Page 126 of The Tenth Muse

“Only further proving my point. This is not somewhere I’ll allow you to work, not during my campaign. I can see the tabloids now, ‘Christian Senator’s daughter, working at pagan Satan shop.’” He grabs me by the wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise, “I’ve already made arrangements with Williams for the wedding, we will plan a date for March.”

The words hit like the gong of a bell, disorientingly painful: I feel them vibrate throughout my entire being.

I collapse on the ground, his hold on my arm only adding to my discomfort, my shoulder joint pulling at the socket when he doesn’t let go. “No! Dadd–”

“Sir,” Runa’s hand is on my father’s arm, the look on her face terrifyingly calm. “Please don’t touch her.”

My father’s eyebrows furrow, his hold on me only releasing to free his arm. He throws his entire weight into the slap, tossing Runa against the wall. A few framed items fall, glass cracking and breaking over her.

“Daddy!” I cry again, scattering away from him as fast as possible.

I crawl to Runa, but she’s barely conscious, in and out, eyes half shut as she mumbles sleepily. My father’s shadow looms over us, ready to strike, to cull away the seeds that we’d just planted before they’d even had a chance to grow.

“Sir–” Williams bursts through the shop door again, his eyes wide, his breath ragged as he wheezes, hands clutching his knees for support. “There’s something out here.”

No.

“Okay!” I jump up, “I’ll go with you,” defeat is better when it’s on your own terms, at least this way I can pretend like I’m the one in control here. “I’ll get married to whoever you want, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Let’s just go now, please, before she wakes up.” The tears come down heavy and fast, I can’t stop them nor do I want to.

There’s a deep throbbing in my chest, one I can’t find the words for. It’s grief, it’s heartbreak, it’s every type of sorrow you can imagine but for something I can’t name.

Something that was missed.

Something that never got to be.

Williams buckles me into the backseat with a look to him that says he’s won this one, my father’s dog, who always fetches and sits on command. His hand strokes my hair without gentleness, the sneer on his face showing his contempt for my hair color still being pink.

I look back at The Portal for one final look. There’s a glowing light from a still-lit candle shining through the windows when my father puts the car in drive to head toward the north side of the city. An immense heat burns through me before we make it a block away, I bite my cheeks to contain the screaming, the scorching pain thrumming through my veins the further we get from the shop.

From the plant.

From Runa.

From everything I know that is supposed to be mine.

I clutch my stomach, making myself as small as possible, quietly grunting and whimpering until the feeling dulls. It doesn’t go away, but with every second I suffer, I somehow become a little more used to it. The sensation becomes almost familiar, like second nature, like breathing.

The pain becomes a part of me.

By the time I arrive home, I’m nothing but a shell, a cried out version of the girl I was just a few days ago. A phoenix is supposed to rise from the ashes, but from the burning fire all I am is smoke. I hope for the wind to take me away, to carry me back to Runa and Chewie, but I know soon it will be these fancy walls that trap me. And just like smoke, I’ll stain them with what remains of me.

seven

. . .

Runa

I come-toin the backseat from a wave of pain, it shocks me back to consciousness with just enough time to see Meri’s father driving her away. It feels endless, the kind of torturous misery that won’t ever temper, can’t ever be soothed. I’m forced to push through it, Chewie’s loud screeching beckoning me from the dark alley behind the store, where she waits in my truck bed, covered by a raggedy blanket.

Everything hurts, it’s as if I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler but the only thought in my head is how to get America back. It’s as if there’s a physical crater now, a cavity that can only be filled by her existence.

A fated encounter.

That’s what Mabel, the psychic said.

So, I pack my bags, emptying every single thing from the bedroom to the shop shelves. From my sneakers to the hairbrushes, from the smoky quartz drawer and the ethically sourced rabbit pelts all the way down to my pajama pants.

I box it all, one cup of coffee after the next until it’s nearly three in the morning and shapes begin to have a smell. There’sonly a few old posters left on the wall when I’m done, that and the furniture, but I don’t need them.

---