by Shen, L. J.
“You think you’re nothing special,” he said softly.
“Do people think they’re special?”
“Those who aren’t do.”
“I’m guessing you’re the troublemaker out of your siblings.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. He smirked, and I felt it in my bones. The way the air heated up just because he was content.
“Bingo.”
“You must’ve been a hellion growing up.” I cocked my head sideways, as if a different angle would show me a picture of him when he was nine or ten.
“I was such a troublemaker, my mother threw me out when I was nine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I piped up.
“I’m not. I dodged a bullet.”
“And your dad?”
“He didn’t.” The man retrieved a cigarette pack he kept in his rolled-up shirtsleeve, a-la Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He cupped his palm over his mouth and lit another cancer stick. I noticed Stoner Guy saw and didn’t say a word. “He was shot when I was a kid.”
“Deservingly?” I heard myself ask.
“Very much so.” Hot Stranger sucked on his cigarette, the orange ember flaring like that thing behind my ribcage. “How ’bout your folks?”
“Both alive.”
“But someone else isn’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” He exhaled a spiral of smoke skyward. We both watched as the gray mist above us evaporated.
“I lost someone tonight,” I admitted.
“Who?”
“No offense, but that’s none of your business.”
“None taken, but just for the record…” he tilted my chin up with the hand holding his cigarette “…everything in Suffolk County is my fucking business, sweetheart, and right now, you’re within county limits, so think again.”
An odd feeling washed over me. Fear, desire, and kinship battled inside me. He was direct and aggressive, a fighter. As unlikely as it sounded, I knew he and I were cracked in the same place, even though we’d both been broken in different ways.
Our cart began to move, slicing through a black vinyl curtain. A giant, plastic zombie leaned forward from a veil of green smoke, laughing lowly into my ear.
“The monster’s gonna get ya.”
There were beasts twirling, screaming zombies that spat water in our faces, and a family of corpses having dinner. A baby’s red eyes shot lasers at us.
The train of carts ascended to the top, slow and steady. People all around us squeaked in excitement.
“Do you ever feel lost?” I whispered.
The stranger laced his fingers with mine on the scratched plastic bench beneath us. His hand was warm, dry, and calloused. Mine was cold, soft, and sweaty. I didn’t pull away, even when danger began humming around me, thickening the air, depriving me from oxygen.
Play with monsters, but don’t be surprised when you get beaten.
“No. I had to find myself at a young age.”
“Lucky you.”
“I wouldn’t use that word to describe me.” He chuckled.
“Not Irish, then?” I couldn’t help but probe.
He didn’t look Irish—he was too tall, too broad, too tan—but he had that Southie accent most blue-collar Irish men sported.
“Depends on how you look at it,” he answered. “Back to the subject at hand—your being lost.”
“Yes, right.” I cleared my throat, thinking about her again. “I don’t think I’ll ever find myself. I don’t have many friends. In fact, I only had one really true friend, and she died today.”
“There is nothing to find. Life is not about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself. There’s something liberating about knowing your own bones, all the things you are capable of. Being unapologetically yourself makes you invincible.” His voice seeped into me, hitting roots. Our fingers tightened together. Our cart jerked here and there while zombies sent arms flying in our direction, trying to catch us. People around us giggled and screamed.
He hadn’t said he was sorry for my loss like everyone else had. “And who are you?” I breathed.
“I’m a monster.”
“No, really,” I protested.
“It’s true. I thrive in the dark. My job is to implement fear, and I am some people’s nightmare. Like all monsters, I always take what I want.”
We reached the highest point. The peak.
“And what I want right now, Aisling, is to kiss you.”
The cart jerked back, screeched, then tipped down, falling at an increasing speed.
The stranger muffled my scream with his mouth. His hot, salty lips sealed mine possessively. All my inhibitions, fears, and anxiety evaporated. He tasted of cigarettes, mint gum, and sex. Like a man. I let go of the rails, clutching the thin fabric of his black shirt, drawing him close, drowning in what we were in that moment. A monster devouring a princess, with no knight in sight to save her.
He tilted his head and cupped my cheek, his other hand cradling the back of my head. His tongue prodded my mouth open, touching mine—gently at first—before I let our kiss deepen. Our tongues twisted together, dancing, teasing, searching. My stomach dipped, and my anxiety dissolved.
The world felt different. Brighter. Bigger.
Warmth pooled between my legs, and my groin rocked forward on its own accord. I felt achingly empty. I squeezed my thighs together just as I felt a lash of fresh air on my face.
The ride was over.
We were back out.
He broke our kiss, drawing back, his face expressionless. Terrifyingly calm.
The girls in the cart behind us mumbled “holy shit” and “that was hot” and “yeah, it’s definitely him, Tiff.”
Him who?
“First kiss, huh?” He wiped a smudge of saliva from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, cold amusement dancing in his eyes. Like I was a toy. Something laughable, replaceable. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
The girls behind us giggled. My soul fired up its imaginary laptop and opened Zillow in search of a suitable place to bury myself from shame.
“Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “Imagine if you really were my first kiss. I could be scarred for life. You might traumatize me. I’d never be able to trust another man again.”
Stoner Guy flung the metal bar open, striding down the line of carts. “Time’s up. Everybody out.”
The stranger smoothed my hair away from my face.
“You’ll survive,” he croaked.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Don’t underestimate me. I know a whole fucking lot about people. Besides, I already told you, my name is Monster.”
“Now, that might be your nickname—” I started.
“Nicknames are more telling than birth names.”
I happened to agree. My father called my older brother, Cillian, Mo Orga, which meant “my golden” in Irish Gaelic, and my middle brother, Hunter, Ceann Beag, which meant “little one.”
He never nicknamed me anything.
My name meant vision, a dream. Perhaps that’s all I was to my father. Something that wasn’t real, tangible, or important. I was meant to be an idea. A pretty vessel for him to parade and exhibit.
A little daughter, pretty, prim, and proper, without the pressure of breeding me for some big role. To take over his company one day. To give him male heirs to continue his legacy. I was my mother’s gift from him, and I played my role, doting over her, fulfilling her every whim, and filling the hours he was away on business with shopping trips, doing each other’s hair, and more.
Now I was planning to go to med school so when I graduated, I could also take care of her physically. Jane Fitzpatrick always did detest visiting her doctors. She said they were judging her, misunderstanding her.
I couldn’t wait for the day I’d be qualified to replace her physician and check another box in the impossible wish list my parents had set out for me.
“I’m not afrai
d of monsters.” I squared my shoulders.
Pleased with my answer, he flicked my chin. “Maybe you’re one of us. You just said yourself you don’t know who you are.”
I tried to go after him. I wasn’t too proud to follow him around, ask him what he meant. But he was quicker, sliding out of the cart quickly, and with the feral grace of a tiger, he walked away.
He disappeared in the throng of swirling lights and bodies, evaporating into thin air, as monsters did.
I came here to drown.
Now, I could hardly breathe.
Three hours later, I was still buzzing with adrenaline and pain. I tried all the rides. Ate too much candy. Drank root beer on a bench and people-watched. The distraction did not dull the pain. I continued to play the moment I found out she was dead over and over again in my head like I was trying to punish myself for … what? Not stopping it? Not getting there sooner?
There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
Wasn’t there? She asked you for help. You never gave it to her.
I looked for Monster all night, even when I didn’t mean to. My eyes wandered, scanning the lines and couples and throngs of people. I wondered if I’d made him up in my head. Everything about our encounter seemed unreal.
When I took a restroom break at the portable toilets, I noticed the back of the door was freshly engraved with words. Words that seemed intimately directed to my eyes.
Lust lingers, love stays.
Lust is impatient, love waits.
Lust burns, love warms.
Lust destroys, but love? Love kills.
S.A.B.
When the clock hit midnight, I gave up. I wasn’t going to find him.
My phone was blowing up, and I knew my parents were going to send a search unit if I didn’t come back home.
A missing seventeen-year-old girl was a non-issue if it had only been eight hours since you’d last seen her.
A missing seventeen-year-old oil heiress whose daddy was one of the richest men in the world sure was, though, and I had no doubt my family would raise a ruckus.
I was a Fitzpatrick, and Fitzpatricks should always be protected.
I glanced at my phone again.
Mother: I am getting increasingly worried. Just text me, please. I understand that you are upset, but you are upsetting us all by disappearing like this! I cannot get any sleep. You know how much I need my sleep.
Mother: Your father will be blaming me for this entire ordeal. I do hope this pleases you, Aisling. Getting me into trouble.
Oh, Merde. Put a lid on it, Mother.
Hunter: Da will have a heart attack, sis. Just sayin’ (more hugz from Cali).
Cillian: Stop being so emotional. She was the hired help.
Da: I am sorry for your loss, Ash. Please come home.
Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I made my way to Mom’s Volvo XC90. I was about to swing the door open, get inside, and gun it back to Avebury Court Manor, our house. That was when I heard it. A crunch that had nothing to do with my feet. My head snapped up in the darkness. Toward the edge of the parking lot, about three cars down from my vehicle, was a corner nestled between a thick line of trees leading to the woods by the highway. Secluded and dark.
“No, no, no. Please. I know I fucked up, but I promise, I’ll stop.”
Someone wailed. A man.
I squinted, ducking between my car and an Impala, peeking at the two figures under a thick mass of leaves. One of them was standing, holding a gun. The other was on his knees, in front of the standing figure, like he was praying to a merciless god. Maybe it was the fact I’d already witnessed one death tonight, but even though my adrenaline kicked in, I couldn’t muster the hysteria I probably ought to feel right now.
“Lying will get you nowhere,” the standing man clipped harshly.
“What makes you think I’m—”
“Your lips are moving,” the standing man kicked the man on his knees with the tip of his shoe, eliciting an animalistic wail. “I told you there won’t be a third time.”
“But I—”
“One last wish, Mason,” the man tsked, and my blood ran cold because I recognized that voice. I would recognize it anywhere, I realized, from tonight until the very last day of my life.
