Selfish Myths 2

by Natalia Jaster

  Lily and Andrew strap their arms around each other while they peruse the shelves, then he shakes her tenderly. “I have something to show you.”

  “You always do,” she says.

  Hand-in-hand, she abandons the aisle with him. But just before they leave, she pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, her blind eyes search the empty space, questing for that brief sensation, that silent voice. Then she offers a slight grin of farewell.

  Anger processes the spot where she’d been standing. He considers tailing them, because he can still surrender. He still has a chance to answer her: Who is he?

  Who is he to her? Who is she to him?

  He can tell her more, if that’s what he wants, if he’s a moron. This is his selfish, suicidal opportunity.

  Have we met before?

  Malice’s question to Wonder. It’s the sort of inquiry that Love would echo if she could fully see Anger. Have they met? Do they know each other?

  It has been a curse for him, a blessing for her. But which is more important?

  Merry would know the answer.

  Merry…Merry…Merry.

  The rafters dispatch an excess of light. Suddenly, the library’s glow has a neon tinge to it, like a bad omen. He inhales vanilla sweetness and suffers a hyperawareness, a presence wrought of anguish and disillusion.

  More than any storm, this combination petrifies him. And just then, he knows.

  He vaults around, spotting Malice watching him, Wonder watching him.

  Merry watching him.

  She’s wearing a fluffy dress painted in a watercolor of roses and lavenders, with her zany sneakers crushing the floor, her skateboard beside her feet. Her sparkler eyes rivet on him, her lips part, and her chin hangs loose. Her face constricts, and it doesn’t take scent or sound or texture to glean what she’s going through. Because he knows what it feels like.

  She’s been here for a while.

  She saw him with Love. She heard him with Love.

  A look tightens her face, one that he’s never encountered before. It’s the jumbled look of betrayal. Worse, of disenchantment.

  Panicked, he strides toward her. “Merry—”

  His bow slams against his chest. Strangled in her fist, the weapon’s impact forces him to scuttle backward.

  Merry glares at him. “You dropped this.”

  And then she jumps onto the skateboard and flees. He stands there, caught between one action and another, one choice and another.

  Go after Love? Or go after Merry?

  Without hesitation, he bolts from the stacks.

  21

  Merry

  Done. She’s absolutely, fatefully done with him.

  Merry pounds her soles into the wooden floor, zipping through the library lanes, flying past books and cubicles. She steers through a scholarly freshman in an argyle sweater vest—“What the fuck!” the human trills—then blows around a desk, scattering a tower of paper like feathers. The leaflets flap and flutter, forcing a study group to scramble after the casualties.

  She leaves a visible trail, a whirlwind of debris in her wake. Curbing into the foyer, she blasts across the threshold and cannons into the air, soaring over the front steps. Smacking onto the pavement, the board tackles a sharp turn.

  Accelerating down the sidewalk, the wind grabs her hair and yanks on it. The skirt of her dress buffets her thighs as she speeds up. Her fishnet fingers bunch like they want to strike something.

  So these are the side effects of love: envy, sorrow, and anger.

  There’s no room for wonder, except to marvel at how stupid she’s been. Had she been a heroine in a novel, she’d be an unreliable one. Rightly so, since Merry should have been smarter, should have given up on Anger after that first kiss, during that interlude when he’d broken away and denied her. She shouldn’t have forgiven him, even if he’d brought her that record. She shouldn’t have let him touch her, nor touched him back.

  If Merry hadn’t turned to putty in his arms, if she’d played the scorned heroine with a heart of stone instead, he would have groveled to no avail. And she would have been victorious.

  Sure, she would have followed Anger, trailing his tick of frustration to the library. Sure, she would have spied on them from a safe distance. Sure, none of that would have changed.

  But if Merry had let go of Anger earlier, then maybe it would have hurt less to see him with her—with Love, the pair of them standing within a spotlight.

