Page 16 of Magpie
Whipping around, I ready for the attack, sure he will grip me with those white-gloved hands and try to drag me back with him. I am determined to go down fighting. But as I stand, my fists raised in front of me, I am greeted by an empty library.
I’m panting rapidly, my eyes darting around the dark space in front of me. I’m tense, fighting the urge to bolt from this place before he can come back. Cold understanding settles in my stomach. It does not matter where I am, where I hide, he willfind me. I am no longer safe, and I think I never have been. Not from the addictive pull of his embrace. I can feel the warmth seeping from me, replaced with that freezing cold that has been my existence since leaving him, growing only more frigid the longer I am without my key.
When I am certain he will not jump from the shadows, I drop my raised fists. Scrubbing at my eyes, I let out a strangled cry of frustration. I turn and sit down forcefully, pulling the stack of newspapers toward me with renewed resolve. Picking up the first one, I flip it open and instantly frown. This paper must have been placed in the stack by accident; it’s unlaminated, and isn’t faded brown and worn with age like the others. It’s bright white, with full-color advertisements. Glancing at the date, I notice this paper is only a few years old.
Grumbling, I begin to toss it aside, when something catches my eye. At the bottom of the page are a few advertisements for local shops. A man holding a big, curly-haired dog, showcasing a grooming business. A coupon for a free cup of coffee at a newly opened café. A summer sale at a local boutique. Nestled in between them is the image of a woman, smiling in front of a crystal ball. She is dressed in a flowy patchwork dress, a crown of daisies on her head.
Grounded: Your one-stop shop for holistic remedies, crystals, and more!the advertisement reads, before listing an address.
I stare at her, unable to look away, to even believe what I am looking at. I let my gaze trail over her pale hair, her light blue eyes. She looks every bit an ethereal goddess.
Tearing my eyes away from the advertisement, I pull my laptop out and hurriedly flip it open, chewing my nails as I impatiently wait for the old machine to boot up. My fingers race across the keyboard, punching the store’s address into a search bar. My mouth falls open when the page loads, and I sit back in my chair, studying the screen.
I flick my eyes between the details for Grounded, listing the days and hours of operation, and the newspaper open in front of me. It opens tomorrow at 8:00am. Ripping the page out of the newspaper, I fold it and place it in the back of my journal, with the other clipping.
Hugging myself tightly, I look to the darkened window and the night sky beyond it. I don’t believe in coincidences, not after seeing just how easily fate can be changed, molded to fit the whim of another. I don’t believe this newspaper just happened to land in my lap. And I’m beginning to believe that it has not been my own desperate need to flee calling me east this whole time.
Maybe it is her.
Ithought the stairs would lead straight to the floor below, but I am woefully mistaken. He pulls me through a dizzying series of doors and down endless hallways. My mind is still foggy, unable to keep up with the twists and turns we take, going up and down stairs seemingly at random. I panic, realizing if I lose track of him, I will not know the way to get out. Hurrying forward, I cling to his arm, pressing myself tight against him.
He looks down at me, giving me that same Cheshire smile, and I feel my own shy smile begin to form. There’s something so oddly comforting about his embrace, no matter how a feeble voice in my mind begs me to run. Freeing his arm from my grip, he wraps it around me, pulling me close beside him. There is a presence surrounding him that envelops me as we touch, thick and heavy, easing my confused mind as I lean into him. A voice in my head whispers that I should not be so trusting with a stranger, but that voice dies in the poisoned fog that rolls off him.
The doors and hallways blur before my eyes, but I do not mind. As long as his arm remains around me, I am perfectlyhappy to be lost in this haze—until we step into a foyer, and I come to a staggering stop, finally pulling away from him. His grip tells me he is reluctant to let me go.
“I remember this place…” I say, tugging entirely out of his arms and cautiously walking around the room. Flashes of two strangers pop into my head, but I can’t recall their faces. I get the sense that someone is calling to me, begging me to come back, and I shiver against the visceral anguish in the voice. Images and thoughts try to force their way to my mind, try to pierce through the hazy fog that encases me, but they flee as soon as he takes my hand again.
“Of course you remember this place. It’s your home,” he croons, his cold voice calming the sharp panic, easing the warning bells into silence.
I stare at him, confused. I’m trying to piece together the shattered fragments of faded memories, so it takes a moment for his words to reach me. I frown. Odd. Something about him calling this my home feels wrong.
“I don’t think this is my home,” I say slowly. I’m worried if I upset him, he’ll leave me alone in this vast empty house.
A small frowns spreads across his face, his eyes growing darker. My heart races, a lump forming in my throat.
Don’t leave me. I can’t live without you.
The words scream in my mind, covering every other thought. Desperation for his touch, longing to be held by him, fills me wholly. It’s as though every fiber of my being is aching to please him, to accept him, to let him claim me entirely. I rush forward, gripping his arm with both hands, terrified at the idea of being without him. After a moment, the easy smile returns to his face, and he takes my hand again, leading me to the front door.
“This has always been your home, Magpie. It was just waiting for you to arrive.” He saysMagpieas though it is my name, and I have no other name to contradict him with. He laughs at myfurrowed brow, the velvety noise echoing around me as he pulls me closer to his side. “I know it is a lot. These first few days can feel like a dream. Come,” he says, not giving me a moment to question him before he’s opening the front door and leading me into the night. “I will explain everything.”
I don’t want to leave the safety of the house behind, but I don’t want to let him go. We walk down the stone steps leading from the front door, and turning, I see an old brownstone, nestled in a row of other identical houses. I study the structure, my eyes bouncing between the three stories. The house we stepped out of is far too large to be confined to such a small building. Before I can think any more on it, he is pulling me after him.
The night is cool, a wet mist clinging to my hair and clothes. The click of his shoes along the cobblestone street has me looking down and noting that I am barefoot. The cold of the air and the stone should bother me, but I find when I touch him, I am filled with a gentle warmth. A sigh escapes my lips, and I lean into him, content to let him lead the way.
Everything is bathed in a soft orange glow from the streetlights as we settle into a leisurely pace, walking down the streets of the neighborhood. The buildings look old, their mismatched stones and gas lamps reminiscent of a time long gone. Shops are nestled together in a row across a small river, their interiors dark, gaping holes in the silent night. The streets are quiet, and I find myself at peace in the emptiness.
We stroll by businesses, parks, and a church with glittering stained-glass windows winking at us. Turning off the sidewalk, he leads us to a bench near a silent fountain, its water sitting stagnant and quiet. I sit on the edge, leaning over and looking at my reflection. I have no idea who she is. I’m having a hard time focusing on her features, unable to commit them to memory. The exact color of her eyes, the hue of her hair—it all slides out of my mind, unable to find purchase.
His presence looms over me, a dark shadow in my wake. Looking away from the stranger that is my reflection, I lock eyes with him.
“Who are you?” I ask, breaking the quiet between us.
“I am your creator,” he answers, sending a shiver down my spine. Once again, that feeling of warning, of danger, tries to break through, but his soft smile quiets that voice in my mind.
“I still don’t understand,” I say apologetically, shaking my head slowly. It is a strain to continue to exist in this haze of emptiness and ignore the weight of the questions that are drowning in that growing cold.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he begins to slowly pace around the fountain. I follow him with my eyes, thinking about a jaguar stalking its prey.
