LOVE APIDAE

A Recumon Story

©2015 Michael Adams

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This book is licensed for personal reading only.

All aspects of this work are intended as fiction.

I.

Abel Carraway carried the head of a lamb. It hung from his grip, swaying about, smacking against his leg. He walked down the middle of the street, treading on the double yellow line.

The neighborhood disturbed him. Its quaint houses were white with red front doors, tidy gardens, and freshly clipped lawns. Ghosts, those who pretended to be alive–to feel–inhabited White Swallows. These humans managed to be more otherworldly and more animal than the lamb demon, the daemil, he had spent his afternoon hunting.

He saw the occasional face faded in the kitchen window. The children wanted to see. He saw every curtain pulled closed. Their parents did not want them to be believers. They said he was a lie. He wondered who was the truth. Who knew how to be alive without waking up? Once you awoke, you became aware that you had been asleep. If you awoke only to awaken again, then when was the final awakening, the true Truth? They prepared for lunch with determined zeal. He gripped the lamb’s head with dogged resolve. Breadcrumbs dropped on their paper plates. Blood stained his leather jacket, drying into a crusted powder. He caught a whiff of its sulfuric scent and was grounded in the truth that mattered. You lived until you died. To live meant to struggle... for love, for peace, for justice... for something. Only he struggled.

He had already passed through the trailers of Yellow Robin Park. He only heard the barking of chained dogs. The homeowners’ association did not permit animals in White Swallows to maintain serenity. In Yellow Robin, everyone stood in front of their rusting homes parked on dirt. Men in plaid hats and wife-beaters spat tobacco and nodded approvingly. A woman in a dress decorated with blue peonies bounced her little boy in her arms, whispering in his ear as she pointed at the hunter. Abel never negotiated the line between stupidity and bravery, ignorance and caution. They were all idiots.

One road ran through both communities. Signs marked the street as Delaney Road at the intersections of Yellow Robin and as Delatour Drive at the intersections of White Swallows. The neighborhood with white houses ended at a crossroads, the main road continuing unnamed under an iron gate. A lion’s head had its halves spiked on the end rails. As Abel approached, the gate opened inward, splitting the hollow head. The brick end posts towered high, upholding a glittering gold sign that read Kingfisher Gardens.

He crossed the threshold, a line of transformation. The concrete street turned into cobblestone, rocks of gold foil, royal violet, and charcoal gray carved and cemented together into a path that wound through gardens staged before a backdrop of weeping Snow Fountain cherry trees against a towering wall of giant emerald arborvitae.

As a child, the contrived paradise aggravated him. He sensed in his gut that this spectacle begged for adoration. He refused to recognize its desperation disguised as natural glamour. Now, at seventeen, he sighed and slackened his pace, stumbling over the uneven trail with his eyes half-closed. He did not see the sunshine sparkle in the golden stones. He did not hear the cicadas screech an agitated symphony. His phone vibrated, and he stopped in the road to read the incoming text: Ilanya was waiting for him at the house. He fell once more into his dazed saunter, leaving the garden lane to cross over a cherrywood bridge that stretched over a moat. He landed on his driveway, the final path to Lion’s Bluff, his home.

Gravel paved a flat path through the lawn of rolling hills. A gray rabbit darted across the grass, zigzagging over and through the dips, disappearing behind the crests. Abel walked the trail, the mounds rising feet above his head. He denied this grassy, twisting land made him anxious, but he always quickened his pace. In the back of his mind a fear lurked. He sensed a dark beast ready to leap from behind the sloped grass and block his way. These childhood nightmares, while subdued by maturity, still nagged at him. He remembered the daemil needed to be logged and hustled along.