  Merry hadn’t needed to be told who that human was. She’d heard Anger’s every word, had arrived just as he reached the female’s side. Any other time, Merry would have gawked at the former archeress, the first successfully created Goddess of Love in history, who’d chosen her heart instead of her power. It’s a stance that Merry applauds, for Love’s tale is the truest of true stories.

  Merry would have stood in awe of the girl, if Anger’s actions hadn’t capsized her soul, her stomach rotating on its axis, the sight of them scraping her vision.

  When Anger discovered that he’d been caught, Merry hadn’t recognized her own voice, the snarl of her words.

  Stunning him had felt incredible. Jilting him had felt satisfying.

  For once, and at last, she learns what it feels like to be repelled by him. Merry may yearn for Anger, but she draws the line at being second fiddle, especially after what they’ve shared. She doesn’t care who he is, or what he is, or how he feels.

  She doesn’t care about the legend. She doesn’t care that she hasn’t revealed that secret to him yet.

  She’s been amiss. He’s not Icarus, for he’s more the equivalent of Zeus, just as he’d originally proclaimed. At least that’s indisputable in one respect, because sans the cruelty and brutality, he’s nothing but an unfaithful bull with commitment issues and a disrespect for mortals. He’s nothing but a two-faced, two-timing, double-crossing, wishy-washy, cake-and-eat-it-too tramp!

  She’s not done: He’s a pining, waffling rake!

  Okay, now she’s done.

  A blooming palate of larkspurs spear the air. Petal spires whirl into an abstraction of color, perfuming the atmosphere as she careens through a garden in Midnight Park. Families mill about, enjoying the paseo.

  Really, she shouldn’t be here, since this is Malice’s turf. But the rage god is lurking in the library, tending to his own corruption, whatever that may be.

  And Wonder is there, too. Not that Merry had paid her much attention, too fixated on the quasi love scene that played out in the aisle—at least, until Love’s glorious, angel-haired boyfriend had shown up and stolen her from Anger.

  The memory injects Merry with perverse pleasure, fueling her to push the skateboard harder, the wheels grinding into the asphalt. This is exactly why she’s a failure, a castoff, a dud. She’s behaved like a fool—a blind, lovelorn, wanton fool, unable to sift fact from fiction, and she’s sick of it.

  Well, let this be a lesson to her. She won’t give up on restoring herself. She’ll learn from this mishap and grow a thick hide, and she’ll find someone else to care about, no matter how long it takes. Good riddance to him.

  A sob knots in her throat. Channeling what’s left of her immortal nature, she sucks it up like a proper deity.

  Without slowing down, she yanks a larkspur from its roots and brandishes it like an arrow, anguish and jealousy stewing into venom. She doesn’t have an actual weapon, other than her skateboard, so she needs a prop, and this stem is pointy.

  She vaults toward the Fountain of Aquarius, the misty landmark where Malice had tried to shoot her. The board cycles around the geyser’s base—then stutters.

  Anger drops in front of her. His boots hit the ground just as Merry brakes, the tail slamming onto the lane and kicking the nose up.

  At the sight of him, the organ wedged in her chest rams against her breastbone. Her molars gnash, stripping through enamel as she pants. She’d been zooming faster than she had realized.

  Based on Anger’s thudding torso, wheezy intakes, and disarrayed hai
r, he must have bounded across the buildings at a lightning pace to reach her. Desperation practically reeks from him, along with remorse, and shame, and fear. The distrustful mixture congeals like phlegm on her tongue, a cloying buildup that offends her. It wipes out any residual longing, giving Merry strength that she hadn’t known herself capable of.

  “This is where I first saw you,” he rasps.

  “I saw you first,” she seethes, unsure why it matters.

  He gives her a haggard smile. “I disagree.”

  Merry’s board thwacks the ground, and she plants her foot on the platform. “Get out of my way, God of Anger.”

  His hand steals out to touch her. “Merry—”

  “Don’t.” She recoils. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  His gloved fingers contort into a fist and plummet to his side. “What you saw—it’s not what you think.”

  A humorless titter skids out of her. “That’s the best you can do? Soooooo superior to mortals, yet in a moment of weakness, you’re no better than any conventional douchebag in this realm.”

