filling with dread over what I did.
The deal is over. I made that perfectly clear just two weeks ago. Two weeks and I already found myself caving to Harry. Not only that, but I actually spent the night in his bed, his arms. I crossed that boundary we had clearly set up from the beginning.
We're in all new territory now and I'm floundering to make sense of it.
Not only did I sleep with him again and spend the night, but I also opened myself up to him like a sacrificial lamb. I groan, face in my palms as I remember the confession about my mum. How I shared that story with him, told him my mother was a ghost that haunted me, told him how I can see auras.
Considering his already low opinion of my beliefs, I must have sounded like an absolute mad woman to him.
What the hell was I thinking?
In one night, I opened my soul to him and my legs after I swore I would never do either again.
I hear him clambering around in the kitchen as Hitchcock nuzzles my side and I bite my lip in trepidation. What will I say to him? Will he want to talk about what last night meant? When I walk out of this room will a doctor be waiting for me with a straight jacket in one hand and a syringe in the other?
I'm not really sure what would be the worse option, honestly.
My body already aches for more of him and my heart yearns to be understood by him, appreciated by him. But, my head knows that we've crossed into dangerous territory. Despite how much he has already hurt me, I still have a visceral reaction every time he's near.
Without the strict rules of our deal, I'm afraid my heart and soul will wander. I'm afraid to get too attached, to allow myself to think of Harry more than I reasonably should.
I don't know what last night meant and I'm afraid to find out.
I feel like I've stepped into a mine-field.
The bitter and warm aroma of coffee wafts into the room and I take a deep breath, knowing I will have to face the music soon.
My heart flutters and my legs tremble slightly as I stand from the bed, wanting to get dressed, but realizing that my dress is in a pile by the front door and my underwear no longer exists, save for a few scraps near the dress.
With a sigh, I find Harry's button-down he had discarded last night and slip it over my body. It's long enough to cover my naughty bits, but short enough that I won't be bending over anytime soon.
I begin my trek out of the bedroom, but not without a quick scan of my surroundings.
Whatever I thought Harry's place would look like, it's not this.
The white walls barely peak through the multitudes of paintings, prints, and photographs that fill up the walls. Original canvases, prints of famous works –Dali, Van Gogh, and Titan- and blown-up photos of landscapes and strangers on the street.
They're all kind of dark, and a little dreary. The mountains devoid of life and the people walk alone in the streets, heads down, and faces pinched. The photos feel... gloomy and isolated and, with an ache, I realize some of them must be Harry's photos.
Besides the photos, the curtains covering the window besides the bed are a surprising mosaic pattern, the bookcase is full, and the desk next to the closet is full of plants. The room feels almost... feminine and my heart twinges at the thought.
Zoe.
Her essence is everywhere; her mark left on all the knickknacks and the tweed throw pillows we threw off the bed last night. I can almost sense her touch all over this room, can imagine her helping Harry pick out the perfect furniture to fit the space. My gaze zeroes in on a single framed photograph on the oak dresser across from the bed and my theory is proven.
Harry stares up at me from the picture, with shorter hair and without his lip ring. His arm is wrapped around a graduation gown-clad Zoe who holds her diploma with pride. The two beam at the camera, resembling one of those stock photos they put in empty frames. No one would question those two as a couple, they look perfect together.
My heart inexplicably twinges at the pride in Harry's eyes, the joy. My eyes focus too long on the arm around Zoe's shoulder and I quickly exit the room, Hitchcock at my heels.
I might've preferred beanie babies to this.
The hallway –adorned with just as many photos of strangers and none of family- opens up to the foyer where I spot my discarded clothing from last night with a blush. Past this, I pause in the living room where the morning light casts the oak furniture in a warm glow.
The same feeling from his bedroom overcomes me here and I know that Harry was not in charge of the decorations of his home.
The curtains covering the windows facing the street are a grey velvet that matches the couch in front of the coffee table. The armchair is a modern white that matches the pillows on the black couch. The walls are also painted grew, but are mainly covered in art prints.
