Page 59 of Anorthic Anarchy

The corners of my eyes tighten to contain the emotions threatening to spill out. Maybe I understand what she wants me to say. There’s a deeper meaning to her words. But I don’t speak them. Instead, I give my answer I have prepared.

“Who wouldn’t be angry? My name is tarnished, and my reputation destroyed. Those secret organizations survive off power and the blood of innocence. They’ve destroyed years of my life. Everyone knows I’m a monster. That, I don’t care about. Butusingme, making me a prisoner for things I never did…it’s infuriating.”

Beneath the archway of our matrimony, she gathers both my hands and faces me fully. The sun glistens against one tear thattrails down her cheek, which reddens with emotion. Her fingers squeeze mine.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Shaking my head rapidly, I fire back with fury. “Iknow, little girl. That’s what I just said.”

“Vincente! Stop! It wasn’t your fault. I willslaydemons with you, but you have to know them. You have toseethem. Name them and say who they are.”

My vision clouds with rage. I can’t look at this woman in front of me. If I do, it’ll be like facing the darkest parts of myself. Ones other people whisper about behind my back. Things I never saw as a problem until they said they were. That I’m tainted. Rancid. Rotten inside. A corpse walking like the living.

Can anything good come from spoiled fruit?

Perhaps it’s because of this angel, the one who has more strength than I ever did, that I can’t avoid the pain. No longer a vampire prideful of never having to see my own image in a mirror, I have to confront my past now in order to have a future. However short it may be.

I stare over her head, murmuring the words to the wind. “The truth is, the woman who was supposed to care for me as a mother didn’t. She used me in ways that a boy never should be. How do I justify her doing something wrong when all I wanted was to love my mother? Wires got crossed until I was trained to please her to keep her affection, knowing it could be ripped away at any moment. No one else loved me.”

I was born to be the villain of my own life.

Tilting my head back to the sky, I scream, “It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right!” It doesn’t answer. Tears seep from my squinted lids. Even the howls of my sorrow are silent. No one cares.

“It wasn’t. What she did?—”

Lowering my head, I grasp her chin before she speaks further. “I thought I loved her.”

She nods, breaking from my hold. “You did.”

“No. I didn’t. And I know that because…becausenowI understand what love is.” We gaze into each other’s eyes, not speaking, but letting the flames between us burn hotter.

There aren’t words that can be said. Nothing can change the past, no matter how much I wish for it.

“Sir, your meal is served,” one of the chefs interrupts us from the kitchen door. Hurriedly, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

The little angel stops me and delicately places her mitten against my cheek to gather up a droplet that’s fallen. She smiles slowly and says, “Will you take me on another date to the dining room, Consort Strauss?”

The corner of my lips jerks up into a sad smile. “Of course, my queen.”

Inside, we’re served hearty bowls of pasta e fagioli. Halfway to her mouth, her spoon stops midair. “We eat a lot of Italian.”

Waving my utensil at her face, I encourage her to eat instead of talk. “Yes.”

“Those songs you play on that ancient record player have Italian names.”

I don’t look at her and take a swig of my water. “You’re very astute, my pure angel.”

“But your name is not Italian.”

My fingers crawl over the lace tablecloth to hers and snake through them until I grasp her hand and hold it on my thigh. The soup is delicious, hot, and much needed. “My mother’s roots were an act of defiance, according to my father. The music she danced to, her choice of menu, the name she called me…Vicenzo. It was all to put him on tilt. Consort Strauss was arranged to marry her for mafia connections. Neither wanted it. And they held silent battles until the day he murdered her.”

Clearing my throat, I study my reflection in the bowl. I don’t look like I did back then. And it’s not because I’ve grown older, though the lines across my forehead do tell a story.

It’s because I’m not the same.

“While she was in my bed.”

The girl’s eyes take me in, burning a hole in the skin of my face. I don’t dare look at her. If there’s pity there, I won’t be able to contain the wrath it causes. She stands, never letting my hand go, and slips onto my lap, her thighs wrapping around my waist until she lifts my chin to gaze into her eyes. But instead of sympathy, glowing embers of simmering indignation light up her countenance.

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