by Holly Black
“Said the spider to the fly,” she cut me off.
I had never heard the expression, but the meaning was clear. I just want to help you and for you to help me—
“No,” she interrupted again. “You don’t need help. Not if you’re serious. Not if you really want to die. The ones who try to commit suicide make sure it doesn’t work, make sure that someone finds them. With luck, the finder feels like a hero and sticks around for a while. I started there. I’ve been found twice—but this time I’m serious. I just want to be … finished. And I won’t need help, thank you.”
She was about to walk away, and I knew she would not come back. I said this: If your scars were gone, would you want to live? And then I held my breath.
She was quiet. Then she shrugged, looking at her feet. “Maybe. Because I wouldn’t have to tell anyone I didn’t want to tell. I could hide it sometimes.” She lifted her head. “Maybe I could make real friends instead of just collecting a revolving cast of junior social workers.”
I can erase the scars.
She stared. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Cut me.
She looked startled. I lifted one foreleg. Not deep. I just want to show you something.
She took the knife out of her pocket and held it loosely across her palm, like someone who has used knives and is comfortable with them. “It’s razor sharp,” she said, and I knew she had heard my thoughts. “It was my father’s.”
Did he ever take you hunting with him? I asked, hoping.
“Usually.” She looked puzzled at the question. “Why do you want me to cut you?”
To prove something.
I set my hoof on a fallen log to make it easier. Just deep enough to bleed. She stared at me, then drew the thin, sharp blade over my skin. The cut was straight, finger length, and it began to seep blood.
She looked up. “What am I supposed to—”
Just watch. I touched my horn to the bloody place, for theatrics and to mislead her. Within a moment the bleeding had stopped. Both ends of the cut rejoined first, the little wound shrinking, my skin zipping itself back together. I can’t begin to explain what I was feeling. I had watched my body mend itself thousands of times. I had never watched it with anyone. She glanced at me over and over, her eyes wide, then looked back at the cut.
I can heal you, just like that. And I will. And then you can help me die. I could tell she wanted to believe me. I turned aside and lowered my head a little. Please. Meet me here tomorrow? Before sunrise?
She looked down at my leg. There was no trace of the cut. She nodded slowly. “Maybe.”
Bring that knife, a new pruning saw, and a heavy rope—and put everything in a sturdy bag. You won’t need a shovel. The river will take care of the memorial service.
She took one step back. “Oooo. Creepy. A serial-killer-unicorn-comedian?” Her chin was high, but her voice wasn’t quite steady.
I am not a killer, I lied. I will erase your scars. Then you will help me die. What you do after that is up to you.
She hesitated, her tongue sliding across her lower lip. She was trying to decide. Or so I thought. But what she asked me was this: “What’s your name?”
I blinked. No one had ever asked me that. I don’t have a name. What’s yours?
“It’s Reeym. Ree-um,” she added, pronouncing it slowly and precisely in a joking hillbilly accent. It was another one of her practiced responses. “It means ‘unicorn.’ Weird, huh? People call me Ree.”
I was stunned.
“It might mean ‘a big bullock,’” she said a little louder. “Depends on which biblical scholar you trust. My parents …” She stopped to look at the sky, then back at me. “My mother loved unicorns. She would have fainted from fan-joy if she had ever seen you.”
The last three words were squeezed into a whisper. I kept my thoughts still, excited that she was trusting me like this, with her sorrow, with her heart. She squared her shoulders. “Mom thought it was a lucky name, magical, that it would guarantee me a smooth ride. At least she didn’t live to see this.” She gestured at her own face. Then her voice changed, all the pain hidden again. “Knife, rope, saw, in a sturdy bag. Do you need me to bring anything else?”
Courage.
She stepped forward and slapped me. I was so startled that I reared, like a horse. It embarrassed me. She was backing away, talking fast. “Tomorrow, as soon as the sky is gray,” she said. “If you change your mind and don’t come, I’ll just do what I meant to do today.”
I will be here.
She didn’t respond. She whirled and ran away without looking back.
I went deeper into the forest, my heart beating hard. I had never expected things to progress so quickly, for her to trust me so readily. I galloped all the way to the hidden meadow with its swift little creek, about twenty paces from the Willamette River.
I had found it years before.
It was still perfect.
I stood close to the water and waited. I could not stop imagining Ree’s face when I explained what I needed her to do. She would agonize over it. But she would be very grateful to me for healing her scars. So maybe she would. Maybe I would know what it felt like to be loved.
In the morning I started off in the dark. Halfway there I smelled a campfire. I would take a different way back so we wouldn’t stumble into a group of illegal overnighters. We? The word swung back and forth in my thoughts as I veered off to follow the least-used trails, sometimes just going through the woods.
I got there when the sky was just beginning to gray. I settled in to wait, savoring my fear that she wouldn’t come. But she did, within minutes.
She appeared, her shoulders squared, walking, fast and sure.
My heart swelled. I loved her steadiness and I loved her scars—without them she would never have spoken to me. She had the knife, in a sheath this time, and she showed me what she called “loppers,” along with the rest. I looked at her closely. No. She hadn’t figured it out. She thought we were going to cut interfering branches, were going to make a hanging tree.
