Page 78 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“No.” She stares into the sun. “Tell me something surprising.”
I said all I could about me. So, I reach for something else. “The Collianth Cycles are getting shorter, and Lyrian scientists predict that our universe will implode on itself in five million years.”
“I said surprising, not existential,” Aralia drawls.
“I killed a boy when I was ten.”
The words weren’t supposed to come out. It was a little test. It was what I thought of when she asked the question the first time. But I knew I’d never say it. I only wanted to place it on the tip of my tongue and see how quickly I could swallow it.
But I didn’t.
I spit it.
“Shit,” Aralia mutters.
“Yeah,” I say, “shit.”
?
“You’re choosing him over me?”the boy asks while I enter my room.
I stand in front of the mirror, unclasping the rose from around my neck. The necklace Ma gave me when I first left for Visnatus—a charm of protection.
“Answer me,”the boy begs.
“I am not choosing anyone.”
“Don’t you understand the sanity I’ve offered to you? Who do you think you would be without my companionship?”
“Maybe not a loser who talks to herself.”It’s the kind of thing I’d only ever say to him. My inside voice.
He nearly chuckles.“You would have lost your mind by now, Little Thorn.”
I close my eyes, turning to him quickly. Today, everything is oddly sharp in my mental landscape. The boy looks morematerial than shadow, and the world looks more acrylic than watercolor.
“You only call me that when you’re angry!”I shout.“Why are you angry that I want to help someone?”
“Because you want more than to help him!”the boy yells, his eyes widening as he steps forward.“Youwanthim.”
“Why does that matter?”
“BecauseIwant you!”The boy collapses on my bed. It bounces with his weight—as if this is real.
As if this is all real.
I cover my mouth with my gloved hands.
How did it come to this? I must be misreading something. My mind hasn’tfallenfor me. That isn’t possible.
“I knew it would come to this.”His voice drops to a murmur.“You haven’t even named me.”
“Tell me your name if you want a name,”I sigh, gently sitting next to him. The boy does not answer, and I place a hand on his knee.“I love you—but not in the way you want me to. In the way a broken leg loves a crutch. You can’t be angry with me for talking to people. You must want more for me than that.”
The boy shakes his head, dark hair falling from its place.“I’m not angry,”he says.“I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
He looks up with tears in his beautiful eyes, shaking his head as he mutters,“That we will go through it again.”
