by Monty Jay
I walk through the commons, stepping on the moist manicured lawn where students gather between classes or for lunch. My eyes graze the chopped tree in the center, the one that had been cut down after it had mysteriously caught fire last semester.
Once my feet hit the cobblestone path again, I make my way to the theatre.
The place that at one point felt like home.
My panic attacks had been bad over the last couple of days, my nightmares even worse. Now that I know what it really feels like to drown, my mind is using it against me. Everything feels so much more real now.
It took a minute to face Briar and Lyra, and even though Briar insisted she was fine, that what happened wasn’t my fault, I still feel this heavy pang of guilt in my stomach every time I catch a glimpse of her yellowish bruise.
I’m trying to forget that night altogether, but it doesn’t seem possible.
“Just the girl I was talking about,” I hear as I grab ahold of the building’s door. “Finn, meet Sage Donahue. This is Frank’s daughter. And, Sage this is Finn, my partner.”
Cain walks up next to me, getting closer than I would like him to be. I clutch my script tightly to my body as the man next to him addresses me.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m sorry to hear of your sister’s passing.”
I take his handshake, curious if like in all crime cop shows he is annoyed being paired with a younger detective. His white mustache brushes the top of his lip, curling as it gets to the edges and reminding me of the peanut man.
He has this sort of worn-down leather presence. Like he’s seen a lot, been through even more, but is still good at what he does. Does he know that his partner is not only dirty and working with a sex ring, but also a pedophile?
Would he still work with him? Is this cop just as crooked as the one standing next to him?
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you,” I say simply, unsure of how much he knows, if he’s involved.
“I’m sure you’re on your way to class, but I wanted to give you my card.” He reaches into the inside of his suit. “In case you hear or see anything that might help us in Greg West’s death and Chris Crawford’s disappearance.”
I take the white rectangle, looking down at the words printed across and biting my bottom lip, trying to keep my thoughts to myself, but I can’t help it.
“Subtle off-white coloring, tastefully thick. It even has a watermark.” I twist the card between my fingers, pocketing it. “Paul Allen would be impressed.”
Finn has a stern exterior, but it breaks as a grin takes over, making him look less Miami Vice and more like someone’s grandfather.
“American Pyscho fan?”
I shake my head. “Movie person. The liberties taken from the novel were necessary, which doesn’t happen often in film adaptations. The satire was beyond its time, a stylized comedy set in the backstabbing, profit-hunting city that is Manhattan.” I swirl my hands around. “And Christian Bale, well, need I say more about his portal of Patrick Bateman?”
“Smart girl.”
I shrug. “Just like movies. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Lie.
“Thanks, Sage,” he replies.
I look over at Cain, nodding my head in acknowledgment. “Cain.”
“Before you go, Pip.” He grabs my forearm, and my knee-jerk reaction is to pull away, but I stay very still. “Your dad told me you hadn’t called since you started school. I know you’re busy, but he misses you. Check in soon, okay?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
Pulling from his grasp, I disappear inside the theatre hall, pressing my back into the closed door and taking a few deep breaths. In through my nose out through my mouth, taking my time and regrouping my thoughts.
This is my time today, and I won’t let that filth ruin it for me. I’d been taking theatre classes, but it had been months since I’d stepped inside of one. Learning about scripts and playwriting at a desk is nothing compared to the real thing.
I pull my shoulders back, silently walking down the aisle, past the wooden rows of seats. The high ceilings are carved with complex designs, built to carry sounds all the way to the back of the auditorium. I reach the side stairs of the stage, my footsteps echoing as I stride across the floor.
The lighting is dim, just enough to see the first few rows from where I stand, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not about the spotlight or even the theatre itself.
It’s the feeling of the vinyl floors beneath the soles of my feet. The way my voice vibrates the wood when I dive into the character. Being absolutely overtaken by a role, by the writing. It sucks you into an entirely new world, away from reality.
I toss my bag to the side and remove my jacket, leaving me exposed in my black dress with a scalloped neckline that pairs nicely with my red suede boots. I’d loved these shoes once upon a time. They were my signature color, and Rosie had bought them for my birthday years ago.
She’d always been so good at giving gifts, able to notice and remember the little things people enjoyed without them even talking about it.
I stand in the middle of the stage, wiggling my toes in my shoes, letting my head fall to the right and back to the left, and stretching before I look down at my script, seeing where I left off reading last night.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Shakespeare.
A king inside the walls of the theatre, he is the blueprint. The one people aspire to be, to surpass when it comes to playwriting.
I reread the scene a few times, absorbing the structure, wanting to encompass all the emotion, the entire character. Closing my eyes, I shed the pieces of myself and rebuild as Hermia. I forget Sage exists and become the girl who is wholeheartedly in love with Lysander, even though her father wishes for her to marry another.
