Page 7 of Monsters
“Right. How is she? Also, can we talk about her fit husband? The preacher?”
I try not to laugh. “Salem? He’s a priest, not a preacher. There’s a difference. And I don’t see it, but you’re not the first to say something like that. You should bring it up tomorrow. Though I warn you, she’ll never let you live it down.”
We both laugh.
“Whatever. I actually have plans with Damien tomorrow. If he doesn’t blow me off. Give Salem my love,” she chuckles.
Before I forget, I shoot Lily a quick text, even though my fingers are greasy from the chips.
Six bottles of wine is never too much. Come on, know your audience.
“How did they meet, anyway?” Zoey asks, her mouth full of food. “I mean, it’s not every day you land a priest.”
The smile drops off my face. While I adore Salem, Lily, and their toddler, Delilah, the way they met is heavily intertwined with what happened to us—to me, specifically. Plus, it involved Auguste’s son, Benedict. A man so idealistic that he made my head spin with regard to how different he was from his father. I never admitted it—not even to Lily—but in all of my interactions with Benedict, I could never find any similarities between him and his father. Of course, I’d never tell anyone that. Pushing him away was easier.
It meant I could ignore the comfort and security he brought me.
“It’s a long story for another day, but the gist of it is, he wasn’t yet ordained a priest, sotechnically,they were able to stay together. They officially met at a falafel stand or something.”
Zoey mumbles something unintelligible, and then, much to my relief, changes the subject.
“I want to go blonde.” She eyes my hair, her eyes darting all over my face. “You know, since not all of us were blessed with gorgeous, golden locks.”
“Well, thank you, but I happen to think your hair is pretty kick ass as is. Why would you change it?” It’s true. Her dark, ultra-curly hair is beautiful, and I envy the way it frames her face perfectly, like a halo. “Besides, this is not my natural color.”
I changed it.
I changed a lot about myself.
We chat for another hour, imbibing in another pint, and by the time we decide to walk home together, I’m utterly exhausted. I make eye contact with one of the women from the Brotherhood. A small, masochistic part of me is intrigued. I give her a small smile, and she returns it, tipping her head once. My whole body, slightly wobbly from the beer, erupts with exhilaration. I make a mental note to look for them—these members of the Brotherhood—from now on.
I want to see what all of the hype is about. I also don’t want to be yet another person who judges them from their outward appearance.I know better than that.
Linking arms with Zoey, we giggle and squeal the entire ten-minute walk to our flat, and I wish, just once, that I didn’t have to fight the constant urge to look over my shoulder.
An Anonymous Benefactor
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
I wake early the next morning, despite the dull headache and dry mouth from one too many pints at The Lamb last night. The flat I share with Zoey is half a mile from campus on St. Clements Street, just one among a row of stone, two-story cottages on the road. Each dwelling had been hacked into quarters sometime in the early 1900s and rented out as shared units for students. It’s small and slightly outdated, but it has character, and that’s exactly why I chose it. Two bedrooms that barely fit full size beds, a tiny, European kitchen, a laughable dining and living area that houses one loveseat and a coffee table, and a bathroom with the most amazing clawfoot tub/shower.
It’s not luxurious, but neither of us can afford luxury while also paying for tuition, rent, and books. I do love the wooden floors and high ceilings with detailed crown molding. We also have a large, brick, wood-burning fireplace in the living area that dispels the damp, British air most nights. The history of our building is what sold me. Zoey once decided to peel off the wallpaper in the bathroom, only to discover years of wallpapers adhered behind it, layer upon layer. It was like a time capsule. When we rented it out, the letting agent told us the building dated back to the 1700’s, and the fireplace used to be a living hearth.
The history is what comforts me—so many people have survived horrible things.Didhorrible things. I don’t feel alone in my misery. I feel a kinship with the past souls of this flat, somehow.
Oxford is historic, in and of itself. It’s the oldest English-speaking university, dating back a thousand years. Smoke still billows from the chimneys of the flats surrounding the university, and if it weren’t for the modern shops and cafés, and the honking of horns, the area around the school hadn’t changed much. The stone buildings with their mottled, grey texture. The green spaces, and black, ornate fences. The lampposts and the thatched roofs here and there. If you squinted, it was like seeing scholars bustling around in any given century.
Students, academics, and researchers meander through the winding roads in timed clumps, every hour or so before the hour, hustling to a class. Being a large university town means people can often be found with their nose in a book on the bus, carrying laptops, and cafes open later than bars so people can study and work.
This particular Friday morning is quiet, permeated with thick, grey fog, and everyone seems to be hurrying to their destinations on campus, their coats unbuttoned and backpacks thudding with each heavy step. The cobblestone streets make for noisy automobile traffic as the rubber tires squeak against the damp rocks. I can barely spot Carfax Tower across the road through the dense clouds. Looking up, I glance at the gargoyles lining the tops of the colleges here, and I smile. They remind me of Paris, which reminds me of the past, and the fact that I’m no longer there, trapped.
They remind me of the man I ruined.
My wish is that one day,one day, every shape and sight and sound won’t link me to my past. I want to move forward, not stay stuck in my own history, as I still seem to be after four years.When will that stop?
The fog turns misty, and I see the hair around my face collect tiny droplets of dew as I enter the library, an ancient circular building with columns, brick, and yellowed stone. The roof is domed, and, when visible, is grey some days and green other days. When I walk past the guard, I flash my guest pass, which is good for an entire week. I make my way to the Bodleian. It’s busy for half past nine in the morning, and students are already sitting at desks with their necks craned over books or their computers, and theclick click clickof their typing can be heard throughout. I walk to one of the computers and do another search for paganism.Technically,it could count as research for my next class, but everything I’ve researched in the Bodleian so far has been personal.
