Page 17 of Priest and his Anarchist

The confinement of this room has become a reminder of the calamity I now live in. Volatile like the clock on one’s life, I’m a time zone that doesn’t exist.

River hasn’t returned since she lay with me that afternoon. We spoke for hours. I hadn’t laughed like that in—well, I don’t know how long. I waited for her. Each day after my morning routine.

I clear my throat and my voice cracks. How long has it been since I last said anything?

Leaving my hair in soft waves that shape my face, I curl a lock around my finger before it falls down my spine and bounces against my palm. I’ve thought about dying it often. Maybe I should. It’d be refreshing to soak it in bleach and strip away every reminder of the naivety that I felt walking into this damn house.

I close my eyes and bang my head against the wall. God. I miss TV.

I miss watching Thomas Shelby and Zendaya smoke so much weed she’d for sure pass out.

I want to pass out.

Rushing to the desk near the window, I pull out a stray pad of paper and rubble through the drawers for a pen. Finding one, I scribble the demands over it and tear it from the notepad before sliding it beneath the door.

Chapter Four

luna

yearone

Frost.

Cold.

Shivers.

Snow.

I gasp, squeezing the blanket to my chest as I fly up from the bed, my skin slick with sweat. I’m here. In a room. Alone. Locked away like Rapunzel with dar—I pause, distracted by the glow of paper near the door.

Shit.

Shoving the covers away, I crawl across the carpet so fast I’m sure my knees will have scars to show it, snatching the paper and fumbling it open.

Blonde isn’t your color.

My face falls.

Bastard. Mother fucking asshole.

I don’t swear often. In fact, I don’t think I swear much at all, but right now, I could name one thousand swear words and they all fit him. How would he know what I’d suit?

I tear the paper up and curl my arms around my legs. I spent too much time waiting for River and being a good child by not asking questions that I haven’t explored the space. But my patience is running thin, and it’s only been—frustration leaves me as a whine. I tug at the strands of my hair. Why’d I stop tracking my days? I don’t even know how many damn days I’ve been locked in this hell.

Because that’s what it is. Hell.

Movement catches the corner of my eye, and my heart skips a beat. I reach for it slowly, less enthusiasm this time since the last one pissed me off.

There’s a TV built into your bed. Are you as stupid as you look? Don’t answer that.

White noise fills my ears, and I blink up at the vanity that sits in front of the window before pushing myself to my feet. The carpet is plush on my toes when I find the pen I used, flipping it over and pressing the point down hard enough to tear the paper.

Apparently so, since I allowed my parents to talk me into the loyalty of societies and all that.

I want my hair dye. Go be a good rabbit and fetch it for me.

I finish the note and fold it neatly before slipping it beneath the door. I’ll start in a place that is easy to hide in if someone catches me. As I approach the threshold to the bathroom, thetexture beneath my feet switches from soft to hard. The design is a minimalist’s dream, with cement floors that match the ceiling and walls and doorless cabinetry. I run my hand over the glass wall that offers a direct view of the endless bath of ocean. Without the blanket of darkness, the lighthouse is impossible to see, but some nights, when I’m nose deep in bubbles that smell of expensive perfume, I can see the reflection hitting the mirror.

---