Page 160 of Memories Like Fangs
Sometimes, the past didn’t repeat itself. It rhymed.
We had held a funeral service for Mom once before. It was months after she had been murdered, long after her case had frozen completely. We had no idea that her body was mounted like a fucking prized trophy in some abusive, psychotic killer’s office. All we knew was that she was gone with Aunt Max and Uncle Everett smelling the exact moment when she had died. Since we were already packing up the house to move, Pops decided it was time to grieve. He said it would be good for us to try and find some closure. We needed it. I didn’t know how to argue with that, even if it felt like we were putting in a bookmark in the middle of a sentence that I had reread over and over again but wasn’t comprehending.
I was thirteen and swallowed by a complete, deep numbness. Those months were a hazy blur of muted sorrow and unanswered questions. I barely remembered the funeral itself, only fragments, like snapshots from a camera stuck on burst mode. The crowd had been massive, made of former and current students, parents, colleagues, friends, strangers who had once been changed by her smile or words. We gathered high in the mountains, where the sky felt closer and the air felt sacred. Nobody. No casket. No urn. Just framed photos of her: smiling, dancing, laughing, loving, living, glowing. Pops, Uncle Everett, Aunt Max, Talli, and I released ruby rose petals into the wind and watched them spiral up into the gray clouds until they faded with distance and blurred with my tears. I remembered that rain. Cold and soft, I didn’t flinch when the drops touched my skin. I welcomed the chill, so I could feel something to remind me I was still there.
What I remembered the most was what I wore.
My braids had been so snagged and ruined from the day we had lost her that I had to take them out. My afro fanned out around my face, untamed and full, just like hers had always been, with curls sneaking into my line of sight. My fingers and hands were smaller then, the shorter nails dipped in candy-red polish that I had borrowed from Mom. I clearly remembered the tremble of my hand as I opened the drawers of Mom’s vintage jewelry armoire. I found a pair of gold and silver earrings that Mom used to wear all the time, and I had used Mom’s vanity mirror to slip them into the singular piercings I had back then.
I remembered that black shirt dress that we had picked out in a rush. It was simple, long-sleeved, and belted, brushing just past my knees. It was actually cute. The tights and Mary Janes matched, too. It was all something I would have worn under different circumstances. Yet, everything about the outfit felt wrong. I looked perfectly fine in it, but I also didn’t look myself, like how I thought I wassupposedto look. Something buried deep within me prickled underneath my skin as I wore it. I wanted to rip the whole outfit off and burn it. I don’t remember what happened to that dress or the shoes, but I never wore either again.
The service back then had given me something to hold onto when there were only question marks, but the closure it promised never came. There was something about it that didn’tclose the wound of my mom’s loss. It only made it deeper, more real, and left me feeling hollow from what I didn’t know. It was a door left open just wide enough to haunt me. Maybe it was because her body was still missing, so it just didn’t feel as real as it should have. I knew Mom was gone. I accepted that. Was it because that memorial had never sat right in my spirit? Was it that my dragon knew my mother never would have wanted this? Maybe it was just that saying goodbye to Mom felt too heavy and impossible, that I didn’t understand yet that some goodbyes weren’t endings but pauses and rests between verses.
Now, nearly fifteen years later, the memory of Mom had existed in my life longer than the reality of her. I felt her absence like the sky above, stretching and spreading over everything. As heavy as it wore on my heart, it also meant that I felthereverywhere I was. I carried her with me in my choices, my joy, my fire, and so many other ways, and there was power in that. Even in the quiet moments, I swore I could still feel her with me, the ghost of her that existed in every move I took and choice I made. Mom gave up everything for me to be happy, safe, and thriving. She had made mistakes along the way, done things I didn’t agree with, but love was behind every action, and I wouldn’t be who I was if she had chosen differently. Her sacrifice on that rainy day so long ago was her last act of love for me.
Her homegoing was going to be mine for her.
I opened my eyes and met my reflection, turning around in the mirror yet again as if I would find something to readjust or fix if I just checked for the thousandth time. Mom had said in the dream that the daughters of the deceased wear something made by the departed. Since she wasn’t a seamstress, I had a workaround to honor the spirit of the tradition by turning to the M.G.T.S., the Magical Girl Transformation Shop, a clothing maker that specialized in formal wear for plus-size shifters I’d been dying to try. They worked their magic—literally—anddelivered a bespoke and bespelled masterpiece in less than a week. It wasn’t just tailored to ensure a perfect look, feel, and fit, but it was enchanted so I could easily take it on and off without issue. Honestly, the most magical part for me was that it had pockets deep enough to hold my phone.
The dress waseverything, and I couldn’t stop staring at it in my mirror. It was a floor-length organza gown in deep, rich maroon-red that looked like wine and reverence and devotion. The romantic off-the-shoulder bubble sleeves framed my bare shoulders and flared past my hands with silk ribbons in perfectly tied bows. The gown’s back dipped low enough to comfortably expose my wings. The corset accentuated the softness of my belly and the curve of my hips with full-bodied pride. My titties looked absolutely incredible, thanks to the gown’s emphasis. The layers upon layers of tiers in the skirt created a fully flowy silhouette with enough fabric to feel indulgent but not heavy. The full and opulent train was bustled instead of trailing behind me. Having been carefully guided through a hole under one of the skirt’s ruffled tiers, my tail rested and curled among the skirts like its own train. The hem was tailored to display my feet and ankles between the movement of each tiered step. Everything about the gown felt right, from the way it molded to my body when I put it on to how light it felt to how it made my dragon purr with ease and comfort.