It's modern and bland and empty. And very Zoe.
Hitchcock waits patiently by my feet as I inspect the dead plants by the window in dismay and the lack of any personal paraphernalia.
That part, I understand. That aspect does remind me of my house and I suddenly wonder if it feels as lonely to a stranger as Harry's does to me. Then I wonder why Harry has no pictures of his family, why he has never mentioned them to me before.
The thought makes me frown, we may not be friends, but I have spilled my guts to him many times over and I just now realized I know very little about Harry's history.
That... is quite troubling.
I hear more clanging in the kitchen and take a deep breath, deciding to table the topic for now. There are more pressing topics at hand. I make a mental note, though, that if Harry and I do continue our friendship, to ask him about his family.
Walking under an archway and into the black-and-white kitchen, I see Harry bent over a stove and scrambling eggs. I glance over at the wooden table in the corner, where a mug of steaming coffee sits next to a plate of avocado toast.
The sight does odd things to my stomach.
"You... made breakfast?"
Harry nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise, turning around with spatula still in hand. But, instead of answering my question, his eyes widen as they trail down my body covered in his shirt.
His gaze lingers on my legs, growing darker, until they fall upon the cat almost attached to my shadow.
If the neighborhood saw me now, it would surely stoke the witch rumors.
An endearing smile pulls up Harry's lips, "I think he likes you."
I still don't know if that's a good or bad thing.
I smile down at the soul-snatcher, it's yellow eyes trained on my face and loud meow calling up to me. With a sigh and hesitant movements, I scoop Hitchcock up into my arms and let him tentatively sniff my face.
"If I mysteriously disappear later or an anvil falls on my head, just know that it's your fault."
Harry's laughter warms my chest, "Don't worry, I'll write your eulogy."
He goes back to his eggs and I shuffle my feet awkwardly, watching the way his muscles ripple as he places eggs onto a plate. I blush profusely when I see light red marks trailing from his shoulders and down his back.
Harry turns towards me and I try to pretend I wasn't ogling him as he heads my way. I put the cat back down as Harry sets his plate across from the first one and clears his throat loudly.
"I wasn't sure if you would want to stay for breakfast," He rubs the back of his neck and I watch as a deep pink travels from his chest up to his neck, "So, I made some just in case, but you don't have to stay if you don't want. I mean you totally can, but don't feel like you have to."
His fumbling words makes me laugh lightly, glad I'm not alone in how uncomfortable this feels. I glance at his plate of eggs and bacon and then at my avocado toast in confusion. With a stuttering heartbeat, I realize he deliberately made me a separate dish.
I don't remember telling Harry I'm vegan, but he obviously remembered.
Half of me wants to bolt out of this place before things get serious, but a really annoying part focuses on the neatly prepared toast, Harry's flushed face, and the way he avoids eye-contact nervously. Sighing, I gingerly take a seat, opting for the coffee first and taking a generous sip.
Harry clears his throat, "I didn't know if you took it with anything, so..."
Oh my spirits this is painfully uncomfortable.
I force a grateful smile onto my lips and sip again, "Black is fine, thank you."
The silence presses in around us like a miasma. Harry scrapes his fork against his plate and avoids my gaze. I sip on the bitter warmth and try to ignore the pounding in my head, and Hitchcock licks his onyx fur oblivious to the tension.
I can't believe how comfortable and fluid last night was. How easy it was to talk to each other, to laugh with each other. How comfortable it felt to fall into bed with him again, and though I hate to admit it, how right it was to just fall asleep next to him.
This morning, I can barely look him in the eyes.
Unfortunately, the alcohol last night may have worked as a sedative and I almost wished I had some whiskey to make this an Irish coffee. It might help smooth things over a bit.
Not to mention, I am literally naked under this thin and short material and am highly self-conscious sitting on this cold, wooden chair.
I'm about to pick up the toast when I glance into my cup and see the bubbles on the surface slowly floating towards me. My lips begin to move before I can stop them.