  “I wasn’t cheating on you. It wouldn’t be possible.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. Anger swallows his words, a sign that he’s realized his error.

  So he hadn’t cheated only because it wasn’t possible? Because Love hadn’t seen him? Because she’s taken?

  Merry narrows her eyes. He hadn’t betrayed her, but he would have.

  I will not weep. I will not.

  Anger rakes through his hair. “No,” he backtracks. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  Her voice splinters. “You philandering bastard.”

  “I didn’t know she’d be there—”

  “That doesn’t make a difference!”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t!” he yells back. “You can’t blame me for having a past. That doesn’t go away! I needed one more moment with her, one yielding moment in order to let go.”

  “You know what I think? I think you wanted her because she was the only one you couldn’t tame. Because, unlike mortals, she could stand up to you. Because she gave you an opponent. Because that mattered more than having an actual partner.”

  “Don’t belittle my feelings! I don’t have to defend them!”

  “Right,” she says. “Who cares what I think or how I feel? I’m just a distraction, a starry-eyed waif who can’t take a hint. But hey, why not enjoy what’s offered so freely?”

  Anger’s features constrict. “That’s not…I would never…it was never like that with you. I never meant to hurt you.”

  The words strap around her midriff. It sounds like he’s alluding to more. Not that Merry wants to hear more, because she’s endured enough.

  He shakes his head, like he doesn’t know, or like she won’t understand. She’s been attached to him like adhesive, and for the first time, she regrets it. The very thought, all the ways she’d flung herself at him, mortifies her.

  Meanwhile, this lame god claims that he never meant to hurt her.

  “What did you mean to do?” she demands.

  “Every moment between us meant more than you know,” Anger pleads. “It was real. But it doesn’t change who I used to be.”

  “And sadly, it doesn’t change this: I love you.”

  “Don’t say that,” he entreats.

  “Don’t say it?” She throws out her arms. “Very well, I’ll shout it. I love you!”

  “I don’t want that!” he bellows, shaking the trees, their mottled lights jostling.

  When the echo fades, Merry’s arms sink. She sighs, her mouth quirking into a wobbly, livid grin. Then she cups his sharp face. “I know you don’t. Would you like to hear what else I know? You were born in a flashing star. A star too fierce to be shackled. A star that once wanted to break loose from the sky.

  “You’re not just afraid of snowstorms, but of all storms, so you take solace in mineral caves. You’re a god of rage and restraint, of still waters and heartbreak. You have trouble admitting things, but when you do, it’s all or nothing. You let it out like thunder.

  “You’re not afraid to be wrong, but you hardly ever believe you’re wrong. You find strength in iron more than in yourself. You trust tradition and distrust change. You scoff at theme parks, yet you take carnival ride selection as seriously as you take astral law. You hate sleeping in hammocks because you hate instability, yet you’re the most ungrounded person I’ve ever met. Your favorite color is blue. Your greatest wish isn’t to have your power back—it’s to make memories.” Merry’s voice cracks. “Does she know all that?”

  He stares at her, astonishment giving way to anxiety. “Merry, please…please, wait.”

  “Good-bye, Anger,” she says.

  Hopping onto the board, she skates past him and glides through the park, away from his helpless frame. She senses him vaulting around, watching her leave.

  But he doesn’t pursue her. And she’s glad.

  The farther she gets, the steadier she feels, the more she cries.

  ***

  Merry stomps into her sanctuary and hurls herself onto the bed, where she proceeds to weep for something close to eternity. She’s kept it inside, the turmoil clogging her throat, but she can let it out now. And she does.

  Midday casts a mournful gloom, a pallor that melds with the neon words scattered across the walls. She should play a record, the perfect album to match this rejection, fraught with an abundance of strings and midtones. Yet she can’t even bring herself to stand.

  Her pillows are her friends, fluffy companions that catch her tears. She’s being dramatic, but if there’s a time for theatrics, it’s today. And if there’s a time to compose herself, it’s also today.

