Die, My Love

by Zoe Blake

  By Celia Aaron

  Sheer white fabric covers me from neck to toe. I keep my eyes on the dirt path ahead of me as I move through the dark, my thin shift a beacon in the night calling every sort of predator to me. I try not to shiver. Keeping my steps even becomes my world, my only focus. One step, then the next.

  I can’t think about the crackling branches, the footfalls through the crisp leaves, the low chant floating through the chilly air, or the women ahead or behind me. No. Only my own steps. Right, then left. The frozen earth beneath my bare feet. The momentum that carries me deeper and deeper into the woods.

  Firelight casts a faint glow as we continue moving forward, each of us rushing toward the cage, desire in our hearts, and fervor in our souls. We want to be shackled, owned, moved only by the spirit of our God. And our God has anointed one on earth to embody His good will. The Prophet Leon Monroe.

  The deep chant thrums through my veins as I approach the firelight, the orange glimmer flickering over my dirty feet and up to play against the soft fabric of my nightgown. Though clothed, I am bare. I enter the circle of men, each one of them dressed in white pants and shirts—holy men, handpicked by the Prophet himself.

  I follow the girl ahead of me until all of us form an inner circle, pressed between the fire and the men along the outside. It’s a new circle of hell, promising an agonizing burn no matter which way I move.

  A woman in all black walks along the line of women, handing each of us a small pitcher of water. My head bowed, I don’t look her in the eye as she approaches. But I already know who she is—Rachel—first wife of the Prophet. Her limp gives her away. I take my pitcher, the weight of the cold water steadying the shake in my hands.

  A strong voice silences the chanting. “We thank God for this bounty.”

  “Amen,” the men chorus.

  “We remember His commandment to ‘Be fruitful and increase in number.’ As a sign of our obedience to His will, we take these girls under our care, our protection. We also take them into our hearts, to cherish as if they were of our own blood.”

  “Amen.”

  His voice grows louder as he walks around the circle. “Just as Rebekah was called by the Lord to marry a son of Abraham, so have these girls been called to serve the godly men gathered here tonight.”

  A pair of heavy boots stops in front of me. A light touch under my chin pulls my gaze upward until I’m met by a pair of dark eyes. The Prophet peers into my soul.

  “Do you remember the tale of Rebekah, Sister?”

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “I’m sure a child of God like you knows all the stories in the Bible.” He smiles, his white teeth bleached like a skeleton’s.

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “‘The woman was very beautiful, a virgin; no man had ever slept with her. She went down to the spring, filled her jar and came up again.’ And then what happened to Rebekah?”

  “She was taken by Abraham’s servant.”

  “That’s correct.” He leans closer, his gaze boring into mine.

  A shiver courses through me. He glances down at my chest, a smirk twisting the side of his lips as he sees my hard nipples through the gauzy fabric.

  He releases my chin and steps back, continuing his circuit as he speaks of Rebekah’s destiny. I steal a look at the man standing opposite me. Blond hair, blue eyes, a placid expression—the Prophet’s youngest son. Something akin to relief washes over me. Being Cloister Maiden to Noah Monroe wouldn’t be so bad. He was rumored to be kind, gentle even. I let my gaze slide to the man standing at his left. Dark hair, even darker eyes, and a smirk like his father’s on his lips as he stares at me—Adam Monroe. I drop my gaze and silently pity the Maiden to my right.

  “We will keep you safe. Away from the monsters of this world who would seek to use you, to destroy the innocent perfection that each one of you possess. Remember the story of Dinah: ‘When Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite, the ruler of that area, saw her, he took her and raped her.’ And so it is with any man who is not within this circle. They would take you, hurt you, and cast you aside once they’ve spoiled your body and heart. Only in the Cloister can you lead peaceful lives without fear.”

  I wonder if Georgia heard the same speech. She must have. How long did they let her live after this ritual? The thought churns inside me, surprisingly strong, and hate begins to override my meek persona. Breaking character for a split second, I glance back up at Adam Monroe. Had he been the one to slit her throat? Had his large hands done untold violence to Georgia while she was still alive?