"Bubbles in a cup of coffee often indicate one's luck in money. You hold the handle with your left hand and look for the formation of bubbles on the surface of the coffee. If the bubbles move towards you, it's good luck and good fortune. If it moves away from you, though, it's bad luck and predicts a loss of fortune in the near future."
Harry pauses mid-chew, his gaze finally meeting my own. He swallows slowly before silently picking up his own mug and glancing inside, confusion twisting his expression.
It's clear from the downturn of his lips and creased brows that the bubbles don't bode well for him. Concealing a grin, I lean across the table and peek over the rim of his cup. Of course, the little bastards are drifting away from him.
With a small tilt to my lips, I blow on the surface of the drink until the bubbles reverse their journey and float towards Harry's face.
"There... good luck," I pull away with a satisfied grin, but freeze when I see the soft glint in Harry's eyes and the fond smile on his lips.
From my toes to the tips of my ears, my skin prickles at his awed expression and I quickly take a seat back in my own chair, stuffing my face with the avocado toast as a distraction.
"Isn't that cheating?"
I ignore his amused grin and shrug, mouth still full, "Sometimes you gotta make your own luck."
I meant to say it in a blasé kind of way, but the shocked expression on Harry's face makes me think it might have been pretty out of character for me. Though I wholly believe in the universe's power over our lives, I do think we harness a small amount of control over our choices. If we didn't, what would be the point?
I snort at how shocked Harry seems by my words and he shakes his head in amazement and bites into another piece of bacon. Happy to have relieved some of the tension, I glance up at the clock above the doorway and that feeling is instantly replaced with dread.
Nan would be getting up about now. She would notice that I never came home. Then she would either begin to panic or would grow suspicious about who I've been spending all my time with. Neither option sounds good to me.
"Listen, Nova-"
"I have to-"
We both begin to speak at the same time and simultaneously stop, with bashful smiles and gestures for the other to go first. Afraid of what he was about to say, I take the leap.
"I really have to go, Harry... My Nan will be worrying."
I lift myself out of the chair as I say the words, but Harry's eyes widen in panic and I sit back down in confusion.
"Wait... We're not... Are we not going to talk about what happened last night?" He sounds partly incredulous and partly offended, which only makes me feel worse.
I was so, so close.
I swallow and fidget with my fingers nervously, the guilt beginning to burrow into my mind. I, of course, knew that Morning Nova would have to deal with the ramifications of Drunk Nova, but I had hoped to avoid the conversation. Because, frankly... I don't know what the hell last night was and I certainly don't know what to do now.
I used Harry last night after ending our arrangement just two weeks before. After the fights and the tears and the pain, we are right back where we started.
Or are we?
Maybe I'll ask the spirits for some guidance later, but for now... For now, I just really need to get out of here.
Partly because I'm embarrassed at how my libido made the decisions for me last night, partly because I need to make things right with Nan, because I need to shower, and because Harry's hair still has that mussed up look from my fingers last night and a purple bruise on his neck in the shape of my lips.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
I sigh, not meeting his gaze as Hitchcock winds between my feet, and try to think of something to say that could ease the tension and relieve me of blame.
"I'm... sorry about last night. I was sad and lonely and sought solace with you. I appreciate you... comforting me, but I still stand firm on the belief that the deal wasn't healthy. Last night was a slip on my part and I'm sorry."
The silence that follows is almost deafening and my heart hammers in my ribcage, begging to be released from the tension. I hate that this is where we are now and I really hate that I crossed the line last night, but I'm not sure what else to do here.
The deal was messy; Harry is in love with his best friend's bird and I am in no emotional state to be involved with anyone. In anyway. I should have seen that from the beginning.
Oddly, it feels like a break-up. But, there is nothing to break, nothing to end. Just clarification on the termination of an arrangement weeks ago that I slipped up on last night.
I don't know what I expect in response, but a bark of sardonic laughter is not it.
When I glance back up, Harry's face has contorted into one of disbelief. His jaw is set in determination, his eyes stormy with dark amusement, and his arms crossed against his chest defiantly.
