by Nicci Harris
My sunshine.
I remember.
We both stand still as statues as the truth we have both felt since we laid eyes on each other engulfs us. I gulp down a dry knot when I see her beauty in a totally new way. The word gets caught in my throat. I mouth the name first.
Then I yell.
“Liz!”
Her face breaks and floods of tears burst from her eyes as she drops to her knees.
“Oh, God, don’t call me that!” she cries.
I rush to her as she lands on the floor, wrapping my arms tightly around her shuddering body, holding her with desperation. Pained sounds of explode from her.
There is no way I’m ever letting her go. No way I’m ever going to let anyone take her away from me again.
You died.
“You died, you died!” I blubber hysterically, gushing with emotions I hadn’t realised a man could express. My tears fall down hard and fast on her like rain, as her little hands clutch at my clothes, and her face buries into my chest, I try to calm down, I try to calm her down. I thread my fingers through her golden hair, and grip it like silk against me, remembering how often I wanted to do just that—touch her hair. She is finally in my arms. After all these years I can touch her. She smells like peaches, and I know why. Ever since I saw her at The Grill, somewhere inside me I knew it was her. I felt it.
Through the haze of my memories, through the daze I was in for nearly four years, I knew. Though I felt I didn’t know much about Blesk, I know everything about Liz. What do I know about Liz? She loves to read. She loves to twirl. Her smile can light up the whole damn world. When she’s nervous, she bites her lip. She would rather skip than walk, she loves white chocolate, her birthday is March 20, her favourite colour is the same green as my eyes . . . And she’s my best friend and she loves me. This is by far the best moment of my entire life. I can’t hear anything other than my heart drumming in my head, because it is so overwhelmed. Sublime happiness. My mind aches on overdrive, processing and evaluating. She’s alive.
The girl I have been in love with for seventeen years is alive.
As she sobs, I rock her back and forth. Pretending it is once again just the two of us, my voice cracks as I whisper to her the last story we wrote. The story we wrote the day before she died.
“There was once a boy named Deakon. He spent a lot of time away from the sun, but he had shining dreams. One day he looked in the mirror and reflected in his eyes was a girl. She had golden hair and chocolate eyes. Years later while he was walking past a shop front, he caught the reflection of a girl in the window. Yet when he turned around, she was gone. She was the same girl reflected in his eyes, the same girl he had dreamed would be there by now. He dreamed of her, seeing her by his side everywhere he goes. He spent years travelling, searching, meeting beautiful people and beautiful girls. No matter how far he went, or how many people he met, or how beautiful they were, they were never as beautiful as the girl in his eyes, the girl in the window, the girl in his dreams. One day they will be together, and she will be by his side, reflected in his eyes, next to him in the window and in his dreams. His dream girl.”
TEN: Deakon
The boy believes he’s become a dog. Pacing his home, from the bed to the toilet and back again, he ponders this revelation. He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates, summoning his inner dog. He bares down, trying, trying, changing… and then it happens. He can hear the trees talking and chatting around outside the basement. He can hear the bees gossiping and singing, telling him stories and making him laugh out loud. He can hear everything and everyone; they all talk to him at once.
The boy opens his eyes and stares at the concrete wall, nodding to himself. The darkness has given him strength, and his mind is expanding to connect him with the world. He is evolving. He is becoming something else. He can hear the girl, every step, every step, every step. When the latch swings open, he can hear the chamber breathing, sucking in clean air and releasing the stale. He can hear her heart racing as she slowly descends the steps, each little step measured and cautious. Yes, he thinks, he has finally become a dog.
The boy doesn’t know what time it is, or what seconds, minutes, and hours are. And he doesn’t know which is longer. The girl brings him meals, and he counts them, desperate to know how long he’s been away from home. He can only count to ten. He has already done that ten times.
Why have I run out of numbers?
To the boy, that can only mean one thing—he has been in the cage forever. He used to wish he could count higher; he used to wish for more numbers.
At first the beautiful girl refused to talk to him until he stopped crying out, until he stopped screaming, until he stopped asking why.
