2. Chapter 2- August
She always pulls every fucking time.
I’ve begged her not to.
Tied her hands once–even cut her fingernails down until there was nothing left to catch beneath the edges.
But Lenora always pulls and my body always answers.
Blood pours over my mouth as the strip separates from the back of her neck.
I taste iron as I stare at the piece of herself hanging between her fingers.
Too much. Too fucking soon.
“Put it down.” I spit.
Her eyes flick between me and the skin. “Why are you bleeding?”
“Put it down, Lenora.”
“Answer me.” She huffs.
I grab a cloth from the table and press it beneath my nose letting the blood soak through immediately.
Fuck.
I thought I had more time. I always think I have more time.
That’s the cruelty of this thing.
It lets me find her. Lets me see her. Lets me convince myself this time will be different.
Then she touches me or I touch her and everything begins again.
“August.” Her voice sounds different already. Not enough that she would notice.
I do.
I know every version of that voice. I’ve heard it laughing against my throat. Screaming my name. Begging me to stay. Begging me to die.
I’ve heard it old. Young. Hoarse. Sweet. Cruel. I’ve heard her whisper that she loves me in languages no one speaks anymore. And I’ve heard that voice coming from my own fucking mouth.
I press the cloth harder beneath my nose. “You need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving.” She fires back.
Of course she isn’t.
Lenora has never been particularly good at doing what she’s told.
Some things survive even when memory doesn’t.
She places the jar back on the shelf.
Thank God.
Then she turns toward me. “Start talking.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rise. “No?”
“No.”
“There’s a jar in your apartment containing what appears to be a piece of my body from 1897.”
“Yes.” I nod.
“You have my phone number.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I was peeling before I told anyone.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re bleeding every time it happens.”
I don’t answer. I can’t yet.
She steps closer and I step back.
Her expression changes.
There…confusion first. Then curiosity. Then insult.
She thinks I’m afraid of her.
She’s right.
“Why do you keep backing away from me?” She asks.
“Because you need to go downstairs.”
“You already said that.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Maybe because you’re answering every question like a serial killer with a vocabulary problem.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitches.
Fuck.
Don’t enjoy her. Don’t laugh with her. Don’t remember how fucking funny she is.
Those things matter.
People think love happens in grand gestures.
It doesn’t.
Love grows in tiny places.
A laugh you weren’t expecting.
The way someone mispronounces a word.
The face they make when they’re annoyed.
The cup they always choose from the cupboard.
A hundred insignificant things until suddenly another person has rooted themselves so deeply inside you that removing them would kill you.
I know.
I’ve died from it seven times.
“What’s funny?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“By me?”
The question knocks the air out of my lungs.
She sees it and her anger falters. “Was I right?”
I look away. I can’t. The pull between us is strong. Stronger than it was mere minutes ago.
“August.” She steps closer.
Please don’t touch me. Please don’t fucking touch me. “Go home.”
“How many times?”
I don’t move as she looks toward the shelves…toward the jars. Then back at me.
Her face slowly loses color. “Specimen eight.”
Fuck.
“What does that mean?”
I say nothing.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“Lenora.”
“Eight.”
“Don’t.”
“Am I number eight?”
“No.”
She looks relieved.
I hate what I have to do to her.
“You’re number nine.” I whisper and the apartment goes silent.
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out.
I watch her look at the shelves differently now.
Not as the collection of a lunatic. A timeline. A graveyard.
Our graveyard.
“There were eight before me?”
“No.”
“Then what the fuck does that mean?”
“They were you.”
She laughs again. A terrified little sound. “I don’t believe you.”
“Good.”
“What?” she says incredulously.
“I hope you never do.” I say then walk toward the kitchen.
Distance. I need distance.
I toss the bloody cloth into the sink and turn on the faucet. Red swirls around porcelain.
My nose has stopped bleeding. For now.
I grip the edge of the counter.
I can feel her behind me. Not touching.
Existing.
That’s enough.
My body knows her even when she doesn’t know herself. It always has.
“1897,” she says quietly.
I close my eyes. Don’t.
“Who was I?” She presses.
“Lenora.” I warn, as my hands tighten against the edge of the sink.
“You said they were me.”
“They were.”
“Different bodies?”
“Yes.”
“Different names?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then why does that jar say Lenora?”
Because that was the first time I called you that.
I don’t say it.
She comes closer and I squeeze my eyes shut with every step she takes. “Did you know me?”
“Yes.”
“Were we...” She stops.
I know the question. I wish she wouldn’t ask it.
“What?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Together?”
I grip the counter harder.
“No.” I lie. The first of many.
I hear her exhale. “Okay.”
She believes me.
That hurts more than it should.
I turn around.
