Page 13 of Magpie
The sun is out. You’re safe.
I tell myself that again and again, clenching my teeth as I hurry to the back of the store, trying to not jump away from every shadow. I have never been more thankful for lackluster customer service than I am now as I slide quietly into one of the changing rooms, completely forgotten by the store clerk.
Taking in my reflection in the full-length mirror, I wince. A rust-colored stain covers most of my side, running down my jeans and soaking into the hem of my shirt. I look like a car crash victim. I don’t even look at my face; I can’t make myself meet my own eyes. I want to blame it on the emptiness I know I will find there. But, if I’m being honest, it has been a long time since I’ve been comfortable looking in the mirror. I don’t recognize the girl who stares back. I cannot seem to pinpoint the exact color of her eyes, and try as I might, the shade of her hair fades from my mind before it can find purchase. I am nothing and no one. He made sure of that.
Tugging my ruined shirt off, I toss it to the ground before stepping out of my bloody jeans. I open my backpack and dig around. Pulling out the bag that holds my small collection of toiletries, I find a bottle of hand sanitizer, squirt a glob of the stuff into my hand, and begin scrubbing away at the dried blood on my stomach and legs. I then turn to my split palm and hiss, holding in a series of curses, as the antiseptic burns in my openwound. I briefly wonder how pointless the action is. This wound could grow infected, and that infection could spread to my blood and head straight to my heart, and still, it wouldn’t kill me.
Nothing can kill me. Not anymore.
Forcing that thought from my mind, I make quick work of ripping my old shirt into long ribbons, wrapping the pieces into a bandage around my palm. At least it has stopped bleeding…for now. Turning from that task, I focus on the bundle of clothing I snagged from the clothing racks. Having grabbed clothes at random, I find myself pulling on a pair of black jeans and a flowing white tank top that has a red ribbon tied in a bow on the collar. I glance at the mirror, stilling at the sight of myself clothed in black, white, and red. The image on that card rises to my mind: the bird with its wings tied down.
My jacket is still covered in bloodstains, but I need something to cover my face. Poking my head out of the dressing room, I find the clerk with her back to me, talking animatedly into a cell phone. In front of me is a rack of leather jackets, but none of them have hoods. Scowling, I continue to peer around the store for anything that will help me hide my face. Laid out on a table is a pile of oversized hoodies, and without looking I snatch one and scurry back into the dressing room. The clerk doesn’t even turn to look at me. God bless the apathy of retail workers.
It isn’t until I tug the hoodie on, securing the hood over my head, that I see the words stitched in flowing script across the front:Home, Sweet Home.
Grimacing at the slogan, I snatch up my backpack, forgetting it’s still open. I swear as the contents scatter across the dressing room floor. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I kneel and hurriedly shove my things back into my bag. I don’t own much. Whatever clothes I grabbed from my apartment before I fled, an envelope of cash, my laptop, and a notebook.
I freeze, my bandaged hand outstretched over the brown leatherbound journal. I had nestled it so deeply inside my backpack, like I’m trying to forget about it. It’s something I have a hard time even touching, and yet I’m unable to part with it.
Leaning forward, I take a deep breath before resting my hand on the notebook. It is the only thing besides my key that I took with me the night I left him, left the House. It’s remained untouched in my bag all this time, too difficult a memory for me to open just yet, a path back to a part of my life I so desperately wanted to erase. But it is also a shrine to a love that I know will never leave my heart.
I sit back on my heels, staring down at the notebook, my thumbs running over the smooth surface. Screwing up my courage, I flip it open. A lump forms in my throat when I see the flowing script filling the page, the handwriting all too familiar to me. A soft, sad laugh escapes my lips as I trail my fingers down the hastily written letters. I cannot bring myself to read the words, to relive the time when my heart didn’t feel quite so heavy. It would be too painful. Still, I can’t bring myself to close the book either, not ready to be done with it just yet.
I sink into myself as my fingers roam over the pages, tracing the words, the scribbled drawings. I cannot let my eyes linger on any of the words I first read when I was a different person, when I was Magpie—but I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking abouthim, his brown hair falling into his bright red eyes as he stares pensively at the page. A sad smile stretches across my face, but with it comes that constant ache in my heart.
Unable to stand the sight any longer, I slam the journal closed. Moving to shove it deep into my backpack, where I can forget it once more, I pause when I see something sticking out. Flipping to the very last page, I find an envelope fitted to the back of the book, a pocket meant to store pictures and keepsakes in. I open the envelope and find a faded brown piece of paper. My breathcatches in my throat, the inkling of a memory trying to burst through. Fingers trembling, I pull the paper out.
