Page 77 of Torn

Without hesitation, he bolts from the stacks.

21

Merry

Done. She’s absolutely, fatefully done with him.

Merry pounds her soles into the wooden floor, zipping through the library lanes, flying past books and cubicles. She steers through a scholarly freshman in an argyle sweater vest—“What the fuck!” the human trills—then blows around a desk, scattering a tower of paper like feathers. The leaflets flap and flutter, forcing a study group to scramble after the casualties.

She leaves a visible trail, a whirlwind of debris in her wake. Curbing into the foyer, she blasts across the threshold and cannons into the air, soaring over the front steps. Smacking onto the pavement, the board tackles a sharp turn.

Accelerating down the sidewalk, the wind grabs her hair and yanks on it. The skirt of her dress buffets her thighs as she speeds up. Her fishnet fingers bunch like they want to strike something.

So these are the side effects of love: envy, sorrow, and anger.

There’s no room for wonder, except to marvel at how stupid she’s been. Had she been a heroine in a novel, she’d be an unreliable one. Rightly so, since Merry should have been smarter, should have given up on Anger after that first kiss, during that interlude when he’d broken away and denied her. She shouldn’t have forgiven him, even if he’d brought her that record. She shouldn’t have let him touch her, nor touched him back.

If Merry hadn’t turned to putty in his arms, if she’d played the scorned heroine with a heart of stone instead, he would have groveled to no avail. And she would have been victorious.

Sure, she would have followed Anger, trailing his tick of frustration to the library. Sure, she would have spied on them from a safe distance. Sure, none of that would have changed.

But if Merry had let go of Anger earlier, then maybe it would have hurt less to see him with her—with Love, the pair of them standing within a spotlight.

Merry hadn’t needed to be told who that human was. She’d heard Anger’s every word, had arrived just as he reached the female’s side. Any other time, Merry would have gawked at the former archeress, the first successfully created Goddess of Love in history, who’d chosen her heart instead of her power. It’s a stance that Merry applauds, for Love’s tale is the truest of true stories.

Merry would have stood in awe of the girl, if Anger’s actions hadn’t capsized her soul, her stomach rotating on its axis, the sight of them scraping her vision.

When Anger discovered that he’d been caught, Merry hadn’t recognized her own voice, the snarl of her words.

Stunning him had felt incredible. Jilting him had felt satisfying.

For once, and at last, she learns what it feels like to be repelled by him. Merry may yearn for Anger, but she draws the line at being second fiddle, especially after what they’ve shared. She doesn’t care who he is, or what he is, or how he feels.

She doesn’t care about the legend. She doesn’t care that she hasn’t revealed that secret to him yet.

She’s been amiss. He’s not Icarus, for he’s more the equivalent of Zeus, just as he’d originally proclaimed. At least that’s indisputable in one respect, because sans the cruelty and brutality, he’s nothing but an unfaithful bull with commitment issues and a disrespect for mortals. He’s nothing but a two-faced, two-timing, double-crossing, wishy-washy, cake-and-eat-it-too tramp!

She’s not done: He’s a pining, waffling rake!

Okay,nowshe’s done.

A blooming palate of larkspurs spear the air. Petal spires whirl into an abstraction of color, perfuming the atmosphere as she careens through a garden in Midnight Park. Families mill about, enjoying the paseo.

Really, she shouldn’t be here, since this is Malice’s turf. But the rage god is lurking in the library, tending to his own corruption, whatever that may be.

And Wonder is there, too. Not that Merry had paid her much attention, too fixated on the quasi love scene that played out in the aisle—at least, until Love’s glorious, angel-haired boyfriend had shown up and stolen her from Anger.

The memory injects Merry with perverse pleasure, fueling her to push the skateboard harder, the wheels grinding into the asphalt. This is exactly why she’s a failure, a castoff, a dud. She’s behaved like a fool—a blind, lovelorn, wanton fool, unable to sift fact from fiction, and she’s sick of it.

Well, let this be a lesson to her. She won’t give up on restoring herself. She’ll learn from this mishap and grow a thick hide, and she’ll find someone else to care about, no matter how long it takes. Good riddance to him.

A sob knots in her throat. Channeling what’s left of her immortal nature, she sucks it up like a proper deity.

Without slowing down, she yanks a larkspur from its roots and brandishes it like an arrow, anguish and jealousy stewing into venom. She doesn’t have an actual weapon, other than her skateboard, so she needs a prop, and this stem is pointy.

She vaults toward the Fountain of Aquarius, the misty landmark where Malice had tried to shoot her. The board cycles around the geyser’s base—then stutters.

Anger drops in front of her. His boots hit the ground just as Merry brakes, the tail slamming onto the lane and kicking the nose up.

---