Lion’s Bluff was a golem, a palatial mansion made of cloud-gray stone. An aisle of arches framed wooden double doors decorated with studded wrought iron. The metal rolled in elaborate curlicues at the doors’ corners and around the center windows. Two broad stairways with colonial balusters spiraled to the east and west wings. Abel ascended towards the west, his private quarters. In the foyer, a mahogany brown swirled on the cream marble surface. A pale rose pink sparkled in twirls embedded in deeper layers. He pressed his palm against the back wall and a compartment opened. He placed the daemil’s head inside, typed his notes on a floating holographic keypad, and watched as the compartment closed.

II.

In a room, Ilanya Respa slept. A sunshine yellow trapped behind lemon bars papered the walls. Mahogany legs carved into curling dragons propped the room’s single piece of furniture, a sofa. The wood, braided and polished, framed beige cushions, the slick shine magnifying the tufted seat’s antique drabness. She slumbered on a phoenix stitched in the fabric. The firebird swooped down, its beak cawing, tongue flailing, igniting the arching branches of a tree sprouting twice-blossoming red flowers. Thin and tapered, the feathers of its wings spread in glorious frailty. The only feature pure in virtue, untwisted by a demonic touch, was its tail, cobalt blue peacock feathers with honey eyes that streamed in its wake.

A television screen, framed in gilded gold and mounted above a fireplace painted eggshell, displayed a burly chef jovially instructing the viewer on crafting baked eggs in miniature bowls of bread. Ilanya still slept, dreaming of Life: She writhed on a bed of orchid petals, caressing her pregnant belly. She cried. She screamed. The being she cradled in her womb was not her baby. She was alone. She was afraid. Its life snuffed her own, but she was not brave enough to save herself. Shame smothered her horrific desire. There was another way, though. This apparition was a dream. She willed herself awake. She did not awaken. This aberration was real. An imagining? A premonition. With a nudge, she awoke. Abel stood over her, smiling. He did not know he had saved her.

She glanced at the crystal clock on the mantle. ‘You’re back earlier than usual.’ She yawned, stretching. The breeze from the open window billowed the sheer linen curtains. She pulled her butterscotch hair over her shoulder and sat back, sloppily sunken into the sofa with her legs bent out to the sides. Dewy sweat had flattened and dampened her waves. Her black mod dress was wrinkled. She had arranged herself as a vision of simple beauty for his arrival but had lost the subtly glowing effect. She did not show that this displeased her. ‘I had done the math,’ she continued. ‘You were supposed to arrive an hour after I called.’ She held her head and sighed. ‘God, I feel like I’ve been asleep for ages.’ It had only been minutes. The grogginess was a fog that she needed to reach through to remember... Remember what? ‘I had this whole thing planned. You usually dilly-dally. I called knowing you’d be downtown. By the time you got here, I was going to have lunch ready. It’s really not like you to want to be home.’

‘Well, that’s sweet of you,’ replied Abel, his dark eyes typically vacant in their cheeriness. His boyishly polite demeanor was a mask she pretended to be a face. No one would have understood. She did not have proof that anything other than noble steel and moonbeams shined and shimmered under his expression. She had known him since childhood and, over the years, had openly accepted the face he wanted to reveal while sneaking glimpses of its shadow. She inferred his secret nature but was not the kind who could declare revelations. She loved him enough to let him be. He had his reasons for hiding–everyone did, including her. He sat next to her and held out a tall glass of water. After a sip, she took in his appearance: His auburn hair was deliberately tossed and smelled like sweet cream. His white t-shirt was crisp and smelled like laundered flowers.

‘How long have you been home?’ she asked. ‘You’ve showered and everything.’

‘Not too long.’

‘Why did you want to come back so soon?’

‘I wanted to see you, stupid.’ This was the second time she had used the word want, as if something desirable had drawn him to his house and that were unusual. His sense of its implication made him feel accused.

‘You were obviously here when I called. Am I keeping you from doing something?’

‘If I needed to do something, I would have told you. You always act like I’m obligated to be with you. And I wasn’t here. I was still a distance away when you called.’

She shook her head: ‘I hate myself. I’m being difficult again.’