It was the voice of Monster.
My monster.
The man who gave me my first kiss.
The guy on his knees was trembling, trying to contain his frightened tears. He shook his head then finally, blurted out, “If Nikki asks, tell her it was drug-related. I don’t want her to know the truth. She’s suffered enough.”
“I will. Goodbye.”
With that, Monster used the gun pressed to the man’s forehead and popped off two bullets. From the dull thuds, I gathered there was a silencer on the gun. I slapped a hand over my mouth, muffling a horrified scream that ripped out of my throat.
He’d killed a man.
He’d killed a man out in the open.
And he hadn’t even blinked.
My legs shook, and I fell to the ground, the concrete biting into my knees. I scrambled for my keys in my hoodie, my knees hot with fresh blood oozing out of them from my fall.
Run, Merde. Run.
I unlocked the Volvo and glided into the driver’s seat, frantically wiping the tears and sweat from my face to clear my vision, biting on my lower lip to suppress a scream.
This night is not happening. It’s just a figment of your imagination.
A slam on the window beside me made me jump so high my head hit the car’s roof. I twisted my whole body and saw it was Monster. He must’ve caught sight of me, or worse … heard my scream. With shaking fingers, I started the car, blinded by tears. The Monster jammed something into the side of the door casually, unlocking it with terrifying ease, preventing me from throwing the car into reverse.
He parked his hands on the car’s roof, his biceps bulging from his short sleeves, looking blasé and indifferent.
“You’re having one hell of a night, aren’t you, little Aisling.” The deadly calm in his voice made everything so much worse.
“I didn’t see anything,” I exclaimed, jerking back, like he was going to strike me.
To my surprise, he started laughing. Wholeheartedly. A guttural noise that sounded weird coming from him, like he wasn’t used to laughing.
“Now you believe that I’m a monster?” He leaned forward, his lips hovering close to mine. My blood turned to ice, and yet, for the life of me, I couldn’t pull away this time. It must be the shock, I told myself. This was a fight-or-flight situation, but my traitorous body went for secret option number three: freeze.
No. This wasn’t just fear. There was something else thrown into the mix. Something hot and pungent. Something I didn’t want to know about myself.
Know your bones.
This beast just put two bullets in someone’s head, and yet here I was, my body humming, sizzling, begging to be touched by him.
“Are you actually going to let me kiss you?” He furrowed his brows, his lips practically moving over mine. I was spellbound. Speechless. I had to move.
Move, Merde. Move.
Finally, I managed to shake my head no.
He tugged my lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it teasingly then swiping his tongue over the inside of it.
“You’re a beautiful liar, Aisling.” His low tenor vibrated in my stomach. “Guess you found yourself, then. You’re a monster, too.” He kissed me again, with lips and teeth, before finally pulling away.
“Tell anyone about this, and I will find you, and I will kill you, too. Now, I suggest you run. Far and fast. I’m giving you a two-minute head start before coming after your ass.”
With that, he turned around and ambled away, the streetlamps catching his silhouette and making him look like the complex villain you secretly root for in a film noir, sliding into a car parked a row from mine.
Slow. Steady. Lethal.
I floored it, never looking back.
Shortly after the Aquila Fair, my brother Hunter came back from California for good.
Golden, tan, and blonder than ever. He moved into a penthouse downtown with a girl named Sailor, who’d been hired as his babysitter. I’d seen her a few times, when her mother used to cook for us on special occasions.
Da liked to rule all of us with an iron fist, and Hunter was by far the hardest to tame.
A few days after Hunter and Sailor moved in together, I’d visited him at his penthouse. Sailor was out, and he was taking one of his extras long showers, which I suspected involved a lot of self-pleasuring, seeing as he wasn’t allowed to date anyone since moving back to Boston.
I gave myself a tour around the living room, which looked like it had been staged by a professional before being put on the market for sale. Everything was too neat, too shiny, too modern to look livable. The only hint that people actually lived here was a row of pictures sitting on the mantel by the floor-to-ceiling window. Even before approaching them, I knew they were put there by Sailor, not Hunter.
Hunter never did consider himself to have a true family, and seeing as he’d lived away from the house since age six, I couldn’t exactly blame him.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to the mantel. The first picture was of the young redheaded woman, which I recognized as Sailor, her face youthful and full of freckles, hugging a middle-aged, dark-haired man and an older replica of herself, whom I recognized as Sparrow.
The second picture was of the redheaded girl at a party with two blonde women her age. They were all laughing, wearing goofy neon sunglasses.
I recognized them as the Penrose sisters. They were on the local news the other day, for shoveling snow outside senior citizens’ houses.
The third …
The third was a picture of Sailor and the Monster.
My monster.
The guy from the carnival.
He stared into the camera, looking grim and serious, while she looked at him like he was the moon. Her spot of light in the endless darkness.
“Yup. That’s her. My ball-busting roommate,” I heard a voice behind me and jumped back with a gasp, slapping a hand over my chest, afraid my heart would accidentally leap out.
