Page 6 of Torn

Merry’s soul crescendos like a chorus, like the climax of a song. So he must have felt that same connection before falling into a stupor. In the Carnival of Stars, or maybe when he’d watched her being chased in Midnight Park, he must have felt something for her as well.

Who is he? Where has he come from?

Is he an outcast like she is? Like all of them?

She’s all too familiar with isolation. Lonesomeness radiates from him in waves, along with some sort of loss, some type of unfulfilled longing.

“Love,” he pants again, lost in a vacuum of dreams.

“There, there,” she coaxes, brushing aside his tresses. “What’s your name?”

But he just leans into her touch, wanting more of it. She strives to contain herself. Tonight, the stars have shone upon her, granting what she’d never thought she would have.

Is this destiny? Is he Merry’s soul mate?

Is he the one she was told about, for whom she’s been waiting? Is he the one whose heart she’s meant to win?

Will he free them from their trap? Will he help to break their banishment?

What emotion does—did—he wield before being exiled?

Destiny among mortals is controlled by the Fates, a mythological society who rules over humanity.

The hierarchy is simple. There are archers, each representing a definitive human emotion, along with the power to wield that emotion through arrows. Essentially, it’s a civilization of Eros-like beings directing mortal states of feeling, except it’s not limited to love. There are gods and goddesses of joy, sorrow, fear, and so forth.

Those archers are mentored by Guides. And everyone answers to the five illustrious members of the Fate Court.

But the stars reign above all. At the very top of the serendipitous chain, they’re the ultimate monarchs. In the order of things, they have the final say.

From the onset, each deity is born inside a star. And from there, immortals like Merry grow up in the Peaks, trained by the Guides to become archers. After that, archers roam the human world, fulfilling their assignments.

That’s how it’s meant to go, with two exceptions. One, if a deity commits a crime or disobeys the rules, they get banished. Two, if a deity is born flawed, they get banished.

Merry is the latter.

She takes solace in her surroundings. In her short life—less than three centuries—she has sprinkled her home with charms. The room is a haven of blush neon, tinkling music, and ruffled linens. Double doors leads to the rooftop deck, where an abundance of light and greenery thrives, where a mobile of globes hangs from a trellis like planets yet to be discovered. Every corner out there is bloated with cushioned furniture and poufs the size of Jupiter.

The Fates may have tossed her aside, but that circumstance hasn’t left her destitute. Even outcasts retain their magical faculties—all but the single, most important one. From the beginning, Merry had made the best of it and conjured an observatory residence, then stocked it with consolation trinkets such as her records and skateboard.

Again, she wonders what her true love has done to offend their superiors.

She rushes downstairs to gather a wet cloth and a glass of water, then retraces her steps, her soles squeaking against the floor. At the landing, she kicks off her sneakers, padding the rest of the way in her glitter socks.

Tiptoeing into the garret, she’s awash in feels. A collection of neon cursive—Tragic, Beautiful, Magic—ornaments the walls, dousing her comatose savior in soft hues of pink, purple, and blue.

He’s on her bed.

On. Her. Bed.

By sunrise, her sanctuary will smell of him. Maybe she will, too.

He sleeps like a boulder. A freight train could howl, and he’d probably doze through it, which means she can freshen up before rousing him.

This calls for reinforcements. She has to set the mood, so she plays a record of melancholy noir tracks, a sad yet glamorous pining strewn within the lyrics.

Keeping the music low, Merry bustles to the mirror. So much for looking different when in love. She criticizes her chipped nail polish—an azure tint called Kismet—but there’s no time for a touch-up. Instead, she releases her gnarly ponytail and combs through the snags, then experiments with diverse hairstyles, but why break what doesn’t need fixing?

With a clean ponytail in place, she strips off her NASA T-shirt and stained tulle skirt. Nudity is the ultimate beauty. Deities aren’t prudes or monogamous, so there’s no need for underwear. But it’s also a shame, because lingerie is just so pretty.

---