"Except, wasn't last night the exact reason we started sleeping together in the first place?" He doesn't wait for me to answer, the question obviously rhetorical, "And didn't you feel better last night after getting dicked down? Don't you feel better this morning, refreshed after a cathartic release?"
Again, I'm sure he doesn't expect an answer, but I think my unhinged jaw and flaming cheeks are answer enough. His grin is cocky and arrogant and I want to kiss it right off his mouth.
"I know I fucked up, but maybe the real problem is that we started this whole thing as total strangers," The bashfulness from this morning has long disappeared. Harry is now determined and confident, "There were no clear boundaries or limitations and lines got blurred. But, now... now, I would consider us friends, wouldn't you?"
The cocked eyebrow makes it clear that he does expect me to answer this time and I reluctantly snap my mouth shut, not entirely sure where he is going with this. But, he's right. Overtime, I think we've grown close. Grown to be friends, I think.
Last night is a clear testament to that, there was a level of trust and intimacy that we never had before. The fight we had and the weeks spent apart may have just made our connection stronger. We were honest and real with each other for the first time, no matter how painful it was.
"Yes... I think we're friends."
He smiles at that, a genuinely joyful grin that mirrors my own. He leans forward on the table and his emerald eyes spark with mischief. And the next words out of his mouth really throw me for a loop.
"So, maybe this time... we try again. As friends."
Two things happen at once: An excited jolt shocks me deep down into my core at the prospect of striking a new deal. Of being with Harry intimately again, every night... All night. My mind wanders again to last night and I have to clear my throat to get back on track, face flushed and throat thick.
Because the other reaction I have is an immediate revulsion to the idea. I've seen the movies and read the books... "friends with benefits" always ends either terribly or so cliché that that scenario would never happen in real life.
After last night, now more than ever, I feel close to Harry. Like we could actually build a friendship. I'm not sure if it's worth the risk anymore, not after last time.
A harbinger for paranoia and grudges, my mind echoes with the poison Harry's tongue spat at the party and I pull away from him, mind spinning.
"I don't know... This is dangerous territory, Harry."
I can't gauge my self-control anymore or my ability to keep my emotions out of anything. I don't want to get more attached than I already am. I don't want to ruin what budding friendship we may have.
I don't want to lose anyone else.
An ominous feeling churns in my stomach as Hitchcock jumps up into Harry's lap and they both level their stares on me, waiting for an answer. But, his eyes are so damn pretty and I'm still a little scared of Hitchcock, so his stare is pretty persuasive too.
"I... I'll think about it, okay?" His shoulders sag a little in disappointment, but he plays it off fairly well and I try to keep my heart firmly locked up, "But, I really need to get home to reassure my Nan that I'm not dead or had my soul snatched by your cat."
He nods in understanding, chuckling a little, and cleans up while I say my goodbyes to Hitchcock. Harry is quiet as he pulls out a pair of briefs for me to wear and doesn't even try to stay in the room when I change back into my dress from last night.
He does walk me to the door and I awkwardly move to leave, feeling dejected and guilty, when he grabs my wrist and pulls me into his chest hard enough that I stumble into him.
One rough palm cups my cheek and the other grips the fabric at my waist. Soft, but purposeful and demanding.
He swallows my gasp in a warm and gentle kiss that lingers far longer than needed. His grip is strong, but his lips are soft. Fingers travel into my knotted hair and his tongue teasingly swipes across my lips, tasting of strong coffee and strong determination. Tingles travel from my mouth straight down through my heart and when he pulls away I feel winded. Dizzy.
Drunk again.
Slightly disoriented, and with a dopey grin on my face, I pull away from him.
"Think about that, too, while you're at it." The satisfied smile on his face doesn't even make me irritated, instead all I can do is send him a shaky smile and step through the threshold and into the harsh daylight, my knees barely keeping me up.
Very, very dangerous.
___________
The energy in the house is unfamiliar, heavy.
