11. Stage of Grief Rage #3
“Being yourself. Try for one second to not make it weird—”
“Thou art very officious.”
“I don’t care what you think about me—”
“I never said it was a bad thing.” He wet his lips, eyelids heavy behind his mask. Slowly he stepped back into the tub, staring at me as he lazily lowered his zipper, exposing pale ridges—
I turned around, neck prickling under the weight of his heated gaze. My thoughts were scrambled. I must have hit my head harder than I thought during training today.
You never gave a predator your back.
He could snap my neck.
Rip out my spine.
Bite me.
Skin crawling with awareness, I refused to turn around as he chuckled under his breath, because anything was better than watching him undress.
Finally the shower curtain pulled and the sound of running water started. He made a deep sound of pleasure and sighed loudly. “Ah, that feels divine.”
I placed his clean uniform on the sink with shaking hands and threw myself out of the steam-filled washroom. After shutting the door loudly, I slid down it, clutching the chains and dagger to my racing heart with clammy hands. Heat burned my cheeks, and I refused to think about why.
“Thou can hurt me.”
My imagination procured an image of him on his knees, sweating, teeth grinding together, blood dripping, as he moaned with—Great, now I’m also a degenerate. Moral corruption really sneaks up on a girl.
Half an hour later, he didn’t fight me as I hooked his chains back on. He stared straight into my eyes, nostrils flaring like he was trying to inhale me.
“Thou smell like . . .”
I leaned closer, seeking his body heat unconsciously.
“Righteous integrity,” he said with a hiss of breath, lips curling down like my scent deeply offended him.
I pulled away, too shaken to ask what he meant.
The next day, I told the Marshal that Jane had to monitor his showers. She must have seen the panic on my face, because she didn’t argue.
The following weeks passed in a tortuous blur. I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Dark circles ringed my bloodshot eyes, and my cheekbones were sharper, face hollowed with stress. I had a permanent headache from magical fatigue.
Tarantula and I both read at night, flipping our pages with increasing hostility.
We ran together in the morning. More and more, I improved the amount of water I could raise, but I could only make it spin slowly.
The twins told jokes as we ate, and I forced myself to chug the awful cherry drink they gave us.
Tarantula battered me with his magic out in the sands, growing more sadistic the longer I failed.
Exhaustion was my constant companion.
The only unforeseen development—my chessboard.
I’d left it arranged on the table between our beds one morning, ready to play another unsatisfying game against myself at night, but when I came back, a piece had been moved.
I’d countered.
The next day, another piece was played.
Tarantula and I didn’t talk about it, obviously, but the game slowly progressed, day by day, as we outsmarted each other on the board, into a dead tie. Equal numbers of pieces were removed from both sides as we each hunted down the other’s king without success.
We existed in a détente, but it wasn’t peaceful. If anything, it felt more hostile than ever. We glared at each other in the bedroom with our books raised like weapons; we scowled in the desert, in the dining room, in the hangar, and as we passed each other in the halls.
Maddeningly mutual hatred.
Our second chess game ended in a draw, so he reset the board, and we started again. Fiery loathing mounted with each silent, tension-filled week, the displeasure fervently reciprocated by both parties.
The only positive part of my days were the hours I spent hanging out in the twins’ room. Axel wrote more ridiculous songs, singing for me and Ella as she sketched and I read poetry to Squire.
One morning, Axel got special permission and took me dune surfing. We sailed down the sand for hours straight, the steel boards attached to canvas sails flying beneath the bright sun. Ella sat on a blanket sketching, cheering us on. We even saw a dire scorpion, disappearing off in the distance.
When it was time for my afternoon training with the Marshal, Tarantula stalked out into the dunes and threw magic at me and Axel, sending us both crashing. We whooped with laughter. Windswept and giddy with adrenaline, I didn’t even care.
It was a rare moment of happiness.
The twins were my new forest. A safe place to retreat to. They made me feel like a living, breathing person and not a vessel for hate. They were vastly different from the rest of the soldiers on the base.
Men and women stared with interest at Tarantula as he walked by. They shot him coy glances and gossiped as he passed. A few grew bold, stopping us and asking if we needed anything. They were interested in him sexually. Completely and unfathomably disturbing.
Tarantula visibly stiffened every time, the tips of his ears turning bright pink.
Ryse approached me a couple times, his demeanor carefully controlled, and I appreciated the loathing in his gaze when he glared at Tarantula, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to take him up on his offer. Exhausted and strung out, I was too tired to desire anything but rest.
One afternoon, the Marshal announced to the base that a stockpile of supplies in the South had been compromised and destroyed by dragon fire. “The Commonwealth is growing desperate. We need to take action,” she announced. The next week, a fresh batch of recruits arrived on base.
A boy died on his first day of training when his chute didn’t open. The body was carted through the hangar, wheels squeaking loudly. I hyperventilated in the shower, smacking the wall to muffle my sobs.
My quest had never felt more important, and it was still impossible. I was steadily being pulverized by the heaviness of impossible expectations. I’d gotten everything I ever wanted, and it was killing me.
When training with the Marshal, I controlled larger amounts of water, but it was slow progress and I struggled to direct it.
My third chess match with Tarantula ended in another stalemate. I threw his king across the room with a scream of frustration.
The next day, the board was set up again, ready for another round. I laughed maniacally at the thought of him on all fours, ignobly crawling under his bed, trying desperately to find his missing piece.
The twins and I also started jumping more frequently from the helicopters.
It was the closest practice we could get to simulating a fighter jet ejection.
I asked for more flight sessions, desperate for a hit of adrenaline to get me out of my head.
The Marshal reluctantly approved my request. Ryse was always my pilot, and he watched me in the mirror of the helicopter as we flew.
I threw endless flips, plummeted face-first, and spun vertically with my arms wide. I also pulled my chute later each time, chasing the high of near failure. The relief was short-lived.
When I wasn’t hunting, running, or snowboarding, I’d always been prone to existential despair and chronic overthinking. Madness courted my brain if my body stayed idle. The joys of womanhood. My time in the military was no different.
Desperately I tried to convince myself I was still lucky, but I didn’t believe it.
Peculiar events were happening at the Scorpion Hole.
Once while pausing behind a plane on my way out to the desert, I overheard soldiers whispering to each other about the atmosphere, aqua regia, and .
. . artificial air technology? None of it made any sense.
Would I understand if I’d attended Steelden? I tried, and failed, not to feel dumb.
I attempted to listen in on more conversations, but I never gleaned anything further, technical jargon flying over my head. Many times I debated sending a letter and asking Mom for clarification, since she was the smartest person I knew, but I’d heard rumors the mail was monitored.
The days repeated on end.
Our fourth chess match ended in a stalemate. This time I threw the pieces at Tarantula’s face, one at a time, while he laughed at me. The next day, the board was perfectly set up. Bastard. We resumed playing.
A week later, the cycle finally broke.