He chanted the words: “The sun, the moon, and the rising. You will return home to Olympus, and I will never let you out of my sight again.”
His words burdened us, while we hid in the bushes, anchoring us in our steps and halting our movements.
Their leader, the sour, lonely child, not much older than Rosalia, disrobed. Every urge for violence and retribution flared up. This was an act of war—one I couldn’t ignore. Cotton’s hand held me still. There were to be no hasty decisions if we wanted the advantage.
I saw the moonshine hit the silver blade tucked behind his back, while he leaned down over her, and I watched their lips meet.
He was stealing her purity in every form.
His bare chest made him seem so much more innocent, even more childlike, but I knew the Devil would tempt my sympathy in any way he could. I fought for Christ, even if that meant slaying the children in the forest.
The dead leaves of the season crunched under my boots, while my adversary pointed to his chest. I didn’t want to pull my eyes away from Rosalia, but regrettably, I did, seeing the horns burned into his chest like a badge of honor.
Those weren’t the wings of a godsend, but an evil I was determined to vanquish. While I was focused on the burn, everything around me sped up in a way I couldn’t stop.
Their fearless leader brought his arms up into the air, with the knife firmly between his fists, and as I ran towards Rosalia, the certainty of being too late already corroded my heart. Her body folded up into the knife without fighting the blade lodged into her abdomen. Blood quickly spewed from her mouth in a graceful way that only a pure child could manage. Carefully moving her body from the rock, I held my little girl against my chest, whispering how much I forgave her, hoping that was enough forgiveness for the Gates of Heaven.
The boy branded with the horns of the Devil leaned down, pressed his palm into my shoulder, and he told me this would all make sense someday.
It has been seven years since that night in the woods, where I sat on the dirt, rocking Rosalia into her death. As time moved me on, it has also moved my anger with me.
I read the passage and let it all sink in. Bolton had the same mark, only it was a “birthmark” now.
Was Caellum really trying to tell me that they had lived through the 1600’s? Complete with religious fanatics and the trials of witches? I was overwhelmed with information that only weighed me down more, making my eyelids heavy to hold up.
“You died that day—luckily for Bolton, not actually. That was just the human form you took while on earth.”
“This is too much, okay. I’m not anything but human, and whatever kind of joke this is…? I’m over it. Tell your pal Bolton getting me naked was punishment enough, but I’m not going to bow to him.”
Caellum stood up frustrated, and then intrigued by what I had just shared accidentally.
I wasted no time pushing my hands against his solid chest and kicking him out of my room. I felt the same static I did with Bolton only a few hours ago.
“Maybe you should get this pissed at him and let him feel those hands. He wouldn’t question… driving that… knife… in you… and sending us back home.” The last sentence was full of pauses to exaggerate his point between each word.
“You’re a dick. We all get it.”
I gave him one hard push, making him step back over the threshold of my room, before closing the door in his face.
Once your body takes on news you can’t comprehend, a part of your mind unlocks everything that was every confusing, like friendships that end, why my dad keeps taking jobs that leave me stranded in a stranger's homes, why some people live past thirty and my mom died.
Misery loves company, my ass.
Confusion loves company, and denial loves desolation.
Right now I was firmly in the company of the bad memories still scarring me, before I moved on to the desolation of self-torture—something I knew all too well. Between the tragedy of losing my mother and never having a father figure to count on, I was the poster child for emotional trauma.
I hardly ever let myself cry—at least not over things I could no longer change. However, all the new information was pushing out old memories to make room.
I couldn't even bring myself to read more of Henry Jon’s journal before I fell asleep with the tears running down the sides of my face, making stains on my pillow.
Luna didn't come back to the room. She granted me one night of freedom, and I used it to cry.
Arianna
The dreams were getting more active. There wasn't a night my subconscious wasn't trying to scream epiphanies at me.
Last night, I dreamed about the morning my dad broke the news that my mom had died.
It was a cruel joke when your mind makes you relive your worst memories, hoping you'll find what you didn't see before.
In the dream, I was the age I am now, and my dad didn't even wake me up to tell me he went to the hospital. Now he was standing in front of me, breaking news, like I would overlook those small details to mourn. He was wrong. My eyes were becoming brighter, and the violet fused with gold in my irises. My hands were glowing, flecked with gold, and my veins were illuminating my palms, except now it was gold.
Every part of me unexplainably ran gold.
Royal.
Desired.
Myth.
In the dream, I let the lightning spark against my skin, and before I knew it, I was the only thing unharmed when my hands faded back to normal.
Our house was struck down by lightning, burned to a crisp, and barely any beams were still up right, all struck down by my wrath.
I could still feel the cold sweat on my back and around my hairline when my alarm went off. I twisted over in my bed, looking behind me to see if Luna was anywhere in sight.
Her bed was perfectly made, meaning she never came back to our room. I was starting to worry, knowing this wasn't a girl who broke any rules.
Last week, she yanked me over to the right side of the sidewalk, because that's apparently the side traveling northbound, and I wasn't leaving room for the southbound students.
Luna was extra everything—innocent, maternal, rule following, and loyal to her friends in a way that made you think of a cult.
I pushed Henry Jon’s journal in my bag and decided I was going to skip class today. I needed to tackle all this new information logically. I didn't even bother pretending to glance at my blazer, navy skirt, and maroon knee high socks.
I loathed that uniform. It was meant to make people blend in, and I never did, even in a uniform.
Once I pushed my foot into my Doc Martens, I started to head for the library before anyone was outside, trying not to be seen. I didn't care about getting caught. I was avoiding anyone in this magic circle and their scrutiny.
Stopping for a coffee to warm up my hands wasn't the smartest idea, but after feeling how tight and red my eyes were, I figured they needed some moral support.
Scanning the library for anyone who would rat me out, I decided upstairs where I was last night was probably the most hidden, even from the woman who moved like a ghost.
I dropped my stuff on the same table Bolton had me pinned against and I felt myself suck in my bottom lip as the goosebumps chased the feeling across my skin.
I can't do this with you.
Those words echoed in the back of my mind all night as I cried out my parents lack of attendance in my life, their vacancy, and now, not only was being an outcast not enough, I was also supposed to be some key to them going home again.