He leaned back and put his arm along the back of the sofa. She understood this was her cue to cuddle into him. She imagined it as a romantic moment, but she felt dirty and did not want to sully his freshness. He sensed her hesitancy, attributing it to their tiff.

‘Get over here,’ he said, with a mocking grin. She scooched over and pulled up her legs onto the sofa, tucking them under her. The television revealed the finished product: a bright yellow egg yolk swimming in white with flecks of pepper and parsley, all contained in a toasted brown bowl. She did not realize the dish was bread. Abel kissed her on the forehead, tasting her saltiness, then lent his gaze to the television. This was supposed to be a moment where two lovers enjoyed the afternoon together, but...

‘I had planned this pretty picture of us eating together,’ she said, her eyes trained forward, ‘a man and his woman at the table, and you do something this unpredictable. You used to want to spend time anywhere but here.’ She was referencing her trailer but did not like mentioning it directly. She had grown up in Yellow Robin Park. One day, he had sought adventure on his bicycle with training wheels. He had pretended to be an explorer sailing on the seven seas. A fellow captain had shared the story of a mythical beast that swam in a lake in a far-off land. Ilanya had been sitting on yellowed grass, scavenging rocks to throw into the muddy pond. He rode up to her, stopped, and stared at her. – ‘Fair maiden,’ he declared. ‘Have you seen the unnamed beast that delves in these waters?’ – ‘Are you lost?’ she asked. – ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to see what it was like down here.’ – ‘Well, now you see it.’ He swung his leg over his bike and left it to sit next to her. He sat so close to her that she moved away, reclaiming some of her space. He told her a story: A gentle creature lived in the sapphire lake. People feared it. Blessed and cursed with magic, he would walk on the water and open a portal in its depths to transport the beast into another world where it could live peacefully with its own kind. After hearing the story, Ilanya regretted trying to stifle this sad spirit. A rich kid who could not be happy–he was more pitiable than her. She could still hold on to the dream that life would get better if she just had enough money. Her parents would stop fighting. They could afford to send her to a prestigious academy. She could live in a nicer home and fit in. She told him her problems but not her solution. He told her another story. They became friends until five months ago. They were watching a movie before the big projector screen, sitting in two plush recliners. He grew up: ‘We should date.’ So she grew up: ‘Whatever.’ She had popcorn in her mouth. She did not remember the film. He reminded her that no one wanted to be alone. Being a loner was a consolation when there was no one who understood.

She wanted to see Lion’s Bluff. He never allowed her over. She knew he was not ashamed of her. He was ashamed of himself, of his way of living. Still, she stepped into his world. Her mother took a second job. She divorced Ilanya’s father and put his child support to use. Ilanya contributed herself when she received a scholarship. She would attend Shadowcrest Academy for high school. She did not feel guilty. She knew when she transitioned into motherhood she would evolve from The Nurtured into The Martyr. She would sacrifice for her child, the progression of generations. She did not cry for the man who left. In her heart, she disowned him when he failed to honor his obligations. She deserved better, and as long as this belief remained secret, she did not have to be ashamed. Each time she honored herself, she removed herself a little more from the world. She was safe. She had her self-respect. She was alone. To live with others as a falsely humbled shell or to live alone as a complete being–these were her choices, but, sometimes, she still felt empty.

