“When?”
“Last night. Assumed you’re not the type to touch your lips to just anyone.”
“Care to read what they’re saying now?”
Chapter VI
Dark Leg of the Triangle
They say every story has three sides. Two are the sides of the people fighting or loving each other, and the third side is the truth. The third voice is the one people hate more than anything because it shows the lies in the first two sides, and most people have already picked their favorite of the first two—the one they want to believe, and they hate hearing that they were wrong—they despise hearing anything different than what they want to be true.
The third point of view puts an end to the discussion—the fight they’ve been enjoying over and over again—whether the hero will live, whether the good guy gets the girl, or what suitor the fickle heroine will choose. The third voice ends it all—no more imagining how things will turn out, no more arguing with other fans about how it should all end, no more teams rooting for their chosen character to be the winner.
The third p.o.v. declares a clear victor, making all their cleverly-worded phrases and insults at the other side worthless and outdated. Even the wittiest snarky comment attacking the winner is worthless because, if it held any truth, the winner would not have won. If someone says something will happen and it doesn’t, that someone is wrong. Period. No amount of nasty criticisms will ever change that. All of their claims at coolness and all of their weapons against their opposition are made obsolete.
My name is Edgar. I am the outside point of view, and there’s no shortage of people I’ve made hate me.
Pulled into this by Roderick. His angry voice waking me this morning from the deep sleep at the end of a rowdy night. My bloodshot eyes were angry as they opened to see his furious face peering down on me, but I knew I had to obey.
Was impossible to look past him to the yellow, smoke-stained, sagging motel ceiling. Hard to look past him at anything else. His form demands attention.
Roderick’s presence is a magnetic darkness. No matter where he goes, eyes follow, imaginations race to keep up, and courage flees the viewer’s chest.
If I summoned the sun amazingly close to the earth, right at the edge of the horizon—a giant fireball singeing and melting all that we hold dear, and if I placed Roderick in front of it, his shadow would be all you’d notice. Were he standing between the jaws of a monstrous shark the size of a shopping center—tearing through the water toward you at terrifying speed, you’d look past the raw pink gums, razor-like triangular teeth, and emotionless black eyes to the man standing in the ghastly mouth staring into you as if he knows all of your secrets and all the good things you wish you could do while he smirks at how little he cares about any of it or about what he is going to do to you.
I hate Roderick like the addict hates his dealer. Just as dependent on the decadence he brings me. My body aches, waiting for the terrible hit to fill the hole inside of me, feeling as though I’ll die the worst, sweaty, shaky death ever experienced—until I see his unholy form with my relief.
He’ll supply the hit I need. For a moment I’ll feel euphoric, but at the peak of the relief I’ll turn sour, knowing the next urge will be all the stronger, knowing with every fix that I’m sliding deeper from the light of freedom, feeding the withdrawal that grows wider as it devours me more every day. Every time I quench the need, it only makes the next need stronger—demanding more juice to fill it.
I hate the narrowing light of hope for reminding me that I could climb out, I hate Roderick for giving me the poison that I begged him for, and I hate myself for not thinking I’m worth the fight to quit.
I’ve done terrible things to fill a terrible need. Time and again.
I don’t know what Simon’s done to bring on the wrath of Roderick, but I’ll bring Roderick what he wants, even if it means I’ll do terrible things to Simon.
The girl needs to be taken alive. Simon can be dragged back either way.
Chapter VII
Twilight under Treetops
The sunlight turns a strained orange color, almost looking burned, as it reaches through the tree branches down onto the ground all around me.
When I started this day, I surely didn’t think it’d end up with my butt in the dirt, watching my shirtless protector sweat as he sharpens the points of branches into spears with his fingernails. Heck, when I woke this morning, I had no idea I’d ever see him again, much less learn his name, have him save my life a second time, and lastly whisk me away into the middle of the woods.
Thus far, my twentieth year is either the most bizarre I’ve ever known, or it has become so dull that I’ve lost my mind and decided to live in a fantasy world. Scary to think I’m only two days into it. As I watch him with all of his attention on tearing into the branches to make sharp points, as little notice of me as a caterpillar climbing up a nearby tree trunk, I know this is no delusional fantasy of mine. I’d have him focused on me. Sad that this is the only proof that I haven’t gone insane: the boy ignores me.
Somewhere along the high-velocity, hour-long drive out here, he grew silent. Brushing off my questions with one-word answers or none at all. Every time his eyes began to look warm again, he’d shake it off, resurrecting his cold and focused facade.
It’s like he’s the jaded twin brother of the man I met last night. He seems so far from the guy who jumped from a rooftop to save me from three beasts. He doesn’t even resemble the boy who convinced me to leave my half-full mocha latte sitting on a table to run away with him.
All of those things vex me to my core, but the one that stings the most is he seems to have nothing left of the smooth Casanova who danced with me, made my body glisten from his heat, and kissed me with more passion than I’ve ever felt.
The few glimmers of his past self that have broken his stone persona have come when I’ve called him by his name. In those moments, the effect was only fleeting, but they were the highlights of our hours in the woods. Simon—the name still seems so special to me—the last connection I have to the beau in my heart, a picture locket to a widow.
Can’t understand how he’s grown so cold. All of a sudden I’m repulsive to him—he becomes annoyed every time I make him acknowledge me.
Was he just drunk last night, and the infatuation’s worn off? Am I ugly to his sober eyes?
He moved too well to be that drunk. Threw stools across the dance floor and exactly onto the thugs’ backs that he was aiming for way up on the stage.
Am I such an odd girl that I was just a different flavor for him to taste? A freak to try out?
The last glow of the twilight begins to give way to the blanketing night.
I can’t take it anymore.
“Why are you ignoring me?”
Doesn’t look away from the point he is sharpening.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Still no response.
Shaking, “If you won’t talk to me about what the hell is going on, I swear I’ll walk out of these woods and leave you here to be nasty and mean all by yourself,” deep breath, “I swear it, Simon.”
Without budging his head or slowing the stroke of his nails into the branch, he says, “If you have any desire to live, I can’t leave your side.”
His voice sounds so flat—drained of emotion.
“Doesn’t sound like you’d care anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter if I care. It’s a fact. You leave—you die.”
Sniffling becomes involuntary, “Well, what if you’re killing me now?”
“I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You haven’t?”
“Don’t be dramatic. Haven’t laid a hand on you.”