Page 116 of Possession

But what he says is, “Look, I’m sorry.” Tone exasperated. “But this isn’t important right now.”

I don’t respond. He’s right, and wrong. There isn’t time for this argument, but my pain demands to be felt. And it is important; it’s important to me.

How do I accept what he’s saying? He is the center of it all; love is the center of it all. Without it, what holds me together?

“Mary,” he tries again.

“I loved you, Henry.”

He just looks at me, and I can’t believe that he kissed me and touched me and—

Was that even him?Did he give Aris his arms and lips?

“You loved the idea of me,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

I shut my eyes. Shake my head. I won’t let him put any of this on me, not after what he’s done.

“How could you?” I say with heat. “You had to be with me, be around me, fine, but you—you didn’t need to date me and tell me the things you did.” Pain and nausea strike me as I repeat, “It was special to me.”

There is another, fresher wave of sadness I realize that I have a new thing to mourn. He has taken it from me: my first relationship, first love.

“Aris wanted it that way,” he stressed again. “He was… territorial, and he wanted to touch you. I had to do it, Mary.”

“Will you blame him for everything?”

“It’s his fault!” he yells. “I get that you’re angry, but could you take a second to consider how hard this has been on me?”

“You? You let him in!”

He takes a breath to collect himself, running his hands through his hair. I used to do that to his hair. “Look, I’m sorry,” he tells me again, a little more composed. Apologetic, even?

My eyes flit away from his blonde curls. “I will never forget this,” I say. I mean: I will never forgive you for this.

“I know. I know that. But we’re going in circles here, and we need to figure something out. People are dying.”

“So what?” I’m not sure if I mean it or not. I can’t even think right now. I need to get away, be alone. Cry. Open mouth sobbing.

“You’re being unfair.”

“You don’t know the first thing about unfair,” I say and try to run, but he grabs my arm, holding me in place.

“Mary,” he grits out, angry now. “We need to stick together!”

“Why? So you can use me as a shield?”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, I know what his answer will be, and I cannot hear it. All I know is that I need to get away before he answers.

“Mary—” Henry starts.

I kick his leg, and he grunts and falls. His face shows that he’s more surprised than in pain, and I hate the part of me that hesitates before I run. I want to lean down and help him up, but when I look at him and he looks back, there’s no softness in his expression. Just anger that I lashed out.

I sprint from the room as fast as I can, ignoring his call for me. I’ve never been a good runner, but I don’t tire as I pump my arms and push my body further. I need to get away from him. I need to run from him and this nonsense and evil, and my body listens to this.

In the distance is a symphony of a massacre. A chorus of screams, ending as abruptly as they begin. Death weighs heavily—

smoky, obstructive and sad. The agony in the cries, so clear and desperate, twist my heart. I feel heard. Seen. I understand their suffering.

Even still, the rush of comradery doesn’t stop me from running. Maybe I am going towards the slaughter, maybe far away. Maybe this is suicide. I acknowledge these possibilities absently, slightly removed and too overwhelmed to make a decision.

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