by Melody Grace
But it’s not enough.
Crying never brought anything missing back.
I jump off the bed and run to the wall with the witch’s house painting. I flop down on my belly and press my cheek against the rug, angling so I can see through the little hole sawed into the grass-painted baseboard. The room next door has walls painted with grass and leaves and trees, just like mine. On the opposite side of my wall is a cottage that is said to be identical to mine. I see a swatch of brown over to my right: his cot, pushed against the back wall of his room.
My torso shakes as I hold my breath for just a second, then let out another sob. But I don’t see him. I don’t hear him. No arm, no hand, no face.
No Hansel.
I haven’t seen his hazel eyes staring back at me, or heard his stories—fairy tales he makes up just for me—in two whole days. I haven’t heard him knock at night when he can’t sleep and wants me to come sing to him.
I’m worried about him. So worried I can barely breathe.
I’ve been here for a long time, I’m pretty sure. Long enough my sheets have spots where sweat stains have turned them hard and rubbery. Long enough that the first bite mark I made in the corner of my wall is almost two inches shorter than my current height. And in that time, I’ve never not seen Hansel for more than three hours and sixteen minutes. He’s never left his room for even three and a half hours. I know that for sure, because I’ve never left my room at all.
I cry for Hansel for so long I fall asleep there on the rug. I dream of Mother’s girlish voice, the way she smells of stale cigarettes when she reaches in to hand me plates, the strawberry-scented powder she occasionally sprinkles through the small hole cut into the bottom of my door. I dream of the click of Hansel’s door as he leaves, those times he does, and the welcome click as he returns. His fingers on my fingers. His knuckles on the wall.
I wake up furious at Mother Goose. I hate her so much. Every time, after he comes back from wherever she takes him, he goes straight to his cot. He lies there for hours while I die wondering how he is, and when I see him next, he’s…different. He doesn’t breathe the same or speak the same. He doesn’t even move the same. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He doesn’t reach through the hole in the wall for my hand. He just lays there with his head on his arms. And when I reach through to stroke his arm, he doesn’t scoot closer to me like usual.
I try to talk to him, to entertain him, but I never know if what I’m saying is right, because he doesn’t say much. A long time ago, I used to ask more questions, but after so many times of him asking me not to, I just stopped.
But I know it’s bad, whatever happens to him, because those are the nights he always knocks on the wall.
Last time he left his room, he was gone for just one hour and forty-seven minutes. And, now that I think about it, he didn’t seem as different as usual. For instance, he came straight to me without going to his cot.
But lately he’s been quieter on the days he doesn’t leave his room. Too quiet. Like he’s not telling me things.
I rouse to the sound of heavy breathing and assume I’m still dreaming.
Except it’s louder. He’s louder. So loud—louder than he’s ever been—that I know I’m not dreaming.
I scramble up on my elbows, then drop my head down to the floor with my eye as close to the peephole as I can get it.
I want to yell, but I’m so nervous I can barely whisper. “Hansel?”
“Turn around.”
I go completely still.
“Leah.”
I turn around slowly and feel the blood drain from my head.
“Hansel?” I croak.
My eyes jump to the open door behind him, then back to him.
I’m not dreaming.
He’s so tall.
His hair so dark.
His face so handsome.
He’s like a prince! From one of the stories that he tells me.
His face crumples as I stare at him. As if under some terrible spell, he sinks to his knees, and I finally notice that his hands are stained bright red.
CHAPTER ONE
Leah
Ten Years Later
It was Lana’s idea to come here. Well, of course it was. Who else would want to do something like this the night before their wedding?
Not Laura. That’s for sure. The night before she married Todd, her high school sweetheart, she insisted she, Laura, and I give each other facials, then made us don wedding-themed, one-piece bathing suits (hers was white with gold sparkles; ours pink) and climb into Mom and Dad’s hot tub together so we could talk about our favorite girlhood memories. Yeah. That’ Laura.
This is Lana.
Me? I don’t want to get married at all, so I certainly don’t need this kind of… What is it? An escape? Or a diversion from impending monotony? I’m not sure. All I know is, we’re in a sex club.
It’s called The Enchanted Forest, and right now we’re standing in a closed-off space just inside a warehouse-style building near The Strip, waiting to give the tickets Lana bought online to a hot, tatted up guy dressed in all black.
“Come on, Leah.” Laura bumps me from behind, and I realize Lana has already stepped forward and handed hot tattoo guy her ticket.
I do the same, and Laura behind me, and another guy in black ushers us over to the other side of the crowded space, where we wait in front of two massive, worn-looking wooden doors with rustic, iron knobs.
The two dozen or so people behind us move past the ticket counter relatively quickly. When the last person has rejoined the line, hot tat guy pushes one of the heavy doors open and holds it as Lana struts through. She’s wearing all black, just like he is. Black jeans, black low-top boots, black tee. It contrasts with her pale skin and her short, blonde spikes. She gets a few strides into the room ahead—it seems to be torch-lit, I notice with a shot of apprehension—and turns sideways to check on Laura and me. Her red lips curve into naughty-looking grin.
The story continues in Hansel 1.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Raphael
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Raphael
Excerpt from Second Position
Excerpt from Unrequited
Connect with Melody
Excerpt from Hansel