Two days before the beginning of her life at Shadowcrest, her mother packed her clothes in trash bags. Ilanya, sleeping on a pad in the middle of the trailer floor, awoke to light flooding through the windows. She heard murmurs. Her mother was talking to her aunt outside. She saw the bulging garbage on the table. Mother never allowed it to become that full. She would never place such filth where they ate. It did not smell. She poked it. It was soft. She opened the bags, saw her clothes, and became angry, marching outside. She never yelled. Her mother viewed her with such a pitifully gallant expression that her heart broke. Ilanya understood what was happening, but she allowed her mother to explain. She would live in White Swallows with her aunt. She would be made more presentable as a student of Shadowcrest. She and her mother would become strangers. The daughter was supposed to outlive and out-thrive the woman who created her. This was the sacrifice, the progression of generations. Her secrets would not allow this. She had kept so many of them, expanding the chasm between her and the world, that she existed outside of it. The distance became her tether. She resented her stuffy aunt, so ignorant in her comfort. She begrudged all like her. In their presence, she felt inferior. In her solitude, she was superior. Her mother was a fallen angel, her father a fallen king, her aunt the fallen spirit, the walking dead. She lived her aunt’s life. They sat at noon for tea and sandwiches. They sat before the television watching game shows for dinner. She wore pressed uniforms for school and pressed dresses for outings. She lived her life to purposeful schedules and conducted herself to civil expectations but never accepted this as the norm. She had once looked out onto crystal lakes, saved mythical beasts, and kept secrets in her soul’s lost treasure map. She never forgot she was the daughter of an angel. The specter in her mind, her secret Truth, observed the growing child who sat in her assigned seat among rows of other assigned seats, who ate in aisles with others who ate in aisles, who filled out approved answers to prove she could fill out approved answers. She had created a dummy, a puppet to stand in for her. Everyone did. She just remembered that she was the force who created the farce and not the farce itself. She would meet her mother again. When she slept, she found comfort knowing her angel was an eternal block away, far enough to be gone forever but close enough to be reclaimed at any time.

Now, she had shared her dream for the afternoon, and Abel had not responded. He did not want to lie. He did not want to hurt her feelings. He did not need to keep a secret but felt the urge to do so. They watched television. A woman with curly strawberry blond hair and course persona instructed them on baking a chocolate truffle cake. ‘...the desert of gods and lovers,’ she claimed.

Ilanya understood his silence. She would salvage their day on her own. She sat up, placed her bare feet firmly on the hickory hardwood floor, and said something she had not intended to say:

‘You’ve gotten really close to Carmine Lassiter.’

‘Yeah, I guess we’re friends.’

She looked at the natural floors. He watched the television, his expression solemn. He felt coerced into a confession.

‘Would you like to call him to eat with us?’ she asked.

‘I think it should just be the two of us.’

She heard the creaking of the sofa as he adjusted his position. She felt his breath, his kiss, on her neck. He wrapped his arms around her.

‘Not now,’ she said.

He ceased his movement and pulled away. ‘Sorry.’

‘Soon. I promise.’

‘You don’t owe me anything. And I don’t want it to be some favor you do for me. When you are ready, tell me. I’ll give you space until then. We can just be happy as we are.’

‘I hate it when you are so nice about everything.’ She looked at the ceiling, seeing a sculpture of floating angels protruding from the surface. They were laughing. Their joy aggravated her. She did not want space. ‘Can’t you just hold me down and get it over with?’

‘We don’t have to make a big deal out of this.’

‘No. We don’t.’

‘I’m not unhappy.’

‘You’re not happy either.’

‘I’m as good as I’m gonna be, and even what little peace I have is because of you.’

‘You’ve been happier lately. Since you became Class Vice President. Since you’ve been talking to him. Do you tell him the things you always say you can never tell me?’

‘No. I don’t.’