As soon as the door creaks open and I step under the jar of water, I am hit with the dense and disorienting scent of incense and sage. A thin film of smoke wafts over me as I pass the foyer, overwhelmed by the scent and the eerie quiet.
I don't call out for Nan because I can feel her energy like a gravitational pull. The trail of smoke leads me past the hallway and across the kitchen, into the small area I converted from a storage room into my spiritual sanctuary.
The outer most wall has been replaced by floor-to-ceiling windows and the gardening tools and boxes have been exchanged for a jungle of plants. My Nan sits in the middle of the oriental rug I use to do yoga: cross-legged, eyes closed in concentration, sage still burning in a gold-plated ashtray in front of her.
She is still in her mourning clothes and with an ache I realize that she probably has been in this position for hours, maybe she didn't even sleep last night while I was out having a romp with my trainer/friend(?)/lover(?).
The crisp morning air did little to straighten out those thoughts and Harry's proposal. The closer I got to this house the more thoughts of my Nan and mother took precedent. How badly I treated Nana yesterday, how I haven't felt my mother's spirit since.
It surprises me how worried that fact makes me feel.
Silently, I assume her position on the rug next to her and gaze out at the cliff that is my backyard. How sudden that drop is, how deadly.
Like the end of the world.
I remember my father wanting to build a fence where the grass met air, but my mother refused. She said it would ugly up the property and he said that I could wander right over the edge one day. My mother won, as usual, but I never did fall off.
Sometimes I wonder why she didn't just fling herself off the side instead of choosing the more painful and mysterious drowning. Maybe it was too obvious, maybe she was scared.
Guess I'll never know.
Nana remains silent, her bright purple aura given a slightly eerie twinge as the smoke dilutes the vibrancy. I watch her chest slowly rise and fall with each deep breath, watch as her eyes dance beneath her lids. I don't know where to begin apologizing.
It seems as if that's all I do these days.
"There is much darkness in this house, ma chérie. All the sage in the world could not cleanse this energy."
There is no judgment in her voice, no anger. Instead, it drips with a disappointment so deep that it cuts right through my chest and into my heart. The events of yesterday and the mistake of last night crash over me in time with the ocean below us.
How could I have done so much wrong in so little time?
Outside, a thunder clap shakes the Earth and a bolt of lightning follows to light it up. The storm is sudden and furious and when the first drop of rain falls outside the window, one of my own cascades down my cheek.
As if sensing the crying sky and crying grand-daughter, Nan lifts herself out of meditation to glance at my quivering chin and reddened cheeks. She does not comfort me, nor does she glance outside to observe the sudden storm.
Her level stare is all I need to know where to start. I begin in a language she finds home in.
"Je suis désolée. Tres, tres désolée, Nana," The wind howls outside, shrill and strong, as the waves crash harder against the cliff. My mother tongue is clumsy, but sharp, "Je suis juste très en colère. Je suis juste très en colère contre elle." (I am sorry. Very, very sorry, Nana. / I am just so angry. I am just so angry at her.)
She nods, a brilliant flash lighting up the shimmering of her eyes, "Je connais, ma chérie." (I know, my darling.)
The rain is as fierce as the wind, pounding on the roof, and my tears match that intensity. Thunder rolls through the dusky clouds, calling upon lightning to trail it closely behind.
It's a reckoning, a purge.
The sage wafts through the air, making my mind fuzzy, the air thick. My throat is coated with it and the tears that clog it up, the rage.
The grief.
"Elle nous a abandonné," A bolt of lightning strikes so near that I would normally be afraid it would strike me down, but the sage is enveloping me like a hug and my Nan's stare is a vice on my attention, "Elle m'a quitté avant qu'on puisse se réconcilier... Je ne peux pas lui pardoner. Voilà pourquoi je suis désolée." (She left us. / She left me before we could reconcile... I can't forgive her. That's why I'm sorry.)
Abandoned, alone, and reeling. I never recovered from my mother's decision. I feel that weight on me every day, literally and metaphorically. No closure, no absolution. All shame, all regret.
