Page 24 of Born for Lace

His huge hand grabs my face, cuts my sentence off, and squeezes my lips to a puckering bow.

“There will come a time, little Lace Girl, while I'm babysitting you across the Great Waste to your Common Community that you'll beg me to kill for you.” He steps closer. My body vibrates below his, reacting to strange energy between us, and Spero starts to cry. “You'll breathe with heavy relief, might even wet your knickers, when you hear bones snap, knowing they are not yours.”

As I search his gaze for empathy, for a glimmer of humanity, I get lost in empty pits of darkness and hatred.

“Never,” I whisper.

“We'll see.” He drops my face like a scorching ember and strides past me toward the docks, calling out, “Stay away from that Hub, Lace Girl. What you’ll see inside will give you nightmares.”

I watch him walk toward the dock at the end of the path, mulling over his words. He means the man is still inside. Will someone clean up? If this were a Trade community then a member would be out to take care of this.

Who does that here?

With a sigh, I turn from him and decide to keep my distance where possible. I don’t like the way he makes me feel, not at all.

I’m…intriguedby him. What makes his life meaningful? He obviously cares for Tomar, so he’s not… void. I don’t want to hate him. If I can only see a tiny piece of kindness, a moment of compassion, then I feel I might be able to see past his cruelty. See good in him.

Oh, my.I grip my forehead.

Flustered, I set off at a steady pace.

I spend the rest of the day slowly searching the outskirts of The Bite. Whenever I see people, I head down a path, keep to the quiet corners and shadowed pockets.

If Spero is as special as implied, I feel a discreet presence is what is best, but I won’t sit in a room for a month.

If Tomar can pick his Purpose, then maybe I can, too. Can’t I?

Thoughts about my new life roll in my mind as I wander. I am following a rocky ledge that cuts straight to the water when I see an old dinghy. Inside, matted nets and tangled pots are stacked carelessly.

Stepping closer, I peer in and see a plastic bottle battered and bent from its life on the ocean floor. I blink at it, getting an idea. If I fill it with shells and rocks, it will make a little rattle.

Spero makes a gurgling sound, so I cup the back of his head before reaching for the bottle.

“That’s not yours.”

I straighten to find an old man limping toward me, his hands tremor in front of him. He is wearing a plain shirt that was perhaps once white. His jeans are covered in muck from fishing and black suspenders hang like two twin loops at his thighs. “That’s my bottle.”

I gape at him. “It’s trash.”

He lifts a bushy grey brow at me, sceptical. “Is it?”

“There are little holes all over it.” I wave at it. “You couldn’t put liquid in it.”

“Still mine. Still not yours.” The old man hobbles to the boat, clambering in, his hands convulsing.

I stare at him, feeling sorry for whatever makes his body vibrate like his veins are frenzied. With convulsing fingers, he starts untangling the net.

He struggles, grumbling to himself. His bitterness runs deep. I bet he didn’t even look at the bottle, or me, or Spero. He is too blinded by some kind of resentment he holds.

I cringe as I watch him trying to direct the net and weave the tails around. The knots are tight, water and salt logged. The thin, stiff rope is erratically webbed by a wild ocean.

Even though he won’t let me have the bottle, sadness slides through my chest. I’m not bitter. I am not hardened by The Cradle, so I really see his situation. Understand it.

I sit on the lip of the old, metal boat without looking at him because I am sure he hates that and start on the other end of the net.

He grumbles. “What you doin’?”

“Helping you.”

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