She looked at me. “Are you sure you—”
Yes.
“Really sure?”
I heard doubt in her voice. I had planned to talk to her as we walked through the woods, to convince her slowly, to give her time to get used to the idea. But maybe that would give her too much time to think about it—to back out. I shook my mane and pawed the ground, which made her laugh. Have you ever ridden a horse?
She nodded. “My father had three Appaloosas and a pack mule.”
In a trice she was on my back, clutching the canvas bag. You can hold on to my mane if you need—
“I won’t need to,” she interrupted me.
I started off slowly, in case she was bluffing. Then I cantered—and we ended up galloping. She kept her weight centered and I barely felt her on my back. But it was still very strange. When I finally stopped, she slid off instantly, as uneasy with it as I was. My skin was sweaty and warm where her legs had been.
The sun was coming up, and the dawn-dusk was lifting. She looked around the clearing and went to the creek, kneeling after a moment to wash her hands and splash her face. When she came back she was shivering a little.
“Have you picked out your tree?” she whispered. “I found instructions last night and practiced the noose knot.”
I turned away, to hide my gratitude for her trying to make it easier for us both—and my fear that the truth would set her running. Staring at the trees, I explained, quickly, what I needed her to do like it was a detail, not something that might make her change her mind. Then I was quiet for a moment before I asked her if she would do it for me. And then I held my breath.
“This isn’t what I thought,” she said, very quietly. My breath caught. She exhaled, long, and came close enough to lean on me. I could feel her heartbeat and I was sure she could feel mine.
I know, I told her.
She slapped my shoulder. “Can’t you heal yourself? Can’t you make yourself happier som
ehow?”
No.
“Why?” She was angry. “I get that you’re lonely, but you could make friends. You’re beautiful, you’re strong, and you’re magical. You could do a lot of good if you—”
No, I said, to stop her, and then I spoke the truth. I can’t. I never have. I deserve this. I deserve much worse.
She shook her head, and I could feel her pulling away emotionally. She didn’t believe me. She thought I just wanted her to talk me out of it, and that pissed her off. She was two words and twenty heartbeats away from changing her mind. I couldn’t let that happen. I wanted to feel loved more than I had every wanted anything. And if I died proving to myself that her love was real, it would be a perfect ending to my painful life.
I have stolen people lives, I said. Lots of them.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
I described—as well as I could—how the jolt felt, that strange mixture of fear and need and hope that came pouring into me. I told her how I had used the people who’d come to me for help. I didn’t tell her anything about the babies. I wanted her to love me, pity me, not hate me.
“You were an addict,” she said when I had finished. “That’s the way my cousin used to talk about meth. He hated himself for being that strung out, but every time he saw the needle, he’d just plunge it in and then tell himself it was the last time. He said he’d had hundreds of ‘last times.’”
I sighed, as though the comparison were fair, even though I knew it wasn’t. How many babies had the meth head killed on purpose?
“Maybe other unicorns have figured this out,” she said.
I have never seen one.
“But if you’re here, there have to be—”
Ree?
She met my eyes, and I lied again.
I can’t find any other unicorns. I have spent more than five hundred years looking.
She took a breath like she was about to say something, then let it out. Then she took another breath. “Most people would love to live as long as you have. If you want to change your mind, I will under—”
No. Stand still. Trust me.
I walked closer, arching my neck for show, prancing a little. She smiled, one of her quick, painful smiles, as I lifted my horn high. Then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, like she was waiting to be kissed by someone much taller than she was. I bowed my head so that the tip of my horn touched her lips. The jolt was the best, sweetest one I had ever felt, even though I took not one single second of her life. When I stepped back, I staggered a little.
She opened her eyes.
Smile, Ree.
She looked puzzled.
Smile. It won’t hurt.
She worked her cheeks, and a glorious smile lifted her lips. Tears filled her eyes as she touched her face.
I did a trick-horse bow, and she laughed, giddy and high. She was beautiful. She ran to the creek and used it as a dull mirror, then ran back to me, jerking her shirt up. Her belly was soft and smooth. She turned away from me and pulled her shirt off, her chin ducked as she looked at her breasts. She got her shirt back on, then dropped to the ground and rolled up her jeans, running her hands over the calves of her legs. It was wonderful to watch her—limber, strong, and lovely. And happy.
When she turned to me, her face was contorted with emotion, her cheeks wet with tears. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
I just wish I could have been there that night and—I stopped abruptly. It was a stupid thing to say. I might have helped. Or I might have decided not to singe my coat. And if I had saved them, who knows how much longer any of them would have lived?
She came close and put her arms around my neck. Her hair smelled like the woods, like pine gum and damp earth. When she stood back, she was wiping her eyes. “You could still think about this for a while and—”
It’s all I have ever thought about, I said after a dramatic little pause. This was it. The test. If she didn’t love me, she would never go through with it.
I need you to help me.
She took a breath that lifted her shoulders. Then she crossed the clearing and brought the bag to where we were standing. “Why the rope? Just to fool me?”
