Chapter 17
WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE TO LOSE?
ALICE
Sometimes sketching in ink and pen is too permanent.
Right now, my fingers are hesitant to commit to anything that could leave an echo of a shadow behind to haunt me.
Even pencil churns my gut, because despite owning three different types of erasers, there’s no way to expunge the textured indents that linger when the graphite is gone.
But an Expo marker and a plane of pristine whiteboard? Now, that’s a blank slate every time you swipe a Windexed paper towel over it.
Contemplating the future demands a certain level of impermanence. Anything more is a promise I’m not willing to make.
I pop the cap off my marker and sniff. Pungent chemical blueberry fills my nose.
These markers may be old, but they still pack a punch. Ryan bought them for us, overly excited that he found the same brand from when we were in elementary school, to make discussing our duty station options less stressful.
It had worked. Our pros and cons list were both colorful and fun-smelling. Although, his favorite color-slash-scent was black licorice, the menace that he was.
It seems fitting to use them now, as I figure out where I want my life to go.
Blueberry for the facts. Licorice for pros. Cherry for cons.
The marker squeaks as I drag it across the whiteboard. Do I help them save Arcadia?
The facts:
Magic is real (cool)
Another realm does exist (also cool)
My new friends can shift into beasts (scary?)
I’m a chosen one(?) (still skeptical)
I have developed a crush two crushes
Need to finish gallery pieces before August 20th
Pros:
Could learn how to swordfight and become a badass
Could save a whole-ass kingdom from an evil queen (become a hero of myth and legend?)
Magic???
Cons:
I’ve only known them a few weeks (it feels like longer)
Grumpy asshole dragon teammate
I could die
I stare at that last one for so long my back aches, hunched over the whiteboard lain out on my coffee table. They’ve parsed around the details of how dangerous this tourney I’m supposed to fight in could be, but I can read between the lines.
Dragons and swords and evil queens who have murdered their predecessors all point to elevated risk.
Oddly enough, the idea of me dying doesn’t fill me with fear. Despite what I’ve told my therapist, I’ve often thought about it. Not in a suicidal way—but in a series of what ifs.
Would it be peaceful, when I’m ninety years old and go softly in my sleep after I’ve lived a fulfilling life?
Or would it be tragic—a car accident from a drunk driver, a slip down the stairs and a crack of my noggin on the floor, a cancer diagnosis down the line from years of drinking unfiltered tap water?
And then there’s the after. Would there be anything of me to leave behind?
When I’m just a tiny dot on the family tree of my children’s children’s children’s homework assignment, and my body turns to dust in my grave, will someone know me?
Will someone parse my personality from my brushstrokes and call me a friend?
Will they accept my ghostly hug of comfort as they stare at varnished oil?
I think every artist creates with the hope that a piece of them survives long past their inevitable demise.
I haven’t been creating, though. Not like I once did.
Sardonic laughter bubbles in my chest.
Is that not already death for someone like me?
I haven’t been living at all, these past two years. Not really. Only surviving. I’ve been alone, even with Steph and Erica supporting me from the sidelines. But they can only do so much.
If I died tomorrow, they’d mourn me, sure, but they’d have their own lives to go back to after the fanfare. They’d push forward, continue planning their forever, and move on. They’d have each other.
I don’t have anyone.
Except, that isn’t exactly true anymore.
Harley and Jessa have offered me… more. Companionship. Inspiration. Harley’s blush alone promises my muse a resurrection. They’re offering me the potential of a future.
I pluck the black marker from the table and find myself scrawling additions under the list of pros.
My muse likes them
Belonging (they make me feel again)
The word strikes me fiercely. It speaks to the ease in which I’ve fallen into friendship with them and the strange prickle of awareness I get when they’re around.
My hand finds my chest, rubbing at the sudden ache there.
It also speaks to the pull I feel towards them, the desire cloying at my ribs that’s grown impossible to ignore.
They mentioned fate quite a few times in their explanations of Arcadia and why I’m the one they need. But if fate has the final say, why do I have the chance to walk away?
From one perspective, this list makes it look like there’s nothing else left to lose but myself. A sane person wouldn’t take the risk.
If you glance at it another way, turn it around, upside-down, it looks like I have everything to gain. I only have to choose it.
I grab my phone and open up my thread with Jessa.
Tell me more about the tourney.