Page 4 of Forget Me Not
Bastien bared his teeth in return, ignoring the order and trying again to shove his shoulder under Dez’ neck for support. They only needed to make it ten yards to the trees to have cover—if he could buy his brother time to shift, he could carry him home. Shifting injured was nearly impossible and incredibly risky, but their options were limited and getting more so by the second, they had to try.
Dez bit into Bastien’s neck, using the hold to toss him aside before snarling, blood dripping from his teeth.
A third shot.
Dez’ jaw slackened, his body slumped forward and one long exhale left his chest.
Bastien jolted upright with a yell, tears streaming down his face, chest heaving with ragged breaths as he reached a hand up to the rough scar across his collarbone. A permanent reminder of the nightmare he lived and the only physical connection that remainedbetween him and his twin.
The wind tore at his body, and in that moment, he was more thankful than usual for the thick fur keeping him warm. He could hardly see more than twenty yards ahead, forced instead to rely on his nose and memory as a guide through the trees. Running in a snowstorm was something Bastien normally avoided—if only because stripping to shift in the blistering wind threatened to freeze his balls off.
It had been a while since he’d woken in a cold sweat, tormented by memories. The only thing that seemed to numb the pain was running until his legs gave out, or reading. So, here he was, barreling through the frigid woods toward his secret hideaway.
The snowfall began to lighten, revealing the silhouettes of tombstones and marking his destination. Tucked in the back corner of the graveyard was a small mausoleum—that was where he was headed. For as long as Bastien had been skulking around, there had been no signs that anyone still visited its occupants. So, after the third time he found himself standing in the empty tomb on his quest for silence, he came up with a plan. He started by stopping in during the day to stash clothes—ensuring his next midnight visit would not consist of him hanging around stark naked—and a book.
After a few months, he had pants, snacks, a few books and matches for the oil lamps that were hung from the ceiling—all tucked into a plastic tote that he kept under the stone bench. Figuring out those lamps had a finite amount of oil had been an adventure all on its own. The lamps had burnt out once when he had only a few pages left, forcing him to leave the main character face-to-face with a dragon. The next morning, before going to work, he added to his little hoard: a battery operated lantern and a small reading light.
A mournful cry shattered the silence, sending every hair along Bastien’s spine standing on end. Still barely out of the trees, he crouched into a low, defensive stance and crept along the shadows, searching for the source of the heart-breaking wail. A large marble angel stood sentinel amid the dead, her sightless eyes staring straight through to the core as he crept closer, using her flowing, stone robes to conceal his canine body. He peered past the harp held down at the statue’s side, startling when his eyes locked on a figure not even five yards away. Blinking rapidly, unsure if what he saw was real or some sleep-deprived hallucination, he continued to gaze at the scene before him.
Her song of sorrow was the only reason Bastien had not completely overlooked her. With a coat as gray as the old concrete sidewalk running through town and her body pressed tightly to the headstone, the doe was practically invisible. He remained, a voyeur incapable of stepping away, as the minutes wore on. The doe continued to lean againstthe granite until her wailing eventually wound down to soft whimpers.
Then, without warning, she simply stood and gently stepped his way. Bastien froze, panicking, trying to determine where he could possibly move to remain unseen. Later he would need to unpack this interaction, why he felt so compelled to stay with her. Why the thought of her seeing him—of her being frightened by his presence—made his chest ache. With mere seconds to spare, he managed to snap out of his petrified stupor and slink backward, effectively keeping the divine shield between himself and the mysterious deer.
She strode past him as if in a trance; not taking her eyes off the front gate until she was on the outside, and even then only turning her gaze to the buildings across the street. Bastien continued to watch as she mindlessly bound across the road toward the alley. He turned his head to check that he was now alone and when he looked back, she was gone.
With careful steps around the eternal beds of strangers, Bastien approached the doe’s stone.
Noah
June 3rd 2016 - December 5th 2017
Sleep sweet, until again we meet.
Syve
Staccatothumpingfromhersewing machine echoed off the walls as Syve finished off Dorothea’s apron, neatly trimming the edges before folding it and setting it aside. Normally she’d have her customers pick up their orders when they were complete, but Syve had a soft spot for the old widow and planned to take it to her in the morning. Of course, the chance to indulge in some variety of freshly baked goods may have played a part in that decision.
“Syve! SYVE!” Aimi was running down the sidewalk, barely managing to stay upright while sliding through the snow as she reached the front door. “SYVEEE!” she hollered again, the bell jingling violently as she burst inside. Clad inher red, knee-length, puffer parka and black knee-high snow boots, she looked like she belonged in Antarctica.
“We literally talked on the phone twenty minutes ago, what the hell?” Syve shook her head at her friend and watched as she began the de-mummification process of removing her winter gear.
“I know! I know, but—” She paused to unwrap her scarf, unceremoniously throwing it in the corner with her already discarded coat and gloves. “When I was locking up—” another pause, as she hopped on one foot to pry off her boots, “I looked at the bulletin, the one by the door! You know—” snow pants went next, “the one you told me would be stupid to have because it would just gather bullshit?”
Syve rolled her eyes and nodded for her to continue. “Yes, yes, bulletin. Is there a point to this—”
Aimi cut her off. “Obviously, there’s a fucking point, woman!” With a flourish, Aimi ripped a crumpled piece of paper out of her oversized shoulder bag and slapped it onto the counter. “Look!”
Syve looked down at the paper, read the header and then snatched it up to keep reading. It was an ad for a state grant, specifically for women owned small businesses with less than ten employees.
“Is this legit?” Syve asked as she flipped the paper over and back, looking for a big “SIKE” to be written across the page. After the accident, Syve had gone close to six months without even so much as unlocking her front door once. Thestate of Montana had cut a check—one that took a month to cash after Aimi had dragged her to the bank drive-thru. Thanks to that money, the bills were being paid—usually with egregious late fees attached and only when the cloud of grief would dissipate long enough to tease her with a breath of clarity, but it wouldn’t last forever. She was starting to dance the line of financial ruin.
Eight women across the entire state would be chosen to receive a sum of money to invest into their business—a sum hefty enough to, say, dig a small business out of debt and completely fund its rebirth and expansion with a few zeros to spare. All she would have to do was present a business plan—outlining how she would use the grant money to make more money. Syve would need to prove she was worth the investment, and show the board what she could do if they backed her. Securing the grant would changeeverything, both for Sew It Seams and forher.
“I know you’ve put the brand on hold.” One last pause as she pulled her hat off her head, leaving her long, sleek, split-dyed hair in a static, black and blonde mess. “And I don’t blame you for doing it. But if you got this—if you had this money—you could really finish what you started and get your clothes out there.”
It was true. The grant would be more than enough to cover the production costs and personal expenses until she could start earning from the clothing line itself. Not tomention, the publicity would be great for marketing—which would in turn be great for sales.
One year ago, three weeks before Christmas, Syve had been struck by the idea to produce her own clothing line. She was annoyed that the only clothes you could find any more were trendy, impractical pieces—less comfortable than they were useful. After a three-hour brain-storming session at her kitchen table with her husband and her best friend, Syve had shaped her idea into a realistic dream. An entire line of Men’s, Women’s and Children’s clothing that was casual, yet practical. Pants with pockets that could actually hold things, shirts long enough to cover your ass when you bent over, reinforced knees for the kids, andeverythingwould be machine washable. That was just the tip of the iceberg. She had an entire notebook full of notes and sketches.
