Page 8 of Mayfly

I used to cry at first, screaming for him to stop hurting her. Then, when I was old enough to understand the difference between screams of agony and those of pleasure, I learned to dissociate. I imagined I was in a movie—the only one that was ever far enough away from my reality to work.

I’d found a scratched up copy of Return of the Jedi lying in the gutter in a ziplock bag with a bunch of other burned DVDs. It was the only one that worked, and I watched it every chance I got. Every time they’d leave the house, I’d stick it in and watch through jumps and fuzz, a story where a terrible father turned good in the end. Where friends helped each other. Where evil was trying to take over the entire galaxy, but good people still existed. And if they worked together, they could take down the bad guys.

Am I a walking, talking example of life imitating art, or is it the other way around?

Shaking my head, I walk inside the suite. I might be one of the good guys now, but there will never be enough of us. Not when men like my father and that bastard from next door keep multiplying out of thin air.

Brimming with frustration, I grab my coat and stride to the door, only to be halted by my reflection in the mirror beside it. I’m so much like him, and I can’t stand it. My height, myshoulders, my lips, my dark eyes. My tawny Caribbean skin, dotted with my mother’s Scottish freckles. It feels like he’s always inside me fighting with the goodness, constantly trying to prove that I can never be the hero no matter how hard I try. No matter where I’m sent to and no matter how many people I put cuffs on, it’s all a facade until the day my DNA forces the evil to finally break through to the surface, like it’s my birthright.

Slamming the door to my suite, annoyed at how damn flustered this city always makes me, I press the gold button for the lift as though the harder I do it, the faster it will come.

Inside, I pat the front of my coat to make sure I remembered my phone, then reach inside to trace my fingers over the leather beneath my sweater. Having this gun brings me far more peace of mind than I know it should. I’m a six foot two, thirty-five-year-old man, with extensive training on how to kill with my bare hands, for Christ’s sake.

I’ve done it before, too.

Once, and it still haunts me.

The strength, the power. The force needed to twist a neck and the feeling of the bones cracking are things that never leave you. They can’t. They’re too personal. Guns are so much easier.

“Do you require a car, sir?” the concierge asks once I’m in the foyer.

“Not this time,” I smile with a nod, and push the morbid thoughts out of my mind as I step onto the street.

With my shoulders back and my hands in the pockets of my coat, no one could ever guess the shit I’ve been through. It’s one of my strengths. I’ve never let my inside spill out. And I never will.

Following the cabby’s directions, I reach The Gloucester in no time flat, and its bottle green facade looks like the kind of home I’m happy that London can provide me.

Inside, the warmth of the pub clings to me. Nostalgia is a cruel mistress, and no matter how many times I go through this process, I always forget how much I miss this feeling.

I navigate through the tangle of bodies until I reach the bar and lean against it. The smell of thousands of spilled drinks intoxicates me even as I stare longingly at the vast array of taps I won’t be able to sample the beers from.

“On the hard stuff already?” the bartender asks with a dry banter I’ll never grow tired of, when I order a Coke.

“On the clock.” Is my response as I tap the bar mat in front of me. Though it’s judged as more of an excuse rather than a steadfast reason tonothave a beer. Because as the bartender’s eyes flicker from one side of me to the other, I know as well as he does that the place is full of men in suits having quote-unquote lunch meetings.

With a raise of my eyebrows, I shrug and take my drink, not caring what the guy thinks of me. He gets paid the same no matter what I order.

Once more weaving through bodies in search of a seat, the crowd eventually thins out near the back left. Two tables stand side by side, and on the furthermost chair sits a man, almost shadowed in the corner. Like he’s commanding space but repelling it at the same time.

Recognition stirs within me the closer I get, and for a breathless moment, I’m twelve again; trapped in a bubble of then and now—scared and fighting. The air shifts as I near the table. A thread pulls taut between us, and the years peel back with every step I take. The clink of glasses and the low hum of ambient chatter are completely gone by the time I reach him, like the entire world has narrowed to this exact point in time.

His name escapes my lips like a bullet before I can stop it.

“Curren.”

It’s not a greeting; it’s an accusation. A thousand questions all caught up in the quiver of my voice that betrays the cool facade I’m typically so proud of. But he doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. And the silence stretches on for so long I question if I’m mistaking him for someone else.

It’s his gloved fingers that move first, rubbing back and forth across the outside of his glass. And after ten more agonizing seconds, he slowly raises his head and his eyes lock onto mine. They’re pools of black, deep but hollow. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and knowing exactly what it’s loaded with. Then I notice his recognition flicker; slow and reluctant. Like he hates me for having to dig into his past to remember who I am. I can see a loathing in the hollows of his face and in the tension of his jaw, but still, he doesn’t speak. He just stares.

“Say something,” I think, or maybe I whisper it aloud. Regardless, Curren remains wordlessly stoic, forcing me to confront the emptiness without a stable bridge to cross it.

“Jude,” he eventually breathes out, as though it took him all that time to clear my name of dust and cobwebs. And despite there being no follow up, I still chose to sit, uninvited, in the chair beside him.

“What have you been up to?”

The leadlight of the window beside him casts shadows on his face, highlighting lines that shouldn’t be there. Not at his age. Not when he’s so handsome.

Raising his glass, he brings it to his lips and takes a long sip of whiskey. Or perhaps it’s scotch.

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