Page 1 of Entwined

MY HANDS STILL SHAKE.

My heart alternates between the rapid beat of a bird’s wings and the slow cadence of a drum.

Just when I thought that it wasn’t possible to be wrecked any more than I have been—he proves me wrong.

It’s a skill to build someone up, shatter them; reshape them into who you want them to be only to destroy that and start over again.

He’s an artist and for most of the past year I was his medium. He molded, shaped, —cut, and kneaded me into what he wanted. Then he praised me. Made me feel like I was the artist’s greatest muse. Until he decided he wanted to paint a new canvas.

I was the piece of art he left hanging on the wall; once admired but stared at too many times. Once I stopped him in his tracks—now he walks by, unnoticing me still hanging on a nail.

My boots shuffle through the gray sludge covering the roads. My hands freeze inside the pockets of my coat.

A few days ago, this whole world shined with magic; with promise. But the once pure snow is now dark and dirty. The air no longer crisp but thick with exhaust and smog.

I don’t feel like a shiny penny either. He used to make me feel brand new.

I’m discarded.

Unwanted.

A leftover.

I push open the door to a small bakery and coffee shop. Wet and cold, I slide into an empty chair.

“What can I get you, miss?”

“Plain tea and scones with clotted cream.” I answer, turning to the window, watching as the world goes by.

It’s strange. After being taken captive and held by him for so long that now, I’m free. But I’m still trapped. More trapped than I’ve ever been. I’m locked inside the world I lived with him in even though it no longer exists.

I spent hours lying on the floor of the hotel room, clutching the astronomy book to my chest in disbelief that he left me. When I was finally able to breathe without tearing up; I got dressed and left. The clerk at the front desk informed me the room was paid in full until after New Year’s. But I won’t stay that long. I can’t. I can’t stomach sleeping in the bed we shared. The ghost of him is everywhere. I still feel his hands on my skin. The aftermath of his powerful thrusts still burns. He fucked me for hours, deep into the night all the while knowing it was over—planning to leave me a broken bird, unable to fly.

A crowd of merrymakers laugh, chucking melting snow at one another. It’s Boxing Day in Britain. Everyone in this city is celebrating with family, friends—their lovers. But he ripped me away from my family, I don’t have any friends here and my lover ghosted me in his misguided belief that he needed to let me go so we could both fly.

My eyes flick to the clock on the wall. I have twenty minutes to catch my train. I lift the hot tea to my lips and finish my scone. I grab my backpack and stand, swinging it over one shoulder.

“Good day, miss.”

I can’t even smile or be polite. I feel so numb, so broken—as if all my good days are in the past. And I don’t even mean the ones I spent with Christos these past few weeks. My good days were the ones that I didn’t even realize were good. The ones I spent daydreaming at the beach, cooking dinner with my mother… playing checkers with dad and beating the pants off him. What a shame that I wasted them. If I ever do have children one day—I’ll teach them not to waste theirs.

I stuff my hands in my coat, feeling for the train ticket I purchased at a kiosk. Christos underestimates me if he really believes I won’t return. Part of me hopes this was just a test to see if I would fly once the door to my cage was sprung wide. I will fly. Straight back into his arms.

With my eyes down and a heavy heart that I try not to trip over, I make my way down the steps into the tube station finding the one that will drop me out where I need to be to catch the train leaving London.

Exmoor.

I’m grateful that I found a way to travel by train back to the mystical lands I miss. With any luck my dark star will be there. If he’s not, I’ll break-in and wait for his return. He left me with my laptop. Did he really think I wouldn’t Google him and find the exact address of the estate he held me captive in? Or look up the London address to his company?

The hunted has become the huntress.

I learned there were no walls he wouldn’t run through to find me. This time, I will be the one to smash through walls until I find him.

The hired cab struggles in the thick slush. My hand tucked in my pocket clutches the folded money Christos left behind. I hated to take it but it’s a necessity I need to find him.

My mind processes what my eyes compute in disbelief. Large iron gates bar the entrance to his estate. Thick chains twine through the bars. It’s locked with an iron lock the size of a man’s fist.

“Miss?”

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