Gently, I open the folded page, revealing an old newspaper clipping. It looks like something that belongs behind the glass at a museum, not shoved in the back of a journal. It’s an advertisement for a new act at a local theater:Mr. Black and His Bird of Fortune, the words written in a swirling, dramatic font. Next to the title is a detailed drawing of a man in a crisp, well-tailored suit, his gloved hand pulling his top hat down, concealing his face. An ace of spades shines on the side of his hat, seeming to wink at me.
His free arm is wrapped tightly around a woman. She is slim, waiflike, her big eyes looking out from the page and through me, seeming to see directly into my soul. Her dress swirls around her, all lace and feathers, gleaming white. A red ribbon is tied in a bow around her neck. The ink has faded over the years, turning the ribbon a murky rust color, making it appear soaked in blood. Even as a sketch, she looks all too fragile, as if at any moment she will blow away in the wind.
I fold the paper, placing it back in the flap at the back of my journal and putting the book in my backpack. I pull out a pile of bills and set them on top of my old clothes on the floor. Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I walk out of the dressing room, and out of the store entirely. The clerk never once looks at me.
Stepping back onto the busy street, I slide my sunglasses into place as I stand in the blinding sun. A plan is forming in my mind, and for the first time since I escaped him, I feel something that has evaded me all these years.
I feel hope.
It’s the stinging in my hand that wakes me up, pulling me from the depths of a nightmare. It feels like rising from a grave. Wincing, I blink my blurry eyes, adjusting to the low lighting of the room I’m in. From the soft orange glow on the wooden walls, I assume the place is lit by candlelight. Wearily, I pull my hand toward me, and the effort feels like I haven’t moved in a long time. Like I’ve been as stiff as a dead body. I pull my hand up, noticing black silk sheets spilling off it.
I freeze.
I’m in a bed, one I certainly donotremember climbing into. Fear seizes my heart, the pain in my hand becoming an afterthought as I sit up. My eyes frantically scan the room around me. Not only am I in an unfamiliar bed, I’m in a room I do not recognize. I search my mind, beginning to panic, trying my hardest to dispel the fog of confusion enveloping me. Someone must have drugged me, slipped something into my drink to make me black out. This is the exact kind of thing she always warned me about—
She?
She who? I narrow my eyes, trying to call forth the name of a faceless figure in my mind. I have the fleeting image of braids, a warm smile, laughter in her eyes, and the feeling of friendship before they swirl around the drain in my mind, and I am left empty. I frown, as I focus back on the present, on finding out where I am.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself remember the events that led to me being in this strange bed. Closing my eyes hard, I grip my aching head. I try to crawl down that foggy path in my mind, a numbing sensation slithering through me as I fight against the haze surrounding my memories. Flashes of a staircase, a hallway full of doors, the vague sense of people calling out to me—that’s all I can remember. That, and the image of a crescent moon. No, wait—a smile. Blinding white teeth in the endless dark.
I should be panicked, my nerves on edge, but that lulling cold is filling me, and I am finding it very hard to care. Looking down, I begin to take stock of myself. Tugging the thick comforter off, I see I am wearing a sleek black nightgown. The flimsy straps keep falling off my shoulders, and I have the distinct feeling this is not something I would choose to wear myself. I drift from that thought, giving myself a brief pat down and finding no immediately obvious wounds, other than the cut on my palm.
I gingerly touch the cut, sucking in a breath at the jolt of pain. I ignore it, furrowing my brow and inspecting the injury. I have the strangest feeling that the wound looks like a keyhole. Odd. Shaking my head, I fling my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. The sudden movement sends a wave of dizziness swirling around my head. My legs buckle, my knees stiff, and once again I am overcome with the feeling that I haven’t moved in a long while. I reach out with shaking hands, grabbing onto the headboard to steady myself as I reel. I take in a deep breathand the dizziness subsides, and I am stable on my feet once again.
What happened to me?
The words circle my mind, begging me to go back down that path to my memories, but that creeping cold holds me close, and I find it hard to understandwhyI want to remember. Still, the incessant need to retrace my steps refuses to let me go. It’s like trying to remember a dream. I have the vague feeling that I am missing something, or maybe someone, like I am lost and need desperately to get back. Unease churns in my stomach as my breathing picks up, fear breaking through the frozen barrier around my mind. Thoughts begin to crash like waves against the shore, each one louder than the last.
Where am I? How did I get here?