She heard the lie and played the conversation in her head – ‘You’re lying,’ she would say. – ‘How could you say something like that?’ he would ask. They would go back and forth, and he would win. She would feel angry, blaming herself for being so flawed and ruining any chance she had to be happy, to make him happy. She had no leverage on him. She could not prove he was lying. She could not use her intuition as an argument. At best, she could know what she knew about him and walk away. She would never leave him. She prayed some day he would wake up to the mediocrity of their circumstances and turn his back on her. She judged him for not being strong enough to do what she could not. They needed each other. They needed someone with whom to be alone. She could not be happy until she graduated, until she reunited with her mother, and Abel was destined for discord. They made good bedfellows, but she was losing him when he was supposed to have lost her. He was to remain fixed in time and spirit. This place where they were together was his home and her way station, unless she built a new home with her mother and he came with her. Carmine was intelligent. He was steel-eyed. He inspired hope with cynicism. He would help Abel find his way, not her. Heroes always protected their self-expectations with their loved ones. Abel had to be her glorious hero. She allowed this for his sake. With Carmine, he could be a broken pawn. She felt the backlash of destiny. The part she played to keep him was the part she would play to lose him. In the name of normalcy, she helped him build a home. They feigned ignorance as the time to live in truth was nearing, its aura like the sun’s rays reaching through time to warm their skin. Love was a cage; friendship was the window seen through the bars. To fly close to the sun and not be burned, to love but not feel so hopeless–this was friendship. Love was a burden, a responsibility that weaved a dream too true to be denied but too elusive to be inspiring. They were expected to love one another, to be happy with one another, to pretend to be normal with one another, but what happiness could there be in this script? If Abel bore himself, his true self, to Carmine, then destiny would force her to bear witness to her nightmare. Abel would not release her to love her. He would not cut her off with a swift blow to save her. He would slip away, slowly. She would cry and scream for him to stay. He would call her silly. – ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he would say until he realized the truth she had seen all along and was gone. – ‘What makes Carmine different?’ she wanted to ask. A silly question. She knew the answer. Carmine was smarter. He could know the truth without anyone knowing he knew the truth, and yet, everyone expected him to know the truth. She was a silly girl, smart but unknowing. He was a clever man, intelligent and aware. She hid so deep she was lost to the world. He hid but could not hide despite himself.

Abel saw the woman he loved sitting on the edge of the sofa, losing herself in the dark gorge of the fireplace where her gaze had dropped. He wanted to take her hand and help her crawl out of this hole. He rubbed her back to draw her attention to him once more. He heard a buzzing. A bee flew in circles behind the drifting curtains.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the bee. ‘It’s good luck.’ He did not know any folklore to suggest bees were fortuitous. He believed in creating your own destiny, even if you had to break Life’s arms and force her fingers to reweave Sister Fate’s tapestry.

Ilanya followed his finger. ‘The wind is good luck?’

‘The bee, stupid.’

‘I don’t see a bee.’

‘It’s gone now,’ he said. ‘But trust me, it was there.’

The bee floated in spiraling paths.

‘Okay,’ she said.

He had always called her stupid. When they were children, she would laugh and shout: ‘Uh uh, you’re stupid!’ In middle school, she would scoff: ‘Yeah, whatever, dick wad.’ Now they were grown, and she crumbled. He never would have mocked the idiocy of a true idiot. They held on to this piece of their childhood, a memento of simpler times. If she told him that she wanted to release it forever, then he would know that she had changed. He would know that she had become self-aware and felt vulnerable with him. He could make her insecure. He would become self-aware. He would be even more careful with her. The knowledge would have left them exposed. She would change in his eyes. Everything would change around them. They could not survive the metamorphosis.

His eyes held a glint of hope. She believed in him again. She kissed him and wondered if she had seen the bee. Abel felt her give in to him. He took her in his arms. He felt a sharp prick on his tongue and pulled away, his face twisted in shock and confusion.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

He shook his head, and his face re-morphed into its natural state, smooth and bright, like a plaster molded at will. He once more assumed his character, the congenial boyfriend. Such a regular fellow. So consistent. Ilanya stood at the brink of awareness, sensing significance in his quick shaking off of demeanors, but she remembered that she had intended to reclaim the afternoon. Abel saw her curiosity, the inquisition of him written in her mind and read faded on her face. Before he could guide her to a more comfortable ignorance of his condition, she said:

‘I’ll make breakfast for lunch.’

Abel smiled. ‘Let’s do that.’

‘It will be like starting the day over.’

