Page 54 of My Lovely Tragedy
The scratch of Brooklyn’s beard makes my eyelids, my breath, flutter. I tuck his hair behind his ear, clearing it away from his face as best I can.
Frozen tears have already melted, leaving his face shimmering in the low flickers of the flames cast from the fireplace, the copper ring around his left nostril nearly black in color.
His beauty is ethereal and magnificent, and I do not think there will ever be a moment it doesn’t change every thought I have ever had.
I don’t know why or how it’s even possible—only that it is true. Brooklyn is a levitation of humankind.
As a final measure, I rest my fingers against his pulse, relishing in the beat beneath my fingertips. Guilt swarms back, all hornets and stingers. And I take it with grace, knowing I deserve every welt.
But I also know I’m running out of time.Time is never on my side.
And if I’m going to keep my crow, I will have to cage him. As much as it will kill me to bind his wings, it’s a necessary evil I must abide.
I press my lips to his forehead. Damp warmth licks across my lips, along with the overwhelming scent of pine. I inhale deeper, committing it to memory, words already flowing.
His wings, blacker than obsidian shadows, flap fruitlessly in the moonlight. He senses the cage at his back, large and consuming and inevitable, but that doesn’t stop the chase.
If anything, it makes him work harder, fear and adrenaline pumping in his blood.
He knows I am behind him, my gilded cage sparkling, luminescent and welcoming. Despite its bars and chains, it offers a home for my crow. A realm of safety he cannot resist.
His wings slow, the effort he’s putting forth diminishing by the second. Their flapping echoes, bouncing off the trees surrounding us. Hearty pine and crisp snow.
A spatter of blood.
A stain.
A promise.
Brooklyn coughs, choking on his own saliva. I jolt back, wincing at the loss of touch as my hand falls back into my lap. His eyes roll behind purple lids, dark red lips cracked in the center, nearly the same color as the ring of blood around his nostril.
I shove to my feet, shoulders hunching slightly as I leave him to trudge back through the snow to my shed across the yard, flashlight in hand. The door is hard to open, nearly frozen shut from being unopened through storms and wavering temperatures.
Once it finally swings open, I’m hit with the overwhelming smell of old wood and sawdust mixed with the cool tang of metal. I search out that very scent, bright white light illuminating the slight chaos.
I find the chains in the back corner, cold and slightly rusted. I blink. Once. Twice. I drop the flashlight on top to grab both sides and drag it out. Cobwebs disperse, floating in the air before sticking against the wall.
By the time it’s halfway across the room of my shed, I’m nearly out of breath, panting at the exertion. Wiping the back of my hand over my damp forehead, I swipe a package of padlocks from the workbench and drop it in the bucket as well.
The rubber pieces on my glasses bite into my nose, the metal across my bridge as sharp and uncomfortable as the snow seeping into my shoes.
Each drag and pull saps a little more of my energy. A deep throb settles in my temples and the back of my neck. My lips split, cracked and bleeding. I swipe my tongue across them, lapping up the blood and letting the tang motivate me—a reminder of the blood, as black as night, staining the snow as it dripped from Brooklyn’s nostril.
The metal clinks against the bottom step, taunting me. I glance back at the door, and knowing Brooklyn’s asleep just inside gives me a final boost of vigor. With a grunt, I scrape the bottom over all three steps before falling back and jarring my tailbone as I crash onto the deck.
The bucket teeters between my legs, and I shoot my arms forward to steady it before it tips into my lap and crushes me.
My chest heaves uncontrollably, each breath pained and sharp. My oxygen intake is not enough to replenish what I’ve lost.
Allowing myself ten solid seconds of reprieve, I finish my trek inside, collapsing once more after the door is shut and locked, trapping us both inside.
I drag my glasses off my face and drop them onto the counter, the lens completely fogged over from the change in temperature. Leaving them behind, time ticks heavily as I shove the padlocks in my pockets, feeling their weight as they drag my pants down further.
Grasping the end of one chain, I drag it out across the floor as I make my way toward Brooklyn. Catching sight of him again makes me smile, warm and genuine. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, every bit the innocent boy he is.
And the implications of what I’m about to do to him hit as hard as I expected it to. Thefeelingsof infelicity and disloyalty are much stronger than the thoughts alone—just as I knew they would be.
Thinking and actually doing are two very distinctive things. And before, mere fabrications of betraying his trust and his autonomy were only that—ideas.