  He scowls at the shivering Maiden standing in front of him, then snaps his gaze to meet mine. His eyes round the slightest bit, and I drop my focus back to the dirt, then close my eyes. I shouldn’t have done that. I silently berate myself as Leon—no, he’s the Prophet—as the Prophet continues his lesson on the safety of the Cloister. I let my disguise fall back into place. I am a devout follower of the Prophet and eager Cloister Maiden. The hum of my thoughts grows louder, and I realize the Prophet has stopped talking.

  I open my eyes and peek at the Maiden to my left. She’s lifted her pitcher, her eyes still downcast. I do the same.

  “The water signifies an offering from Maiden to her Protector. A righteous man—one who will teach her and lead her in the light of the Lord our God. The Protector is sanctified by God, and his decisions will always be made in the best interest of the Maiden under his protection. Just as God instructed in Genesis, the man is leader, the woman his helpmate. And so it will be here. The Protector—with God in his heart—shall lead his Maiden and show her the ways of true believers.”

  “Amen.” The men’s voices seem to have grown louder, hungrier.

  “Now, Maidens, offer yourselves as vessels made to carry the knowledge and light of our Lord, to your Protector.”

  With shaking arms, I hold out my pitcher. A brief brush of fingers against mine, and the weight lifts. After a few moments, the drained pitchers fly over our heads and crash into the fire at our backs. A primal roar rips from the men—wolves with appetites whetted for blood.

  “Protectors, lead your gentle lambs back to the Cloister where we will welcome them into the fold.”

  A hand appears, the wide palm up. I take a deep breath and remind myself that Noah is a good draw. Slipping my hand into his, I lift my eyes to find the entirely wrong man attached. Noah leads a different woman away from the bonfire.

  Adam’s smirk darkens as he grips my hand too tight. “Shall we, little lamb?”

  One Click The Maiden here!

  White Pawn

  by SJ Cole

  “So, no suicidal thoughts, no ideations?”

  Dr. Hallman sits at his mahogany desk behind mounds of patient files. The deep lines set around his mouth reminds me of a marionette and I wonder what he’d look like with those little strings tied to his arms, someone forcing his arms and legs up and down. Inhaling, he folds his hands as his eyes set on me. “Yes? No?”

  I smile. “No.”

  “So the medication has been helpful?”

  “I think so, I mean, I feel better, but I haven’t noticed any weird side effects or anything like that.” The air conditioner kicks on, the tick-tick-tick of it causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I want to get up and slam my fist over it.

  “That’s good.” He makes a note in my file as he scratches over his salt-and-pepper beard. Depression. It’s a pain in the ass. You have one moment where you think life’s not worth living and slit your wrists, and then you’re whisked away to a hospital and put on fucking suicide watch. I’ve been here for three weeks and I am ready to get on with my life. I bounce my leg anxiously, watching as the light blue gown slides up my thigh. Dr. Hallman glances up from his paperwork. “The orderlies said you’ve been reading.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Why does it matter what I’ve been reading? If I say Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep are they going to think I’m a crazed murder who wants to off an enti
re family? “Um, Justin Wild, ever heard of him?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Any good?

  “Yes, very good actually. Dark romance, I think is what the genre is called.”

  He doesn’t respond, just keeps jotting something down on his little pad. And then, he looks up and smiles. His thin lips curl around coffee-stained teeth. “Ms. Dawson—”

  I cringe. “Marisa. Please call me Marisa.” I can’t stand hearing that last name because it was John’s. And John is the reason I’m here in the first place.

  Dr. Hallman’s lips twitch ever so slightly as he taps his heavy, silver pen over the desk. “Marisa, nervous breakdowns aren’t that uncommon, especially in people who have dealt with what you’ve dealt with.”

  I close my eyes and sweat slowly pricks its way underneath the collar of my hospital gown. I feel the thin material begin to stick to my back and I grip the armrests of the chair, my fingers squeaking over the leather. All I can see is John, his lifeless body slumped over, blood splattered all over the $7,000 French oil painting we bought at auction on our honeymoon. He blew his brains out because he couldn’t be with her—with his whore. His blonde fucking whore.