Meal seven. That was the first time she spoke to him.
“I want to be a dog,” the boy had said to the girl during meal seven. Those six words changed him, sated him. I want to be a dog. This was the first time the boy spoke words without sobs, without begging to go home.—
“A dog has good hearing. Very good. A dog can run fast, too. And… and they live in cages, too. Boys don’t live in cages. I think I might be changing into a dog. Do I look like a dog?”
She had stared at him, rings of violet blemishing each brown pool. “You could be a dog,” she nodded slowly, “maybe. Turn around.” The boy spun around, his arms out wide so she could inspect him. She nodded again. “Yes, yes, I think you are.”
I like her voice.
A spike of excitement hit the boy, and he gripped the bars, peering between the gaps at the girl. “If I’m a dog, then this is okay,” he said, his tone calm for the first time in minutes, or hours, or days—he wasn’t sure which. “This room is good for a dog. The food, too.”
A small smile tugged at the girl’s swollen and bruised lips. “I’d like to be a cat.”
“Why a cat?” he had asked, scrunching up his nose in disapproval.
“A cat can climb high. Higher than people can reach.”
The boy tilted his head in thought, releasing a little sigh. Yes, he thought, she should be a cat. “Can I name you?” he asked, a flutter filling his chest at the thought. “The cat you?”
“Yes,” she replied, sitting on the fifth step, watching him pace around in contemplation.
“Ummm?” The boy hesitated. “What about Sunshine?”
“Okay,” she agreed. The boy’s lips curved up, his cheeks revealing distinct dimples. She smiled back and asked, “Can I name you?”
“Yeah,” the boy said to Sunshine.
“Kon.” The girl’s sweet voice filled his chest with hope. “My mum…” her voice broke, “my mum was Irish. Kon means ‘dog’ in Gaelic.”
Ever since that day, the boy has slowly become a dog. He used to spend many minutes or hours or days huddled in his bed, crying and moaning for help. He’d hold himself and rub his arms, pretending his hands weren’t his, pretending they were someone else’s, someone who cared. He wanted to know if he was still alive, a boy, a son, loved… He thought, how do I know I’m alive? The boy wasn’t sure. He’d fall asleep with no tears left inside him, and wake with salt streams crusted on his cheeks, knots tying his insides, and uncontrollable tremors. He was lost in the dark, losing himself, losing his name, losing his memories, losing his faith. The dark started to swallow his feelings, and in return gave him new ones. He couldn’t count the meals, and he believed without the numbers to guide his living moments, he wasn’t alive, he wasn’t moving forward. He hated the number ten. He wanted to learn.
Why can’t I count?
But now, now he doesn’t need to learn. He doesn’t need to count because he’s becoming a dog.
He believes he’s lucky.
Unfortunately, the girl is not. She hasn’t become a cat; she can’t climb out of reach. The girl goes to school for the minutes or hours or days, and learns to read, count, write; she is a girl, and he is her dog. The boy doesn’t mind; he likes being hers. Now, he wakes up with bright eyes. He waits for her, the minutes o
r hours or days, and when he sees her she spoils him. Tells him stories. Feeds him and sings to him. His place is in the cage, in the basement, below the daisy-covered ground; he knows his place now. He doesn’t feel lost anymore.
ELEVEN: Blesk
When I wake up with Konnor’s arm draped over my waist, his chest pressed against my back, and our legs tangled together, I know everything I have tried to escape has caught up with me.
The room is dim with its iridescent overhead light, the curtains pulled shut, and the only indication of the hour comes through in honks and horns from the below city street. The harrowing look on Konnor’s face when he pulled Erik off me comes crashing into my consciousness. My mind was blank, and my mouth was dry. I was incapable of pleading with Konnor to stop because part of me didn’t want him to.
Konnor beat Erik within an inch of his life, and I just stood there, motionless. He didn’t stop because he couldn’t. The room wouldn’t let him. It owns him. It owns me, too, but not in the same way. I’m now burdened with the image of Erik on top of me, his tongue sliding up my cheek, chasing my tears. A choked whimper escapes me, and I force my eyes open, willing the images away.