  He has stolen enough from her and doesn’t have the right to additional incentives. He doesn’t have the right to wring self-pity from her.

  Merry wipes her nose with her arm, drags herself off the mattress, and slogs to the record player. Once a soothing ballad floats through the room, she returns to her bed, flopping onto her back.

  Somebody taps against the double-doors leading to the deck. With it, the compassionate sachet of wildflowers flows into the space. Familiar with the fragrance, Merry’s damp voice calls out, “The stars burn brightly for lovers.”

  “We need to come up with a new code, dearest,” a wry voice answers from the other side of the glass.

  “The stars burn brightly for lovers!”

  “Oh, fine.” With a weary sigh, the voice recites, “‘But not for the enemy.’”

  When Merry bids entry, the partition creeks open, and Wonder pokes her head inside. A bouquet of locks cascades over her shoulder. A woodland-green dress wreaths around her body, the chiffon spilling off her curves and brushing the tops of her unshod feet.

  Merry has only seen Wonder in harem pants, which suits her. But this drapery is correspondingly pretty, the aerial folds consoling to the eye.

  Wonder closes the door and leans against the glass, listening to the second track curl through the garret. Her look of sympathy pulls more droplets from Merry’s ducts.

  What was the goddess doing in the library? Had she known Anger would be there? Had she known Love would be there?

  Wonder shakes her head. “I’m your friend, Merry. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Merry mashes her face into the down, her words muffled. “I believe you, kindred.”

  Anger is the one whom she can’t trust anymore.

  Footfalls venture across the floor, and the bed sags beneath Wonder’s rump. For a while, they’re content to absorb the instruments whirling from the player, the needle scratching a gloss of vinyl. Merry hears the disc spinning, revolving in a journey to nowhere, running itself out until it just stops.

  Wonder’s hand floats to Merry shoulder. “Dearest—”

  “I never want to see him again.”

  “What’s happened?” a swanky male timbre asks.

  Wonder groans while Merry peeks from the pillow. The bulk of Envy and the lank of Sorrow furnis
h the room, adding a whole new depth of occupancy. A congestion of myths and mythical emotions saturate the scene, clashing and merging.

  The two archers glance at Merry’s strewn form and drenched face, then jerk toward Wonder in confusion. In no particular order, the goddess explains that she’d called to them for reinforcements and describes the miserable events in the library. How Anger had inadvertently reached out to Wonder. How he’d approached Love and attempted to communicate with her.

  Wonder has no clue how or why Love ended up in the Celestial City. Merry blames Malice, the rage god who’s unfamiliar to this group, but whom she has never underestimated. In some way, for some devious reason, he’s invested in Anger. She wouldn’t put it past him to have orchestrated this reversal of fortune.

  Recovering from their surprise, the class speculates in silence. The plot thickens, but in what capacity?

  And why does mentioning Malice cause Wonder to squirm?

  Instead of cringing, which is a legitimate reaction to that misfit creature, the goddess winces as if his name is a thorn, causing pain rather than repulsion. In fact, another peek reveals Wonder absently, reflexively, tracing the starburst scars embedded into her hands.

  Merry would dedicate herself to this mystery, prying it open like a box, if she weren’t suffering from matters of the heart. Wonder’s recap alone throttles her soul anew, a snivel trickling from her nostrils.

  There she goes, drama rekindled. She should choose another record, one with a few bonus track to blunt the agony. She’ll do that, just as soon as she blows her nose.

  Envy squats beside Merry, his index finger flicking at a pink strand. “And what has you in such a dripping state? I’m assuming it’s Love and Anger’s rendezvous? You have the grime of a lover’s quarrel all over you. What else happened? What did he say to you? Tell Uncle Envy how he can help.”

  “I hate him,” Merry bawls. “He stormed into my life, and I’ve never been the same.”

  “It’s been three weeks,” Sorrow points out, leaning her hip against the dresser.

  “What is time? I’m despairing from unrequited passion.”

  Envy queries, “Did he ravish you to the point of no return?”