  “Marisa…”

  I open my eyes and stare through Dr. Hallman, my vision swimming behind tears. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, “you were saying?”

  “You’ve been through a lot. The affair, all the unraveling of John’s lies about what he did, who he was, and then, his death.” He closes the file folder in front of him, pushes the stack of files to the side, and leans across the desk. “But you are going to be okay.” I nod even though I don’t believe him. I just want out of here. I just want to go home. Back to whatever life it is I have left.

  “Just make sure you keep up with your medications and appointments, and you call us if you ever need us. Okay?” He stands from behind his desk, the wheels to his chair squeaking as it rolls back. I take that as my cue to leave.

  “When do I get to go home?” I ask.

  “I’m putting in orders to have you discharged this afternoon. Do you have someone to come pick you up?” I nod as I stand from my chair and head to the door. I don’t need to tell him I’ll call an Uber, that I don’t have any friends left after John had isolated me from everyone. My pathetic life is no longer of his business. “Good. And Marisa,” he says, “try to take it easy on yourself, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper as I place my hand on the door and walk out into the overly-sterilized hallway of the psychiatric ward. I go to my room and pack my few belongings: a toothbrush and the three copies of Justin’s books one of the orderlies gave me. The have the little barcode from the hospital library, but, I’m not returning them. My tears have seeped into the crème paper. The words within each chapter stole the little remnants left of my heart, so, I’m keeping them.

  The nurse comes by at noon and I receive my discharge papers. There’s no fanfare, no farewell party. I just sign out and walk through the front doors. Alone. The white Camry with the Uber sticker is waiting for me in the roundabout. I place my bag in the trunk and give the driver, Adam from Georgia, the address to my old house.

  The rural Tennessee landscape whirls past the window. Pines and cow pastures lined by wire fencing, but it’s all a blur because I’m in a daze, dreaming about Meredith and Lucas—the characters in Justin’s book. I have three chapters to go until I finish the last in the series, and I’m on pins and needles. Everything is so up in the air at this point. She’s been kidnapped and Lucas is on a killing rampage trying to find her. I worry how this will end, but I believe Justin will have them together. I can feel it. It’s as though—I don’t know, as though I know him. Like reading his words, well, like I’m reading my own words. I can feel what’s going to happen. I can finish the next sentence.

  The cab rolls to a slow stop in front of my house, the large white antebellum home with the beautiful navy door and shutters. I loved this house when John first showed it to me. Everything about it was perfect. It had four bedrooms and three baths, a formal living room and dining room. A fireplace in the master bedroom and rich cherry bookshelves in the study. My stomach knots and slips when my gaze lands on the red “Under Contract” addition to the For Sale sign. We put it on the market after I found out about his affair. His affair with that slutty blonde that worked as his paralegal. The sign’s still crooked, I’d hoped someone would have corrected that by now. It’s just another fucking reminder. The sight of your dear husband’s head blown to bits is quite the horror, and I ran out screaming. I made it as far as the sign before my head began to spin and I passed out, hitting the sign and landing on the lawn.

  I tip the driver, grab my bag from the trunk, and stand at the end of the sidewalk, staring at the huge blooms on the Magnolia tree in the front yard. I hate this house now. I hate everything about it, everything about my life. I don’t want to go inside, so I don’t. I drop my bag at the end of the sidewalk and sit on it, opening my book and losing myself in a world I wish I belonged to.

  It only takes me half an hour to get through the last 50 pages. My heart thumps and jumps, my lungs fight to pull in my next breath as I turn the page and then…I gasp, shaking my head angrily. “No. No. No!” I mumble, my throat growing tight as I stare down at the blurry words. Tears fall, staining the page. The words “The End”.