A bittersweet feeling contracts my heart as I fixate on a framed picture on Konnor’s bedside table. It is his high school graduation photo, featuring him alongside two attractive girls and a doting father and mother figure. He has siblings. A non-biological family but it’s apparent by their expressions of pride that it was never an issue. He was smiling, he was gorgeous… is gorgeous. I wonder how many girls fell in love with that smile.
I can feel my eyes stinging, and I would be crying looking at him in that moment, had I any tears left. With that dimpled smile and perfect green eyes, he was happy. I can feel his breath like silk on my neck, and when I shuffle my feet, his arm pulls me in closer to him. I wish he were just Konnor Slater. But when he touched our index fingers together, I knew. He wasn’t just Konnor Slater. He's the boy whose life I ruined, whose life I stole.
On the drive home yesterday I thought about nothing, as if it is something you can contemplate, break apart, and put back together. Nothing. Years of practice has taught me that you can’t cry forever—eventually your body will shut down and put you to sleep. I fell asleep in the car on the way back to campus, huddled against Konnor, who was quieter than me for the most part, except for the occasional sniffle.
Neither Jaxon nor Elise in the front seat spoke or inquired about what had happened. They will, I’m sure. I need to speak to Elise, who must be so confused. Perhaps she hadn’t realised what a complete head-case her new best friend is. When I get close to people, they get hurt, so I have avoided relationships. My heart aches for Erik and Konnor. They are both victims of mine and I take responsibility for them equally. Erik loved me from the moment he saw me, protected me like a brother, even though he wasn’t. I led his family through hell. Erik loves me. What he did yesterday was wrong, and he will realise that when he wakes in the hospital. Whether I can forgive him, whether I can forget, I’m not sure. Did I say no when he pushed me to the ground? I can't remember. Surely, he would have stopped if I’d said the word … he doesn’t deserve to be despised. I’m not sure what he deserves …
Konnor, on the other hand, deserves every goodness the world can provide, every chance, every shortcut. If I could give up my life to ensure his happiness, I would. I tried to. After what I did to Deakon, to Konnor, I’d always hoped he would hate me. He doesn’t know my role in his capture, in those years of torture. I tried to disappear. We buried Liz. I moved on as if she never existed. But here he is, with his warm chest pressed against my back, his scent all around me, and his face nuzzled into my hair. He doesn’t hate me.
I wish he did.
“Blesk?” he murmurs, tightening his arm around me. Konnor’s breath is warming, and I want to snuggle into him as if he is just Konnor, but he isn’t; he is also Deakon.
“Blesk?” He moves and when I turn and peer back at him, he's leaning on his elbow staring down at me. His chest rises and falls noticeably faster as we gaze at each other, his eyes sleepy and stunning. “Baby, shit. I thought I dreamt yesterday.” His expression is tight but filled relief. I know mine portrays the opposite.
“Say something, Blesk?” he says, searching my face with those big, wholesome green eyes. The same eyes that inspired my love of the colour green. My mouth moves and I want to say, “Hi. Have you had a good life? How was your first day of school? Did you enjoy your high school graduation ball? Did you ever learn to waltz? Were you popular? Was your second kiss as beautiful as your first? How many girls have fallen head-over-heels in love with you? And . . . I’m sorry.”
Yet all I can come up with is, “Morning.”
“Good morning,” he sighs, with relief. “Do you like coffee?” He stares at me as if that question has been swirling around in his mind incessantly, and now I can see something like excitement bouncing across his face. “Do you eat bacon?” His voice hits a higher pitch. “Or eggs? I just have to know. I want to know everything. Do you want pancakes? Blesk, I will make you fucking pancakes if you want, or waffles, or—”
“Konnor.” I hold my hand up to his silly smile and can’t help but grin back at him. “I like coffee.”
He exhales loudly. “I like coffee, too. Coffee it is. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black, no sugar.”
