Page 49 of Bonepetal
Me
ofc i did. can you get it to me?
Miles
jamie’s swinging by on his way to work. he’ll drop it at your door
Me
tell him to knock—and tell him I said thanks!
I jump in the shower for a five-minute reset—hot enough to sting, quick enough to count. First blast of water makes me flinch, then it sinks in and I exhale.
Shampoo citrus, as always. Leaf-rot and smoke down the drain.
I close my eyes and scrub my neck, wrists, hairline, the scar in my palm, every inch of skin until any trace of Finn, gone. By the time the mirror fogs, my head’s quieter and my body feels like mine again.
As I step out, I wipe a circle in the fogged mirror.
My face looks like me.
Paler, sure. Eyes a little hollow.
My mouth is a little swollen. My fingers find the necklace without asking me first.
Thin chain. Oval cameo, with cheap silver filigree around a black disk, with a little molar set dead center. The enamel’s smooth, the roots yellowed at the tips, lacquered shiny so it looks almost polite.
I should take it off. I don’t.
It’s warm from my skin and the water. My thumb finds the ridge in the enamel where it meets the resin and snags there every time.
“Not yours anymore,” I tell the mirror.
The girl there nods like she means it.
In my room, I pull on black leggings, a tank, and an oversized grey cardigan. Fluffy socks and bat slippers Miles bought me. I brush my hair until it behaves.
I scoop a small load into the washer—socks, a towel, a T-shirt I hate, and my bedding after coming home last night covered in sap and dirt. Add the blue detergent and turn the dial. The drum coughs and starts; the hum runs up through the floor and into my feet. It feels like erasing and like mercy at once.
I crack the window an inch. October air slides in—wet leaves, old rain, metal city breath. I thumb my playlist on low—same playlist I listen to every morning—and lean on the counter, sipping while I wait for Jamie.
The street outside is narrow and leaf-littered—rust and gold stuck in the curb like a slow river.
November first.
People start moving—hoodies, coffee cups, a jogger with their headphones on.
Someone peels a “BOO” sign off their door; a plastic skeleton gets dragged off a railing; a deflated ghost slumps on a porch like laundry.
Everything looks normal again, like the town yawned, stretched, and forgot last night.
My shoulders drop; the coffee runs warm down my middle, and the tight spot under my ribs loosens.
For a blink, I let myself be just a girl with laundry and a playlist.
Then a crow lands on my sill, and the air thins, and every nerve I just smoothed down stands back up to listen.
Neat little click of talons, it’s wings folded.
