Page 109 of Gates of Tartarus

“Oh, yes?” Emlyn comes to look over my shoulder. “She still trying to lure you to Gaia, when all this is done?”

“It’s working,” I breathe. “Would you… would youlookat this!”

“Look at what,priya?” Kavi comes into the room. He must have been having a yoga session, because he’s in loose sweatpants and a tee-shirt and his skin has a pleasant sheen.

“This… thisembarrassmentof riches!” I wave my hand like a magician, taking out pack after pack of candied goodness. “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Peppermint Patties, 100 Grand Bars, Honeycombs,Candy Corn, and ooooh,Nonpareils!” My eyes are wide as I stare reverently at the haul, mouth watering.

“God, that’s a lot of sugar,” Emlyn observes, looking pained.

“You don’t know that half of it,” I inform him. “And don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it… Oh!” I squeal. “Coffee beans! Hawaiian coffee beans. Just… justsmell!” I hold the bag up to Jorge’s noise.

“Ma-ay-la, we have Spanish Roast in the house.”

“But this isKonacoffee,” I tell him, “From the slopes of” – I check the bag – “MaunaLoa.”

“There’s a note,” Kavi prompts. “What’s it say?”

I pick up the cream envelope and slide out a card. Elizabeth’s handwriting is bold and distinctive:Dear Maela, I thought you might enjoy a taste of home. There’s an exhibition on the Italian Renaissance at The National Gallery at the moment. Perhaps we can go together when I come over in December? Speak soon, Elizabeth.

“That’s so thoughtful! I mentioned I had a craving for Nonpareils the other day. Try some?” I open the box, holding it out.

“No thanks,” Emlyn backs away. “I’m still scarred by the whole caramel-mocha latte incident.”

“Perhaps another time,querida.” Jorge’s face is a picture of doubt, and I shake the box peremptorily at Kavi.

“You’ll try some, won’t you, Kavi?”

“I will,” he assures me, holding out a cupped hand. I watch as he pops the candies into his mouth, chews, and begins to nod. “Mmm-hmm. I’ll take a few more, please.”

“Hah! You two misguided little souls don’t know what you’re missing,” I inform Jorge and Emlyn.

“You really don’t,” Kavi backs me up, holding out a hand. I pour out a healthy helping.

“Alright! I surrender! I’ll try a,” Emlyn looks over the offering, “100 Grand Bar. But I want it noted that I’m doing this under duress.”

“Perhaps one wouldn’t hurt,” Jorge concedes, picking up a candy and peeling open the wrapper.

I look at them, arms folded like a general surveying her troops, as they take a bite, then smile benevolently as I see the realization dawn. “Yes,” I nod. “Theyarethat good. You’re welcome. I’m always happy to broaden your horizons.”

“When I’m wrong,” Emlyn winks at me, "I’m wrong.”

“Sí. Perhaps I wouldn’t want this every day, but with acafé? Sí.”

“Dibs on a Peppermint Patty.” Kavi swipes one as he wraps his other arm ‘round me, pulling me close.

I lean back, grinning up at him, because this? The banter? The silliness? The affection? This is happiness.

Hope is a Cruel Mistress

Tuesday, 27 November – Kailani

The steadybeep beep beepfrom a machine next to me wakes me, and for a moment I can’t remember where I am. It’s not my alarm, but maybe Gemma set hers? The bed isn’t familiar though, and when I move, the IV in my arm jerks slightly, and the pain brings me back to myself. I’m lying in a hospital room, and it’s either very late or very early, judging by the color of the sky edging in through the window shade. My room is dark, and in addition to an IV in my hand, there’s a monitor on my chest and a compression sleeve on my arm which suddenly starts filling with air. I wince slightly as it takes my blood pressure and look around the room, before my eyes focus on a dark figure sitting in the corner, watching me silently with sad eyes.

“De–” I try to get out, but my throat is dry and raw, and speaking causes me to cough, shivering in pain. Hideo gets up quietly and places a water with a straw in front of me, but I look at it suspiciously and push it away. He sighs like he’s exhaling his fucking soul and looks away from me, shame and guilt heavy on his face.

Someone once said, “Hope is the thing with feathers”, but it isn’t. Not really. Hope is the thing with fucking claws, and it hangs on to you for dear life. It has to be ripped from your soul, bit by bit, until the entire dragon of it has been thrown to the wind and burned to ash. Because even the slightest whisper of it, the mere breath of it left, will tear into you like hooked needles, tiny barbs burrowing under your skin, impossible to remove without bloodshed. Hope doesn’t have fucking feathers. Hope doesn’t caress you. It doesn’t cushion you, or soften, or protect. Hope isn’t a virtue. It’s a fucking demon, a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. Hope is a dangerous luxury, and it isn’t an expense I can afford.

I used to hope. Oh gods, did I have hope. I think all children do. It’s part of the magic of childhood, right? Hopes and wishes. The same fucking thing really. And about equally as effective. Throw prayers in there and you have the perfect trifecta of worthless emotion. I had hope after my parents left me, hope after my time in foster care, and a mountain of hope when I was adopted by my forever family. Christ, the space between every breath for so long had been filled with hope, before life had ripped it from me with teeth and talons, leaving me raw and bloody behind. But here, in this moment, all of my wishes from childhood together didn’t add up to a quarter of the frantic hope beating in my heart.Please,is all I can think, with pain so encompassing it feels like a dagger in my chest.Please, please, please.

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