Yes. And because I thought that once you have a lot of the weight off, maybe you could hoist what’s left of me up. It might make things easier.
She shuddered. “How many pieces to make sure?”
I loved her even more in that instant. As many as you can stand, I told her. Some in the river. Some in the creek. Take what you can carry back with you and scatter it along the way.
She nodded and clenched her teeth together. “Now?”
Yes.
She pointed. Her voice was a whisper. “Could you stand by that tree? In case I decide to use the rope?”
I led the way, and she followed, carrying the bag. She set it to one side, and when she turned toward me, she had the knife in her hand and tears were running down her cheeks. “If I cut your throat, you shouldn’t feel anything after that.”
I knew she was wrong, but I was sure I could lay still enough that she would think so—and I wanted her to, at least at first. Later, I would test the limits of her love, her gratitude. And I would let her live. Maybe.
“Okay,” she said. “Are you ready?”
The fear and the determination in her voice were so equal, so raw, so honest, that I didn’t respond except to lift my head high and close my eyes. The knife, when it came, was cold and sure. I felt the blood rushing out of my body. The wound hurt, but my thoughts were calm and clear. I lay down to make things easier for her, and to watch her face.
She was shaking as she picked up the saw. I was amazed at what I saw in her eyes. Her caring, the depth of her gratitude and love for me, that she would do something so horrifying because I had asked her to—all these things touched me deeply.
She began with my right forehoof.
The determination in her eyes made me very happy.
I was floating on an ocean of pain when I heard a metallic click and saw the loppers. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of sharp steel meeting bone, then a thud. I could hear her crying. Grief. She was grieving me. It was delicious. I sighed, a long easy breath.
She suddenly stood up and walked away, carrying the bag down the slope to the river. Good. One hoof was a start. Later, I would suggest a bigger piece. She was gone a long time, then walked past me without speaking when she came back. Was she on her way to the creek to wash, then begin again? I didn’t want to move, to scare her. So I waited hoping she would hurry. Through one barely open eye I could see her pacing, then sitting by the creek. I kept my thoughts as still as I could.
Time was passing. Too much time.
She finally came back, knelt and peered at my right foreleg. I felt her touch the cut she had made. She exhaled and rocked back on her heels and walked away again. I knew what she had seen. The bloody wound was nearly closed. I was healing. When she came back, carrying the bag, I felt my joy dissipating. And then I felt her hands—not the saw, not the loppers—her bare hands, soft, warm and gentle, pressing tattered skin and the ends of my bones back together. She hadn’t thrown anything into the river.
Please don’t do this, I begged her. I need your help.
She was making small sounds I couldn’t categorize. Love? Anguish?
I lay flat on my side and closed my eyes, tired from the pain, feeling my body making itself whole again, disappointed that she hadn’t tried harder. When I opened my eyes again, it was evening. I was sure she would be gone. But she wasn’t. I could feel her warmth.
Ree was asleep, one arm over my back, her head resting on my neck. She was snoring quietly. I just lay there.
So.
It was over.
It hadn’t lasted nearly as long as I’d wanted, but her emotions had been remarkable, even better than I’d hoped. I turned my head to watch her as she slept. She looked so different now. I wanted to leave, but it seemed unkind to desert her here. She might get lost in the woods
. And I couldn’t get up without awakening her. Would she tell anyone about this? About me? She would, eventually. Some handsome boy? I would be just one more story to tell as they exchanged secrets. Would anyone believe her? I lay still. I knew what I should do.
She stirred.
I love you, I told her when I felt her sit up. And it felt almost true, in a five-hundred-year-old lonely, selfish, parasitic way.
“Where should we go?” she whispered. “British Columbia is northeast of here. People say it’s beautiful.”
We? I could still feel the warm shape of her body against my skin. You should stay here.
“And explain my sudden lack of scars? First to the doctors and then the reporters?”
I let myself imagine it, keeping my thoughts very quiet. Maybe she could find deserving people and I would just steal a little of their lives, barely enough to feel the jolt. It might be easier with her helping me. But even as I thought it, I knew I would want to be alone when I started killing again—and I would eventually. Finding worthy people, virgins, making up ways to feel loved—it was all very hard. Killing strangers was very easy.
She stood up and took two steps, then faced me. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean it. I know you don’t give a shit about me.”
I lifted my head. Yes, I do.
She touched her face. “You don’t want to die. You just wanted to pretend someone loves you. You enjoyed all this shit.”
Being cut? It hurt. I knew it was a stupid response, but I couldn’t think of a better one. She was pacing, stiff-legged, almost rigid with anger. I could see her father’s knife, back in its case, sticking out of her pocket.
“The first time I cut my wrists,” she said, without looking at me, “I timed it perfectly—about three minutes before my roommate came in. She called 911, rode in the ambulance, started keeping track of me. And when she got a boyfriend, I bought more razor blades. But she was late coming home that night, so I staggered into the hall. The guy who found me thought he loved me for quite a while.”
She exhaled and gestured at the bloody ground. “You’re not magical. You’re addicted to … terrible things.” I saw pity in her eyes. “Maybe the other unicorns could tell,” she said. “Maybe they hid.”