Page 69 of Goldsin

He isn’t wearing a shirt, and the sight of his tattoos leaves me hypnotized. Up close I can see that everything etched into his skin looks decayed: two skeletal snakes, a butterfly flying on his left collarbone, petals on the right side of his torso. The snakes even swirl down to the tattoos on his arms.

The only normal-looking one is the Latin sentence “UBI TU, IBI EGO” etched vertically between the petals on the right side of his torso.

I remember Valentine watching a documentary on TV about the Romans, where they mentioned these marriage vows, while Julian and I hung around the living room. We were around nine years old then.

“UBI TU GAIA, IBI EGO GAIUS.”As you are Gaia, I am Gaius.

But another interpretation is, “Where you are, there I am.”

Why does he have the Roman marriage vows, which a husband pronounces on his wedding day, etched into his skin?

At my lack of response he adds, “I’m tired of your games. I want the truth.”

Swallowing hard, I rack my brain for some semblanceof a plan to put an end to all this. I know what he wants. But I can’t give it to him.

“The truth?” is all I say to buy me some time.

A cold chuckle leaves his lips as he kneels to grab the flat iron from the floor.

Confusion grows within me at every cryptic move Julian makes. He surveys the flat iron in his hand as my eyes remain locked on his through the mirror, which is slowly drying from the steam.

“What a shame,” he murmurs next. His tone of voice sets my teeth on edge. But it isn’t until he snaps the flat iron in half that my breath hitches.

“What the fuck, Julian! Are you crazy? What is wrong with you?” My gaze moves from the broken half dangling by the wires, still intact, to the manic reflection in his eyes.

He circles around me as he brushes the outer side of the flat iron over my exposed skin. “Why are you straightening your hair, Aurelia?”

He doesn’t answer my question; instead asks me one in return. As if this is his game and he makes the rules.

There’s something chilling in the way he uses my name. I think I prefer it more when he calls me by that denigrating nickname.

My eyes roll of their own accord. “Is that what this is about? Really, Julian?” I huff.

When all he does is just stare at me expectantly, I relent and add, “I like it straight, okay?”

As the words leave my mouth, memories from my childhood resurface at the forefront of my mind. The way those entitled kids I grew up with would always finda way to make me feel like the odd one out, the orphan girl with no family name or fortune to call her own. And when that became last season’s mockery, they picked on my curly red hair.

I remember those endless jokes. How their voices always dripped with cruel taunts. How all they did was point and laugh.

The humiliation was unbearable.

Valentine bought me a flat iron as a gift two days before my first day of high school. As soon as he did, I learned how to straighten my hair, all too eager to embrace the change.

With time it grew on me, and I came to love the sleek, straightened look. It made me feel powerful, like a soldier wearing armor: it didn’t make me look weak. It made me look ready for war.

“Happy now?” My voice is pinched with irony, irritation seeping into my voice.

A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Very. It’s just a pity you feel the need to hide who you really are.”

“Who I am is none of your damn business,” I snap as I follow his fruitless teasing.

He moves the flat iron from my back to my arms, then across my chest, making a scene of slowing down when it brushes over the swell of my breasts.

When he’s behind me again, his gaze lingering on mine, he counters, “Maybe it should be.” The hand holding the flat iron drops to his side, seemingly forgotten. “Because right now, I’m the only person standing between you and the consequences of your actions.”

Anger flares within me. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

We stare at each other for a beat, the tension in the room palpable, with neither of us willing to back down.

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