Page 4 of Of Songs and Silence

This is what my mother wants for me. What she has forced on me.

Not that I have once bothered to protest.

“Melodi.” Damian says my name again like it is the oxygen he has been starved of for too long, a beatific smile on his full lips.

His dark hair falls gracefully around the artful lines of his face, his black eyes boring into mine.

It’s almost unfair that something so beautiful can be so cruel. Not for the first time, I wonder if there was ever any good in Damian, or if he was born the monster who stands before me now.

Without responding, I lift my hand to wipe away the blood that mars his sharp cheekbone. He leans into my touch, sighing once more as his eyelids flutter closed. Pressing his forehead to mine, he takes a final deep breath, and I allow him the macabre comfort it brings.

Even as it chips away at part of my soul.

* * *

I lieawake waiting for her to come, my fingers slowly dancing along the chain of my necklace, tracing the gentle grooves of the conch shell it holds.

It is the only gift my mother has ever given me—a piece of my father, she said.

I haven’t taken it off since that day.

I wonder if he was kinder. Better. Or if he was the same monster she is now, the other half to her twisted soul. Something inside of me holds onto hope that the former is true, even though I should know better.

Hours pass before Mother finally arrives.

Most of the time, she avoids looking in my direction. The few times her gaze lands on me, she looks away with thinly veiled horror, like I am the mirror in which she views her own demented soul, a glimpse of the death she goes through such great lengths to avoid.

But one night out of the year, for reasons I have never been brave enough to ask her about, she comes to my rooms.

I can’t decide which is worse. The rest of the year, where she doesn’t let slip an ounce of humanity, or this one night where she fuels the lingering ember of hope that she is capable of more than bloodshed and vengeance.

I wish that I was strong enough to tell her to go away, wish that I was strong enough to do anything but stand idly by, waiting for answers she'll never give.

But I am as weak as she says I am, so I lie awake—just as I always do—and wait for her to creep into my room on silent footfalls. She is even more hesitant tonight than she has been in the past.

Is it guilt? Because for all that she has neglected me in my relatively short life, she has never before promised me to a monster. Whatever it is, she stands in the doorway for a fraction of a second longer before crossing the room to my bed.

I feign sleep, though we both know it for the lie it is. It gives her the freedom to settle on the side of my bed, to reach out an icy hand and gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

To whisper in a voice that’s barely audible. “You are entirely his.”

Damian’s?

Is this the final nail in my coffin, then? She doesn’t usually speak of him with such gentle reverence in her voice.

For the first time since we have played this game, my eyes fly open. I shoot her a look that is half question, half plea.

Tell me why you’re here, tonight, every year.

Tell me why you’re giving me to Damian.

Tell me anything.

For the barest, briefest fraction of a moment, I see her features, unguarded, in a way I never have before. Her amethyst eyes are widened in sadness, her full lips tilted down at the corners with something that goes far beyond grief.

No sooner have I glimpsed the expression than it disappears. She snatches her hand back, every ounce of warmth bleeding from her face. She is at the doorway in movements faster than I can track, but just as she gets there, she hesitates once more.

“This is for the best, Melodi.” Her voice is only half a shade warmer than her features, conveying something I can’t begin to translate. “Someday perhaps you’ll understand that.”

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