She’s standing beneath the weak light from the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair tangled from sleep. Wearing an oversized shirt that slips off one shoulder. The newly exposed skin at her neck is pink and glossy.
My stomach twists.
Not from disgust. Never disgust.
Want. Recognition. Hunger.
Something far more dangerous than either.
I remember kissing that exact spot.
Different body. Different century. Same fucking woman.
I force my eyes upward.
She notices.
Her hand rises toward her neck.
“Don’t touch it.”
Her hand stops. “Why?”
“Because touching it stimulates the nerves.”
“So?”
“It makes you want to peel.”
Her eyes narrow. “How do you know what it feels like?”
Because I’ve peeled you myself. Because you begged me to.
Because once, somewhere between agony and ecstasy, you told me you finally understood why butterflies destroy themselves trying to escape their cocoons.
Because the first time this happened, I thought I was helping you.
I thought removing the dead layer would save you.
Instead, I helped kill myself.
“I’ve seen it before.”
“On me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Many times.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re telling me I’ve lived multiple lives.”
“No.”
“That’s literally what you’re telling me.”
“No, Lenora.” I look at her. “You don’t die.”
Her face changes. “Then what happens?”
I should stop. I’ve learned this lesson. The more she knows, the faster memory returns. The faster memory returns, the stronger the bond becomes. And the stronger the bond becomes...I disappear.
“Nothing you need to know tonight.”
“Fuck you.”
My body reacts to the words.
Pathetic.
Centuries later and she can still make my blood move with two syllables.
I turn away. “Eventually.”
Silence.
Shit.
I didn’t mean to say it.
“Excuse me?” She growls, snapping her hands to her hips.
“Nothing.” I say trying to hide the smile peeling at my upper lip. God I missed her fire.
“Did you just say eventually?” She asks with narrowed eyes.
“No.” I lie again.
“You absolutely fucking did.”
“Must’ve been the blood loss.” I say.
I love arguing with her. She makes it so fucking easy.
She stares at me. Then, she laughs. A real laugh. Tiny and startled.
But…beautiful.
My chest tightens.
No. No.
I hate the sound. I have to.
I hate her laugh. I hate her mouth. I hate the little crease beside her nose when she’s trying not to smile.
I hate the fact that she sleeps with one foot outside the blanket because she gets too warm.
I hate that she drinks coffee before brushing her teeth.
I hate that she buys peaches and forgets about them until they’re soft.
I hate that she reads the last sentence of books first. I hate that she cries when she’s angry but almost never when she’s sad.
I hate Lenora. I hate Lenora. I hate Lenora.
My chest aches.
Fuck.
She notices me staring. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head.
“You do that a lot.” She huffs.
“What?” I say tilting my head.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re grieving.”
The words land exactly where she intended.
I straighten. “You should go.”
“No.”
“Lenora.” I warn.
“No. If you’re not going to tell me anything, I’m looking myself.” She turns toward the shelves.
I move before I think.
My hand closes around her arm and the world fractures. Again.
Her breath catches.
Mine disappears.
This memory is stronger.
Rain. A bedroom. Gas lamps. Lenora beneath me.
Not this Lenora.
Another.
Dark curls spread across a pillow. Her hands framing my face. Her mouth swollen from kissing me. She’s laughing.
“Again,” she whispers.
“You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you.”
Then pain.
My chest opens. Not metaphorically.
Skin separates down the center of my sternum.
I scream.
She screams with me.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders and something moves beneath her skin.
My ribs. My fucking ribs growing inside her.
The memory snaps.
I throw myself backward.
Lenora hits the shelf causing the jars to rattle.
“What was that?”
“Go home.” I growl, shaking my head as I get my bearings.
“I saw you.” The accusation drips from her sinful lips.
“Lenora.” I warn.
“I saw us.” She states as tears cloud her eyes.
“It wasn’t real.” I lie again.
“Bullshit.” She says calling me out on my bullshit.
As always.
“It was a hallucination.” Another lie.
“I could smell the rain.”
My heart pounds as she steps toward me.
I retreat.
Her eyes follow. “You were touching me.”
“Stop.”
“We were having sex.”
“Stop.”
“And then...” Her face twists. She touches her chest. “My God.”
“Don’t.” I beg.
I can’t. I fucking can’t.
“Your chest...”
“I said stop.”
“It opened.”
“LENORA.” I yell and she jumps.
Good.
Let her hate me.
Anger is safe. Fear is safer. Love kills.
“I don’t know what kind of fucked-up game you’re playing,” she says, “but I’m done.”
“Good.”
“I’m calling someone.”
“Good.”
“I’m going to a hospital.”
“Good.”
“And I’m taking that jar.”
“No.”
She turns.
I catch her before she reaches it and she fights me.