I embody this emotion of a girl so fiercely enthralled with a man she sees as perfect, one that she is not allowed to long for. I feel that ache in my gut, the longing for a person’s soul, more than just their physical attributes or what they give me materialistically.
When I reopen my eyes, I’m no longer the insane twin.
I’m Hermia.
How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
I hear Lysander in my head, playing his part, his body more of a loose figure than an actual person.
“Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.”
Old English is simple, when you read enough of it. It’s so simple for her to just say the color is gone because I am saying it is, but I could make the roses regrow from the tears I’ve cried for our love. But it’s so much more fun to encode it, to read between the lines of romantic vocabulary.
Ay me! For aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood—
“O cross! Too high to be enthralled to low.” I throw my hands dramatically, a sly grin on my face as we banter back and forth on everyone else’s requirements for love. The rules for the heart, when in truth, the only thing that should never have rules is love.
Or else misgraffed in respect of years.
Oh spite! Too old to be engaged to young
“Or else it stood upon choice of friends.”
Oh hell! To choose love by another’s eyes.
The scene goes deeper, speaking about how quickly love can be destroyed by the ones around you. By the expectations set by your family and friends. How we are expected to marry within our own societal standards. That if you must be with someone that is just right for you in the eyes of the world. Not too young, not too old.
It’s the tale of star-crossed lovers in a different setting, a different space. But the pain, it’s still the same. The sting of wanting what you can never, ever have.
It’s a sting I know. A sting so sharp that I start to crack through H
ermia’s character. My pain, as Sage, flows within the act.
Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night; And in the wood, a league without the town, Where I did meet thee once with Helena, To do observance to a morn of May—There will I stay for thee.
Lysander makes a plan to meet with me so that we can run away together. Free to be with one another for the rest of our lives, away from what everyone wants, away from my father that needs me to marry Demetrius, the man who will give me wealth and status. A man my soul refuses to love.
I’m no longer on this stage. I’m still in an auditorium, but it’s the one at my high school. I’m there with Rook, being confronted by his anger after he’d found out about Easton and me, about the engagement. Everything is the same, the knives in my chest as he begged me to tell him I was lying, that it was some misunderstanding. All of those feelings are here and alive, swirling around me.
Except it’s different. This time, instead of lying, instead of ripping his heart to shreds with my vicious lies, I tell him the truth. I tell him what I always wanted to say—that I was forced into an engagement to protect my sister, all for nothing.
“My good Lysander! I swear to thee, by Cupid’s strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus’ doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burned the Carthage queen.” I pause, the scene so visceral, too real. It’s taking my breath away.
I shake my head, taking a breath and continuing. “When the false Troyan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke, In that same place thou hast appointed me.” I pause again, my voice cracking,
“To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.”
Hermia promises to meet him so they can run off together, a promise I wish I could have given to Rook. Words I wish I could’ve said. It hurts that I couldn’t say how I was really feeling, that I couldn’t give him my truths when it mattered most.
They say you never truly realize how much you care about a person until they’re gone.
And when he was gone? He took me with him.
But the smoke stayed.
It lingered, filling the hollow spaces.
The me I’d always wanted to be, he owned it, and I know I’ll never get it back.
Thinking of him, putting myself back there, makes my senses tingle. I can smell him again or rather, the smoke. I can smell weed, fruity and musky, assaulting my nose.
There is a sudden clap, a loud thunderous sound that takes me away from the scene, away from the past, and plows me right back into reality.
“Glad to know you still know how to lie.” His voice makes me shiver. “Sorry, act.”
I squint, searching the seats for his face, finding his shadow near the back, but he’s making his way up the aisle, coming closer to the light.
My gut twists when I see the cut on his lip. One that isn’t from Alistair or his father but me. I’d done that to him. While I was drowning in self-pity and rage, I’d taken it out on him, on Silas. And Rook, he let me. He let me hurt him.
A rolled blunt sits on his lips, the smoke swirling around his head as he stands at the front of the stage, looking up at me. The way his hair has grown out makes me want to measure it with my fingers. It’s tucked neatly behind his ears but still looks wild.
“What do you want from us?”
Straightforward and directly to the point.
Foolish of me to think he’d be here for any other reason than to question my motives.
“I already told you. I want to help catch Frank. I’ll do whatever you guys need. I want him gone. Once that’s finished, I’ll be out of here,” I answer truthfully.
“And what? I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Silas did.”
This makes him halt.
After the Gauntlet, Silas showed up at my dorm to talk. I’d apologized for the things I said about Rose. I know it wasn’t his fault, but I needed to blame someone in that moment. It had been selfish of me to do that. He’d gone on to tell me that I’m already involved even if he doesn’t like it. That he’d rather me help them than do it myself and get myself killed. Because obviously, the people we’re up against don’t care about killing innocent women.