  Meredith shoots herself because she doesn’t want to live without Lucas. That’s it. Puts a gun to her head and pow. And Lucas is left heartbroken and alone, never to love a woman again. Where is the happily ever after? My face heats. My nostrils flare. “No!” I turn and chuck the book at the crooked For Sale sign, the chain to the “Sold” addition creaking as the sign sways in the breeze. I stare at the book sprawled out on the green lawn, it’s pages bent and spine split, and then, guilt consumes me. I quickly stand and jog across the yard to pick it up and dust it off. It’s not what I wanted, but, after all, it’s not my story.

  It’s not my story. It’s Justin’s.

  It’s Justin’s.

  * * *

  _____

  One Year Later

  * * *

  It's half past midnight, the white light from the city spills in through the living room window and pours across the blonde hardwood floors. Sighing, I get to my feet and stretch. My muscles ache, my neck is stiff from shuffling around moving boxes. I’ve spent all day unpacking, putting everything in its place in my new home on Water Street. The insurance money came in a month ago, twelve months to the day that John killed himself. Evidently, he’d renewed the policy two years to the date before he died, ticking up from a one-million-dollar policy to two. The insurance company squabbled about it for months, even though the clause says two years before a suicide and the money goes to the spouse. I guess they want it to be two years and a day. Idiots. And It couldn’t have come in a day sooner. My bank account was slim, having lived off mine and John’s savings for the past year. I never worked when I was with John. He didn’t want me to, and besides, being one of the best defense attorneys on the east coast, it’s not like we needed extra money. I just needed to get out of that house, that town. Everything reminded me of him. Everywhere I went, I pictured him and his whore. I needed a fresh start. And here it is. Manhattan. DUMBO. A padded bank account and the opportunity to start writing books with the endings they deserve.

  I curl up on my sofa with a half empty bottle of wine, a blanket, and my well-read copy of Reality open on my lap. I swore I’d never read those books again because they gutted me, but, after a few weeks, when I couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas…I found myself reading them again and again. And each time, the ending hurt just as much as it did the first time. I run my finger beneath the printed words, reading them aloud: And in the end, that is all there is. Perception. Be it deep or shallow, love is nothing more than a figment of our imaginations. And, oh what a shame it was when I discovered that it all, every miniscule piece of it, was meaningless. All of it except for Meredith because for a moment in time, she was mine.
She was my story and I was hers…

  I draw in a breath. A deep breath. Those words. His words—unmatched by any other author. I close the hardback book, flipping it over to look at his picture, and I find myself swooning. Justin Wild’s face is as beautiful as his words. I skim over the author bio, which, by now, I know by heart: Justin Wild is the self-published author of the worldwide bestselling books Delusion, Illusion, and Reality. He began writing as a graduate student studying Forensic Psychology at Emory University, publishing his trilogy a week after he graduated with honors. He lives in Manhattan, New York with his beloved Great Dane, Cobain (named after the world's greatest musician: Kurt Cobain. God rest his soul).

  Closing the paperback, I sink into the couch cushions. I think this makes the 77th time I’ve read this book. I have the lines memorized. A person capable of writing such an epic story—there must be something immeasurably deep to him. And there is…I’ve read every interview he’s done with blogs and any article he’s had a hand in. I follow him on every social media platform that exists, and thanks to his posts, I feel like I know Justin. I know where he shops, what his favorite foods are. I know what TV shows he watches, which actresses he fantasizes about. He likes brunettes and I can’t blame him. Blondes are trashy sluts. Sometimes he posts about his dreams. . .his day to day thoughts. The selfies. The livefeeds. I know that if I ever run into him, he’ll realize we belong together. Fate. Sometimes I am certain it was fate that had John take his own life. If he’d never killed himself, I’d have never ended up in that psych ward and I’d never have found Justin’s beautiful books. Never known such a perfect soul was out there, wandering, waiting, searching…

  I set the book on the coffee table and trudge into my bedroom, skirting around moving boxes. I lie down, close my eyes, but I can't find sleep. The noise of the New York City traffic is louder than the silence of the country. The windows in my apartment are old and thin, and every sound seems to amplify when it passes through glass, but I do love my apartment. DUMBO is a wonderful little neighborhood, expensive, but so worth it. I can see why Justin chose to live here. On Water Street.