Page 51 of Immortal Sun

When I press a soft kiss to her forehead, I see them, the visions of laughter with her mom before. Visions of her brother protecting her. And then loneliness. Why are the stories all the same? And why does it always feel like it’s our fault?

Maybe because it is.

All of ours.

But to do anything else would mean the end, and every single one of them has the potential to bring it, to become the Destroyer, even this soul lying here with a drunken smile on her face.

I lie down next to her, and I pretend. Her breaths are heavy, even. I reach for her hand, and I pretend it’s normal, that lying next to a woman, my lover, is normal. That we’ll wake up, maybe argue over breakfast and coffee, then get ready for the day.

I can see it in my mind’s eye, the way it would play out. She’d kiss me at the end of the day, maybe throw things at me for being stubborn and arrogant. My fists clench as my fingers dig into the sheets.

I see her pregnant.

I see so many possibilities.

I always do. Isn’t that my purpose? To see each and every single possible reality only to be tortured in the end because it’s always the same for them, always. They have so much potential, but it gets jerked away the minute they step foot in front of me. She was going to meet someone next month at her favorite coffee shop. A police officer. My smile’s bitter as the scene unfolds to them kissing, him proposing. She decides on a destination wedding, how poetic. Anger wars with annoyance, but I can’t keep looking, searching, wondering what the point of it all is, when I know damn well what the point of my existence, and my reality is. She’s living a lie. After her wedding, she has one child, and they spend a normal existence through the years as one big happy family, only to have her husband die in a car wreck with her daughter after coming home from her choir concert, leaving Cleo once again…

Alone.

Without anyone.

Miserable

Isolated.

The future is the only thing that justifies the present for me. Who would want to live like that? Some might say that they would rather love for however much time they’ve been given, but that’s complete bullshit, I’ve seen it my entire existence.

And one thing always rings true.

All humans lie.

They’re thankless, unreliable, and yet we need them as much as they need us. What a twisted, screwed up fate.

I pull my hand away.

Bast meows at me.

I roll my eyes. “I was just looking.”

He meows again.

“It’s not against the rules.” Specks of starlight flicker on her skin where I touched her; they disappear almost instantly, soaking into her skin. She’ll never know. Cleo flips over to her side, her hand falls next to my body. The bracelet she refuses to take off is dangling from her wrist. I don’t dare touch it. It’s half of the sun. I wonder if she truly knows what it means to wear that on her wrist. Even if she did a deep search, she would never figure it out. What a damning future.

Bast growls louder, but the sun calls to me. I reach for the small half charm and press a finger against it.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I allow it, what I’ve never allowed. Hope. Dreams. Things I’ve given everyone but myself.

It feels so damn good I’m at a loss of breath, words.

“Push!” I grip her hand. “You’re doing so well, Cleo. I’m so proud of you!”

“This is all your fault!” she screams at me, then starts to sob when she hears the baby’s first cry.

But when I look over at my son, I stumble back. His eyes are black, his skin a greenish blue color, like that of the sea, of the beginning.

Of the end.

I draw a deep fortifying breath and calm myself.

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