The rest of my appearance was just as bold for the upcoming farewell. My makeup was fierce as fuck, definitely perfect for the daughter of a woman who wielded flame and molten rock. I had gone full golden goddess: stark and vibrant gold eyeshadow, gilded highlight across my cheeks, crimson matte lip, and a delicate glitter of gold dusted across my shoulders, collarbones, neck, and the tops of my boobs. Half of my soft pink locs were pulled into a loose, boho French braid while the other half cascaded in curly strands past my shoulders and down my back.Having picked them from the forest near the condo the day before, I had woven fresh flowers around them: pansies, lenten roses, camellias, violas, and winter jasmine. It was a reminder that softness could easily exist on a day like this. Each flower was all laced between delicate golden lace and ruby crystal jewelry, all of which glinted with each breath, along with every piercing lining my ears and the chain holding my Mom’s obsidian pendant ever present against my chest. My black tattoos looked like they had been carved into the opalescent crystal of my hands and forearms that peeked through the sheer sleeves.
I looked fucking gorgeous.
I also couldn’t deny how much I looked like my mother.
Piercings and tattoos aside, the gold rings, the candy-red nails, the black and gold necklace, and my red lip were all a part of Mom’s signature look. The black stone even pulsed warmly against my chest, just like it used to for Mom. I was channelling her, but I still looked very much like myself. My dragonfly wings shimmered against the gown’s open back. My tail ending in a cluster of crystals flicked behind me with tension. My holographic scales with dancing pastel auras shimmered faintly against my tawny skin like stars just beginning to surface. I was adorned in garnet and gold like my mother, but I was so clearly me. Not only that, but I was a version of myself that my mother had never gotten to witness when she was alive. Still, it all felt like a merging of timelines, like we were both existing at once in the same reflection, braided into one another like verses of the same poem.
I thought I would feel a tidal wave of emotions. Grief stinging my eyes with tears for having to mourn her mother again. Apprehension and dread twisting my gut over the events. Anger making my fists shake over the fact that I didn’t get to do this sooner. Numbness dulling everything about the whole affair for the sake of self-preservation. But none of it came. Instead,there was calm. It all loosened something in my shoulders that I hadn’t realized I was holding. It was a strange, steady thing within me, and it was almost surreal.
You know better than anyone that grief isn’t linear or some single predictable storm, Byrdie, I reminded myself.It’s a weather system, shifting and circling. Sometimes, you have your sunny days of acceptance, but you can still end up in the first stage of denial. For now, enjoy the calm?—
But stay ready for the storm, my dragon hissed, my wings twitching and tail flicking behind me with an unsettling energy.
Today might just ruin me,I sighed, shaking my head.
“If you look this good for a funeral, I can’t wait to see how you look at a wedding, Sweets.”
I turned to see the absolute love of my life there, sending my heart fluttering higher than my wings could ever take me. Quinn leaned against the door threshold of my room with her strong arms folded casually over her chest and the corner of her mouth pulled into that smirk I’d missed so much it hurt. The maroon-red button-down that she wore matched my dress with uncanny precision, despite us not having discussed it at all, and her pants were a deep burgundy. Both were tailored to hug her frame in all the right places and hang in others with that loose-but-intentional perfection that she was so good at pulling off. The top few buttons of her shirt were undone, revealing the gentle curve of her collarbone and just enough cleavage to be a tasteful art and not an accident. Her feet were notably bare like mine. A gold chain glittered against her skin, catching the morning light streaming from my windows. Her hair nearly undid me the most. Her soft, loose dark brown ringlets tumbled freely around her shoulders. They looked exactly as they had when we first met—wild, untamed, full of energy, and refusing to be anything but themselves. The red of her outfit brought out the sunny undertones kissing her curls, the rosiness in her tanned skin,and the blazing fire warming her eyes. Every compliment I could think of paled in comparison to how stunning she looked.
“Oh, sweet goddess,” I breathed.
I ran to her without hesitation, and she caught me with a laugh that melted every sharp edge inside of me. She buried her face into the crook where my neck met my shoulder as her arms wrapped around my waist, lifted me off the ground, and spun me around. I could feel her exhale against my skin, warm, shaky, and absolutely relieved. Her curls tickled my cheek, and I relished the feeling of her soft, plushy hair. I held her tighter, grounding myself in the scent of her citrusy hair, the steady thrum of her heartbeat, and the giggles that bubbled from both of us.
When we finally came to a stop, Quinn set me down. She took my face between her hands and pressed our foreheads together. For a moment, we were quiet, enjoying the embrace of one another. Then, I remembered what she had said before, and my brain began functioning again. Breathlessly, I teased, “You keep mentioning weddings and marriage, ma’am, and I am going to start asking some serious questions.”
Quinn’s lips grew into a slow, dangerous smile. “Maybe I like teasing you.”
“Maybeyou play too much.”
She gasped in mock offense. “Me? This coming from the queen of teasing? As if you don’t love a good chase.”
“Mhmm, you keep going, love,” I purred, running one of my talons lightly along her collarbone and sending shivers throughout her body. “And I’ll show you just how much of a temptress I can really be.”
“Now, that sounds like a threat that I want you to make into a promise.”
I chuckled before standing on my tiptoes. When we finally kissed, it was soft but all-consuming. It wasn’t rushed nordesperate, but it held a kind of pained patience that said everything without needing words. It was like a door we’d both been waiting to open for days. Once we did, it was a flood that took us under. Our kiss was laughter melting into heat, fire and tenderness, steeled promises and velvety affection. We kissed like we were home again with each other after five achingly long days.