I can't forgive her for that. I don't know if I'm capable.
The heart of my anger, and the soul of my pain is just that: she left me before we could mend our broken relationship. She died with the wound still open and now it's too late and I hate that part of myself.
I will always carry around that scar, it will never heal.
Forget about her forgiving me for what I did when I was a child, how could I ever forgive her for that permanent trauma?
My shoulders slump from the confession, the air in my lungs rushing out in one depressed exhalation. Finally, my Nan's withered hands reach up to wipe the tears of exaltation away with a reassuring smile.
The wind dies all at once, the downpour shifting into a light trickle, and the thunder is suffocated by the clouds. The smoke in the room slowly evaporates and the sun peeks out beyond the horizon, the warmth spilling into the room and bathing us in light.
A rebirth, a baptism.
"C'est pas trop tard. Espérer est une emotion d'une grande force," She glances outside to the wet earth and the shining sky with a glint in her kind eyes and a grin on her wise face, "Après la pluie, le beau temps." (It is not too late. Hope is a powerful emotion. / After the rain, good weather.)
My smile is weak, but hopeful. I hold her hand on my cheek and bask in the morning light with Nana. There is a scar in my soul that is fundamentally sad, but relieved in speaking the truth on the root of my anger.
The rain has washed away the sins of last night and the tears have purged my bitter heart.
There is an odd calm after crying where everything is suddenly clearer than before.
Nan is right, hope is a powerful emotion. I have to believe there is something on the other side of that cliff worth reaching for. Something beyond the steep-drop off that makes the fall worth it. The warmth and light of the sun peeks over the edge and I await the day that I reach that purification, the day that the shadow on my life finally lifts.
All eclipses must come to an end.
After the rain, good weather.
____________
Okay, I'm gonna be real with you guys because I genuinely believe this is my least favorite chapter and that's why it took me so long to upload, but here is the tea: I was diagnosed with OCD back in late 2016 and it has affected me in quite a lot of ways, but one unexpected way is my writing.
I literally write and re-write my chapters so many times it drives me insane -and you all know how long my chapters are SO IMAGINE THAT OKAY i literally re-write 15 pages of material over and over. I stress over tiny little details and am constantly re-working them. I have these little intrusive thoughts about the content or not writing in certain things I want to write about because i'm afraid something bad might happen if I do... I can't even be more specific than that because of thoughts that compel me not to write about those things or make me re-write all the time.
I hate talking about this shit because I never want to be that person, but i'm a participant in this study at my uni right now about how traumatic events trigger certain disorders (like OCD, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, etc.) and it's opened my eyes a lot and thought I would share. So, if you guys suffer from anything like that just know that I get it and I love you and you're valued. It's hard, but we make it through.
I mean I freakin' finally uploaded this chapter after three months and I might not absolutely love it, but I conquered those thoughts and compulsions and here we are.
And now I am done talking about this lol I swear i'm totally fine and doing pretty good, don't worry.
Anyway, here are the answers to the Q&A if you guys still care lol:
Q: "undergrad/grad school? if either, what are you majoring in?" franksnikes
A: I am in my last year of undergrad. I am a psych major (yes, I know the irony) with a minor in criminal justice and english. I will go to grad school for forensic psychology or law I haven't decided and really need to like yesterday.
Q: "How old are you?" heyyitsHarreh
A: I am 22, unfortunately.
Q: "What inspires you to write? Any specific authors, books, movies that really influence you?" carrotlands
A: Hmm, I think Sylvia Plath influenced me a lot, she is super dark and very lyrical, which I love. As stupid as it is and as "white-savior" as the book was, "The Help" actually really inspired me to write. The rest of the book is extremely problematic, but the protagonist talks about writing a lot and her process and really struggling in that field as a woman and persevering, it really inspired me. I think I pull inspiration from little bits in everything I read or watch honestly, it's hard to pin down.
Thanks for reading! Please lmk what you thought and any predictions you have! The next chapter might just be about a certain date that very superstitious people tend to dread!
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