Sixty-Nine
I breathe out harshly as I twiddle my wand in my hand. We’re both freshly showered and clothed, dressed in funeral finery. Varius lowers Bambi inside the metal pot we placed in middle of his room. His family has come back from the super yacht already, but we haven’t invited any of them up to join us.
We want this to be a private affair.
Just us three.
The family that never was.
Varius comes to stand beside me, his eyes heavy and full of grief. “Are you ready?” he asks.
I nod, then grab his hand, pulling on his magic so both of us will fuel the fire that cremates our little girl. Inhaling, I lift the beautifully carved wand, aiming it into the pot. The air hums with my magic, like a raincloud about to break, and I shudder as the feeling of control comes back to me like an old lover.
Varius squeezes my hand gently, and I pull on more of his magic before adding it to mine, causing it to twirl in my veins, to dance and merge and mix. Then with a flick of my wrist, I send my fire racing through the wand. The flames carved along its length light up with purple energy. I can’t see the ethereal fire I was born with anymore; my new eyes don’t have the magic-imbued piercings that allowed me to see them. But I can see the metal pot glowing hot, and I can smell the cotton burning, and I can feel the familiar magic calling to my soul.
Like an old friend.
The lover who got away.
A childhood home.
Cherished memories of nostalgia.
For a moment, it gets hard to breathe. But I don’t just draw Varius’ magic from him, I draw his strength.
And I send him mine.
We grieve on our feet, but in truth, we are down on our knees as our little girl burns.
Tears run down his cheeks. Mine stay dry, and that hurts me. Makes me feel inadequate, like a bad mother. But I just don’t have the energy to cry. I don’t have that part of my soul right now; it’s too smothered by my grief.
When she turns into ash, I swish the wand and put out the flames. We stand in heavy silence.
“Do you want to go first?”
Varius eventually asks.
My throat tight, I nod. I tell him what I want tattooed on me, and he gets everything ready, having the strength to do what I cannot – taking the next step in saying goodbye. He sits me down at his desk, not the bed – not that fucking torture device, and mixes her ashes with the different inks as I pull down the top of my dress.
With the tattoo gun ready, he begins to draw over my heart. A little purple flame with a baboon stretching out in its shadow.
“When did you learn how to draw?”
I ask, wanting this moment to have something more than just pain. I recall the painting in his office and all the other pieces he has in his art studio.
“When Caden left. I found it meditative.”
He pauses for a moment, then adds, “I have a few pieces of you.”
My throat closes as I think about him painting while I was being fucking tortured. But then I think about how he walked into hel for me and called it heaven just because I was there.
“I’d like to see them one day,”
I say stiffly.
He nods, and we lapse back into silence.
It isn’t comfortable.
It isn’t easy.
And I worry that what I did in order to kill Antonio has scarred us too heavily.
“I love you,”
he murmurs, and I swallow hard.
“I love you too.”
With my tattoo done, we swap positions. He doesn’t take off his black dress shirt, just unbuttons it enough so I can see his chest. He lifts my hand and places it a smidge above his heart. “Here,”
he murmurs. “I placed her here.”
My throat tightens. Doing my best, I draw a blood smear onto his skin, with little footprints going through it.
“You know,”
I say, trying to inject some levity into my voice. “I would’ve trained her well enough to know not to leave this much evidence behind.”
He laughs, but it feels a bit hollow.
“And if I didn’t, Khalid would have.”
His next chuckle feels more genuine.
“Her first toy would’ve been a blade,”
Varius says with a shake of his head.
“And Maddox would’ve paid for ballet lessons.”
He really enjoys watching their plays. He admires them for their craft and skill and their ability to tell a story without words.
“Leno would’ve given her a bag full of dirt.”
I look up at him curiously despite the hole growing in my chest.
“He could connect to it,”
he says. “So he’d always be with her.”
I force out a smile. “I bet he would’ve taught her to jump in all the muddy puddles.”
He grins, tears in his eyes. “He would’ve made puddles for her to jump in, the fucker. Right after we battled her for hours to get her dressed just to be an absolute asshole.”
A sad, choking laugh escapes me. It feels both good and terrible to feel joy right now. Her uncles would’ve loved her so hard. “You think Enoch would’ve shaved her head? Give her a gehawk?”
“A what?”
“Like a gecko mixed with a mohawk. A gehawk.”
“A mogecko would make more sense,”
Varius replies in all seriousness. “Replace the animal with another animal.”
I smile as I shake my head. “A mogecko then.”
“No. It only looks good to you because you’re shorter than him. If you view it from above, it looks like he’s being T-bagged by a monkey with massive balls.”
I half-cough, half-wheeze. “No it doesn’t. Really?”
He grins. “I’ll take a picture for you.”
I shake my head, my chest hurting with all the would’ve beens. We lapse into silence for a bit before I build up the courage to ask, “And Rudy?”
My heart pounds in my throat as I wonder if I have pushed too far. But he deserves to be remembered here too. He would have loved her the most.
Varius looks away and doesn’t say anything.
My lips trembling, I focus back on the tattoo. I just about finish with it when he murmurs, “He would’ve given her so many damn goats.”
I jerk my hand away from him as I laugh loud and hard. I can’t stop the bubble of noise exploding out of my lips. A bit manic. A lot of pain. But also full of love and joy and that tentative hope that hints at one day being okay.
Bambi Rafiki Shadow would’ve loved goats.
“I bet she would’ve asked for a goat instead of a pony,”
I wheeze out, and Varius scowls, which only makes me laugh harder.
“I would’ve got her one,”
he grumbles.
“Maddox would’ve taught it ballet.”
He shudders. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than line dancing.”
“Maybe the tango.”
“Stop.”
“Oh! Oh, let’s teach them disco. Or belly dancing!”
“No.”
“She could get waltz lessons and have you do father and goat –”
“No more goats.”
I laugh, and he smiles.
And for a moment, for one little, tiny moment, the world doesn’t feel so cruel.
It took our little girl – Antonio took our little girl. But she still lives in us.
Dropping my head, I swallow the rest of my laughter as I finish off his tattoo. A final footprint to say goodbye. My hands shake as I lay the tattoo gun down.
Varius stands, then offers me his hand. I hesitate for a moment before I take it. He leads me into the bathroom. To the mirror where we stand and look at the ash-filled tattoos on our chests.
My heart burns.
My soul screams.
My eyes latch onto the last mementoes we have of her.
They’re not perfect.
But neither are we.
I’m sorry for how brutal it’s about to get.
But the hardest part of trauma
is facing ourselves after.