Page 63 of Torn

Two gods and three goddesses. A frosted, androgynous female in pale lace. Another woman with slits for eyes and hair the same purple as Sorrow. An ebony-skinned beauty draped in butterfly gossamer. A man with a hawk’s nose and long braids. And a cloaked god with ramps for brows.

They sit in a crescent of thrones, the fretwork hewn of platinum, the seats cushioned in velvet. Around them, a waterfall amphitheater reflects the cosmos. A mobile of silver and pearlescent dragonflies zoom overhead.

Their response stuns him, because it’s earnest. They wear mournful and tired expressions rather than haughty ones.

The ebony beauty folds her hands over her butterfly gown. “It’s our life cycle. If we do not wield humans, if we do not maintain destiny, we lose our purpose. And therefore, we lose our lives.”

“In turn, humans forfeit theirs,” the hawkish male with braids answers. “Free will is a fallacy, but the illusion has merit. While they’ll never have that actual liberty, it fuels hope, which bolsters humanity’s resilience, which ensures their existence. Whereas humanity gives us a reigning duty to steer their emotions, which steers their actions, which shapes their fates. Ultimately, it’s destiny in disguise.”

“Without that, humans would flounder. Left fully to their own devices, their world would collapse. More wars than there already are. More suffering and less unity—less hope. If they collapse, there would be no one to serve. With no one to serve, we would be obsolete. Thusly, we’d fade.”

While Anger understands, he ponders how they know all of this for certain. Is it because the stars have said so? Because the stars are the ultimate rulers?

Or because none have ever considered an alternative?

When he comes of age, he’s parceled to the mortal realm, taking these questions with him. But he never voices them, because he doesn’t know the answers, or where to find them, or if anyone out there can shed light on it.

Anyone he hasn’t already met.

For a century and a half, he does his job. Additionally, he watches over his peers, sequestered within their own realms. And he watches overher.

He watches her fall in love. He watches her become a mortal as a result.

And because he’d cared too much about Love to report her actions, he gets banished.

Unlike with her, at least they let him keep his bow.

***

He monitors Love for too long, making sure she fares well in her new life, even if she doesn’t remember him. Then it becomes too absolute, too abrasive to endure. So he leaves the hamlet where she lives with her subpar beau.

Anger wanders alone, from one oppressive environment to the next, from mountain towns to urban capitals. He’s invisible to mortals, inconsequential to them. His bow decays to a prop across his back, and he narrows into a shadow.

Over time, he broods. He’s free, yet not free.

He gets lonelier and lonelier, angrier and angrier. At everything, at everyone.

One day, he recalls tales of a city where exiled gods and goddesses have established a community. When Anger travels there and stands atop a building’s roof, he sees light.

It’s a pastel rainbow skirt. It’s a girl fleeing an assailant.

Anger hears a guitar drifting from the set of mauve headphones around her pink head. The music sounds vaguely familiar. It feels like a coincidence.

Or something akin to fate.

17

Anger

He remembers the taste of her. He remembers the sweet nectar of her tongue, the plush yield of her lips, the gauzy texture of her sigh. He remembers the infinite effect it had on him.

Tremors had racked his mouth. The friction in his prick had turned him into a damn scaffolding, a ruthless erection from which there’d been no recuperation.

The ordeal petrifies and confuses him. Anger has kissed others before, to release tension or experiment, to satiate his body or his partner’s. It’s always been a carnal exchange, something done and then over.

No lingering effects. No meaning beyond the immediate.

It’s never been this give and take. The kisses have never beenshared. They’ve never been mind-consuming.

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