Page 38 of Grim
I shake my head, chest heaving, voice raw. “Fuck you,” I spit out. “Don’t give me that bullshit line. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? I know life isn’t fair! But fuck you for not letting me live in ignorant bliss for the remainder of my days! I can see the clock now, every second ticking by, taking my dreams with it.”
My breath hitches. Kane pinches the bridge of his nose.
I wipe a tear from my cheek before continuing, “I just—Iwantedthings. I wanted to be someone important. I wanted to help people. I wanted to dance in the moonlight, get lost in a really old library, feel the sting of a tattoo, and lie on the roof in a thunderstorm. I’ll never discover the best chocolate cake or soak in one of those fancy tubs.”
Kane blinks.
I wipe my face, my hands shaking. “And I don’t blame you for that. But I do blame you for stealing the fantasy that I still had time.”
There’s a long silence between us. Kane stares at me, jaw clenched, green eyes darting back and forth, searching for something on my face he’ll never find.
“Time is a funny thing, Mayday,” he begins.
Rubbing my chest, I start to wheeze as I realize I’ve done too much. The staccato thumping beneath my ribstells me to slow down. Now. It feels like a bear squeezing my chest and my lungs are turning to stone.
My voice comes out weak, breathless. “Kane … I can’t breathe. My heart. Keeps. Skipping.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.
I release a tired sob. “I need to lie down.”
Kane stiffens as he looks back at the house. “Can you make it back to your room?”
I shake my head weakly. “I don’t think so.”
He sighs dramatically before taking pity on the wheezing woman doubled over, holding on to the side railing of the front steps. His hands reach out slowly before he jerks them back.
“Merde,” he mutters to himself.
Then, begrudgingly, he grabs me and lifts me up in his arms. His hold is so stiff and awkward, nothing like the romance books I’ve read. He moves quickly, eyes straight ahead as he takes us back into the house. As we enter, he eyes the distance to my bedroom and the living room. I can see his mental assessment play out as he opts for the shorter distance. He takes me to the nearest couch and sets me down. Gently, though not altogether gracefully.
“Thanks,” I mutter, melting into the cushions.
“Don’t mention it. Ever.”
And I don’t. Not now anyway, as the shock of the past few moments zaps me of all the strength I had left, and though I fight it, I quickly fall asleep.
History&Histrionics
Rue Chamberlain, whatever am I to do with you?
Sitting here, watching this fragile and momentarily mortal creature resting peacefully on this decadent velour sofa, the thought that keeps resurfacing in my mind irritates me. The idea is so utterly foreign, so uncomfortably human. It took her passing out from exhaustion and curling ever so slightly on the burgundy cushions, but it’s pretty clear.
This woman is uniquely gorgeous.
Beautiful in a way that aches. The redness of her mouth is striking against her creamy skin. The curves of her Cupid’s bow look painted on. Her gentle breathing and occasional purring are calm. Peaceful.
My mind starts racing back to years long gone, to easy days of gentle love. Of things I had, now lost. Of soft touches in candlelight, of whispered laughter under sheets.
I bring my hand up to scratch my chest, readjusting myself in the uncomfortable chair opposite her sofa, when my reverie is broken by a louder purring. I glance down and see a hideous creature of unimaginable furriness and size, which can only be described as a cat.
I shriek, the banshee-like wail enough to wake Rue instantly and send the hairs on this creature shooting up its back.
“What’s going on?” my reluctant patient asks groggily from the couch.
“You tell me,” I hiss, pressing myself against the back of the chair. “A spirit is one thing I can tolerate stalking a domicile. But this abomination?” I shudder.
She blinks. “That, dear Kane, is Esther. She’s my cat. And don’t call her names. She’s very sensitive.”
