Chapter 2
Omen
Selene’s house always smells like cinnamon and something warm I can never name, as if it only exists here and not in mine. Mrs. Visconti says the scent comes from her garden, but I think it comes from her voice. It’s sweet and sugary.
Mama is in her arms right now. She’s crying again.
Mrs. Visconti strokes Mama’s hair while giving me those wide, pitying eyes, and I wish Mama hadn’t insisted we visit today.
“Shh, my darling,” she coos, hugging Mama tighter. “Men like your husband are… unpredictable. You must be stronger. You must behave more carefully for your sons.”
Carefully.
That word. Again. Mama tried to behave carefully last night.
Papa still hit her.
I look down at my shoes. I hate listening to this. I hate seeing Mama small like this, folded into someone else’s arms.
Someone tugs at my sleeve. I turn to find her tiny fingers pulling me away.
“Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s go upstairs. Mama says we shouldn’t listen when grown-ups talk sad things.”
Her voice is small and sweet, just like her Mother’s.
She’s clumsy walking up the stairs, tripping every third step, pigtails bouncing, and I know they’re going to fly off her head one day. I grab her elbow once to keep her from smashing her face into the banister.
She looks up with the biggest, toothiest smile. “Thank you,” she says, cheeks round like peaches. “You saved me.”
Saved.
No one has ever said I saved them before.
When we reach her room, the door is pink. I hate pink. But when she opens it, something warm goes through me, anyway. Like every other time I visit her room.
I don’t know why, but for these last ten months, every time I look at her, my chest hurts. I told Mama, but she says it happens when you like someone. I don’t like Selene. She’s too bright. And I don’t like bright things.
As we enter, the chaos hits me. Dolls everywhere, paints and canvases scattered, stuffed toys on the floor, crayons broken in half, blankets tangled. But it feels alive. Not stiff and dead like my own clean, perfect room, one Papa says should look like a man’s.
She drops to the floor immediately, patting the carpet.
“Come on! Sit!”
I sit cross-legged, trying to not look awkward. She takes two dolls; one is missing a head. She hides that behind her back so I won’t see.
“This one is you,” she says, giving me the one with black yarn hair and a tiny stitched frown.
“Why am I sad?”
“You always look like that,” she says innocently, poking my cheek. “But I’ll make you happy.”
My chest goes tight.
Her eyes widen as she leans close and inspects my cheek.
“You have a bruise,” she breathes.
I try to turn away, but she grabs my face with her tiny hands.
“Who hit you?”
“No one,” I lie, because I’m a man and men don’t say when they’re hurt. Men endure. Men don’t cry.
Her small fingers trace the bruise so gently I almost jerk back. Her touch is warm as always, softer than anything I’ve felt.
I’m still looking at her face when she leans and kisses the bruise.
A tiny, clumsy kiss.
“There,” she declares. “Now it’ll get better.”
I look away, because it’s the first time someone has kissed me. I don’t like it, I think.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I mutter.
“It does,” she insists. “Mama says kisses make pain go away and she sings me a song when I can’t sleep because of pain. I’ll sing you that song.”
I want that to be true.
I want it so badly that for a second, I believe her. She sits back down, scooting close. Her lips meet the bruise, and she sings softly. “Sad moon… You who see her, let her know. That I am dying unintentionally.”
I almost smile. It’s a lullaby, not some song. She looks up at me and smiles.
“I’ll fix your bruises. Even when we’re big,” she says proudly.
“You won’t even remember,” I say, trying to sound older. “People don’t stay forever.”
“Yes, they do,” she argues. “I will. I’m your bestest friend.”
“No, you’re not,” I say automatically.
She gasps, hurt, and her eyes go glassy. Panic hits me.
“I mean…” I scramble. “You are. You are my best friend.” She brightens, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“I knew it! I knew it!”
She throws her arms around my shoulders so hard that we both fall backward onto the floor. Her hair hits my face. I forget to breathe.
No one has ever hugged me like this. Not even Mama.
She pulls back, cheeks flushed, and whispers, “When I grow up, I want to be with you forever.”
My heart does something strange. Maybe I have a disease.
“You don’t know what forever is,” I manage to say.
“Yes, I do. Forever means never leaving. Even if you cry. Or get mad. Or if monsters come.”
“Monsters are real,” I say quietly, thinking of Papa.
“I know,” she whispers. “But if you’re scared of them, I’ll stand in front of you.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, genuinely confused.
Her eyes sparkle. “Because you’re my Zagreus.”
My throat tightens, and I look away.
But this little girl is already dragging me toward her pile of dolls.
“Come on! Let’s play house. You’ll be the papa; I’ll be the mama!”
“I don’t want to be a papa,” I mumble.
“You have to.” She’s adamant. “Because you have a papa.”
That shuts me up.
She puts a tiny plastic baby in my lap. It rolls off. She giggles and puts it back. “Hold him nicely!”
“I don’t know how,” I admit. I’ve never played with dolls before, except for the few times I’ve visited Selene’s house with Mama.
“I’ll teach you,” she says with authority, placing her hands over mine. “You’re very serious like your Papa. Mama says serious boys need soft girls.”
I stare at her.
She grins, missing a tooth. And for a moment, I think maybe she’s right.
Maybe I do need softness. Maybe I need her.
But I don’t say that.
I just nod. And she looks at me like I’ve given her the moon. “See?” she giggles. “We’ll be friends forever.”
She doesn’t know that promises are things adults break.
But right now, with her fingers wrapped around mine, with her laughter filling the room, with Mama crying downstairs, and Selene squeezing my hand as if she can keep all the darkness away.
I want to believe her.
I want to believe in forever.
Even if forever never believes in me.