He’d agreed to my terms, allowed me to be a part of the future plans. But he made it very clear that after Frank is dead, I have to leave. He doesn’t want me here.
I don’t want me here either.
And while I’m sure Thatcher and Alistair weren’t happy about it, they supported his decision. But not Rook.
“Silas is letting his guilt cloud his judgment,” he assures me. “Silas doesn’t know you’re a snake in the grass. That you’re always playing a part. He doesn’t know you. Not like I do.”
I know there’s no way to mend what had been broken between the two of us—the damage had been done. But I’m tired of pretending to hate him, even if he truly does despise me.
I’m still angry that I never got more of him, and I’d given him all of me. But I don’t hate him. I never did.
There isn’t any way I could.
For a long time, I thought hating him would be easier. It was a way to keep his fire close to my heart. A way for me to avoid mourning the loss of him, of us. Now, I’m just too tired to fake it. To fake anything.
I don’t want to be at each other’s throats the entire time I’m involved, especially considering he’s still adamant about keeping what we were from his friends.
I sigh heavily and walk to the edge of the stage, where I drop down into a sitting position. My legs dangle over the side, and I rub my hands up and down my thighs before I say, “What do you need to hear from me, Rook? What do I need to say so that this is as painless as possible?”
He pulls the blunt from his mouth, wetting his dry mouth with his tongue. “Nothing between us will ever be painless, Sage.” His eyes burn me. “But you could start by telling me who that was you were talking to before you came in here.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Stalking me now?” I arch my eyebrow in question.
“No, I happened to be around. I just find it suspicious that you show back up here, magically released from a psych ward that your father put you in.” He blows a smoke ring in my direction, tilting his head. “Now you’re chatting it up with two guys who look a lot like feds.”
I think about telling him, right now, but even if I did, he wouldn’t believe me. I think he would believe that story less than the lie I’m about to tell. Anything and everything I tell Rook Van Doren will never be taken as the truth.
Ever again.
“They’re friends of my father’s. I think they’re on the board here. We just ran into each other, and they said hello. Is that alright with you? Am I allowed to say hello to people? Or are you just jealous?”
I shouldn’t be so snarky towards him, not when I know why he’s asking, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but test this irrational theory that his asking stems from some form of jealousy.
He tongues his cheek, breathing deeply through his nose as he steps a little closer to me. His body brushes against my kneecaps.
“Jealous? Of what exactly? A girl I used to fuck? If that were the case, I’d be jealous of just about every female on campus.”
Through the haze of the smoke, I see his irises.
Hellfire eyes.
So fucking bright and always burning.
It makes his comment prick even more. Knowing he’s looked at other girls with those eyes, been inside of them, and more than that, they’ve touched him. That makes me ill.
Thinking of them running their fingers across his collarbone and asking where he got that scar. I wonder if he tells them the truth.
That at one point he thought we were soul mates and tried to force fate into agreeing with us. That there’s a matching one on a girl he used to care about.
“Well, if that’s all, then you can leave. I answered your question.” I
press my hands into the floor, ready to push myself up so I can grab my things, but he brings me to a halt.
His palm snaps against my thigh, fingers hooking through my dress and sinking into my skin. I gasp at how high up he is, his middle finger brushing the inner portion of my naked thigh beneath my dress.
Dangerously close to a place he hasn’t touched in nearly a year.
“I’ll leave when I want, and you’ll leave when I tell you to, yeah?” He tightens his jaw, laying the faded blunt beside me. “I came here to let you know that I’m watching you.”
“You watch all the girls you’ve fucked?”
“Just the ones who are a threat to my family.”
There is an indescribable throbbing in my chest. I wrecked him so fucking hard that he genuinely believes I would do something to hurt his friends. When he says family, he is referring to the guys. They are the only family he has ever known.
And I’m a danger to them.
“Rook—”
“Pyro, remember?” he interjects, looking me up and down slowly. “That’s what you used to call me when you thought I was a psycho with mommy issues who was going to kill you.”
That still might be true, I think to myself. Actually, that is definitely still true.
“I know better now,” I mutter. “I know you better.”
His grip tightens in anger, his body closing in on my own as he forces his way between my thighs. They clench on instinct, my core starting to ache at the heat he’s radiating. The flash of his Zippo catches the light, and in seconds, a hot orange flame shoots from the top.
I tense up. With Rook, you never know what is racing through his mind, what he will do on a whim just because he feels like it.
“You think I won’t kill you?” he asks rhetorically, his left hand crawling higher up my thigh, shoving the material of my dress up and revealing my red panties. The flimsy lace material is the only thing hiding my already wet center from him. “You think I won’t burn you alive if I sense even an ounce of betrayal from you?”
“I—”
“I will not hesitate to bury you for good this time, Sage. In a hole so fucking deep, you will never be able to crawl out,” he continues, meaning every single word.