When he rolls off the bed and walks towards the kitchen, I jolt up and try to remember how to breathe, trembling and shacking my head back and forth as if to say no to the universe. I don’t want to be her. I hate her. He should, too. But I can’t deny him anything. His adorable smile gives me everything, every inch of its truth. His great smell, deep and masculine. I'm hopeless in his presence.
My eyes scroll over the room, and I catch Konnor watching me from the doorway, his brows knit together. As he walks back over and sits down beside me with a cup of coffee, his face is tight again. “Here,” he says, holding it out for me to take. “You don’t look happy.”
“I am,” I say. “I’m just… it’s a lot.”
He sighs. “Yeah… Did you know?”
“No,” I shake my head, taking the cup and smelling the lovely pungent scent. “No, I mean, sort of. I don’t know.”
“Same,” he says, peering down at the crumpled sheets. I sip on my coffee and observe his change in demeanour, notice that he looks tormented with memories of his past and mine. It’s my fault. He was excited to wake up next to me, and I must look completely off-kilter. Guilt hits me, and I wish I were nothing but happy to see him, I wish this meant we could start over, be together, have the life we spoke about.
“Konnor?” I put my cup on his bedside table.
His eyes bore into mine as he strokes my cheek with his knuckles, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Liz?”
I gasp. “Please, please don’t call me that.”
He cringes at my tone. “What should I call you?”
“Blesk! Call me Blesk!”
“That isn’t your name,” he states blankly.
“It is!” I insist and move away from his gentle caress and scrutinising eyes. “It has been for a long time.”
Konnor winces and disappointment distorts his features. “Why don’t you want to remember us?”
“I need a shower,” I mumble evasively.
His frown pulls his face tighter, and he points at a door. “There. What’s mine is yours.”
Even though I shouldn’t stand and walk away from him, I do. I spin on the mattress and pace over to the bathroom, locking it behind me. If I turn back for even a moment and see the pain in his eyes, it will break my heart. When I hear the door click shut, I slide down it and cover my face with my hands. My elbows meet my knees, and I cry tearless sobs as silently as I can.
I look down at my stupid red dress, still covered in paint from a time before yesterday, from a time when things were simpler. Twenty-four hours. That is all it takes to change everything. A small whimper forces its way t
hrough my lips as I consider what I’ve lost: my new life, my brother, and the chance to be with Konnor as just Konnor.
“Blesk?” Konnor’s worried voice calls through the door. “Blesk, I’m so sorry.” That he just apologised to me after everything I did floods me with guilt. I drop my head backwards against the cold wood door. Knock. Knock.
“I shouldn’t have pushed . . .”He pauses. “What’s that noise?”
I drop my head back one last time, and sigh. We both remain silent for several minutes, and then his deep husky voice permeates the door again. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. Or what this must be like for you. And after yesterday—” He stops abruptly and hisses through his teeth, “Fucking Erik.”
He growls and hits something hard enough for me to feel the vibration. “Just know I’m happy. I couldn’t be happier. I thought you died. Everyone told me you died. But you’re here, in my bathroom. It’s so much to take in, and I’m so happy, but I’m also scared I’m gonna lose you again. I want to be here for you. I am here for you, every day for the rest of your life, Blesk. No one will ever hurt you again. Ever.” He knocks on the door with his palm, or perhaps his head. “Blesk? Look, just take a shower. But then come out and talk to me... Please.”
Huddled up in the corner of the shower, hugging my knees, with the steamy water pouring down on me, I consider actually accepting my looming fate —just for a few days. He has been through hell and back. I hold all the answers and memories to his past. Once I’ve told him everything I did, everything I kept him from, all of his dreams and wishes, he will let Liz go, too. Then both of us can move forward, again. I analyse something he said, “I am here for you, every day for the rest of your life, Blesk.” He doesn’t know that I can’t be what he wants me to be, because finding each other is not a blessing, it’s a tragedy. We can never be more than friends now, because I don’t want to be loved for her.