And Ilanya composed her pretty picture. They sat in the sky blue breakfast nook, plates spread on the round glass table. Stacks of pancakes, heaps of bacon, a mound of eggs–they ate. They were content. Ilanya knew this peace would be fleeting, but she had not anticipated anything greater. He did not look at her, but she would not ruin this shared moment. She wanted him to see her, to want to see her. Abel looked to her. She had been staring. He felt her gaze, her desire to speak. She smiled to present the visage of loving admiration. She was the girlfriend proud to have served her man. He smiled in reply (or as default) and returned his attention to his food, stabbing at his eggs and pancakes cut into triangular eighths. He drowsed the skewered chow in syrup he poured from a three-inch tall porcelain pitcher. For his sake, she would pretend this moment was ideal. For her own sake, she would pretend not to hear the buzzing bee.

III.

Time and neglect had uprooted Avalon Square’s historic brick ground. From between the cracks, weeds blossomed their violet flowers from a crimson club perched on stiff stems. Stalkless leaves, furry and pointed, sprang in drooping slivers. Four brick buildings stood on each side, sharing their sidewalls. In each corner, an arched tunnel burrowed through the edifice to allow for passage upon the opening of a creaky, wooden gate. Abel placed his key in the entry’s lock, hurried through the dark walkway, and entered the small plaza.

His destination was the white establishment marked with a golden 1 on its black door. Four windows with clay-red shutters were evenly spaced on the second through fifth floors. The first floor was windowless. The other three firms mirrored this façade, but they were the color of coal with dusty blue doors. As Abel walked through the square, trampling the weeds under his plodding boots, the door to First Avalon opened. Carmine Lassiter stepped onto the front mat. Their appearances surprised one another. They froze.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Abel.

‘It’s an official matter,’ said Carmine.

‘For Class Council?’

‘I don’t owe you an explanation.’

‘We made a promise.’

‘I am not lying to you. I am truthfully telling you that I have no intention of disclosing my business.’

Carmine glared an impenetrable defense. His stiff and obstinate stance, like an ancient tree, knowing and rooted, bestowed the Class Representative with his subordinate’s respect and frustration. Abel could not melt this resolve with pleasantries and smiles. He did not want to. He had worked hard to grow and nurture the fruit of their friendship, to become a man who could dwell in authenticity. He and Carmine were supposed to exist in a different space, removed from the world. How had their fruit rotten? He noticed Carmine wore a long gray tweed coat and clutched his brown leather school satchel. When they last spoke, Carmine had borrowed his green button-up shirt. He had no belongings when he stayed at Lion’s Bluff.

‘You went home?’ asked Abel.

‘I don’t have a home.’

‘You went back to that place.’

‘I went to my house, the place where I live. That is my right.’

‘Fine. Good. You packed your bags since you’ll be staying–’

‘I don’t like repeating myself. I went to my house because that is where I live. I will play my role as the model youth of the black family. My pernicious, rebellious spirit will do no harm. That is my solemn oath.’

Abel shook his head. He refused to accept their distance. He scoffed and made other noises from his agitation. In his mind, he did not know what to say, but he did have a sense of the belief he wanted to express. He did not endeavor to cultivate his awareness of this feeling to relate it in words. It felt inappropriate somehow. It felt improper–taboo–like a curse. Unbeknownst to himself, he was afraid that, if uttered, his admission would change how they existed with one another. He struggled for words that were innocuous and yet impactful. This impossibility left him muttering:

‘I... I thought we... I don’t know.’

Carmine stepped off the mat. His black leather shoes buffed to a shine, his white-collared shirt pressed pristine, his gold glasses glinting as they caught the sun–the image projected an arresting presence. They were slipping back through time to an era when Carmine sat alone, silent in the corner of the classroom. He was invisible in his solitary haze. Abel saw him but acted as if he had not. This was the rule. No one knew if they could talk to him, but he was nice during group assignments. He helped anyone who asked but there was never the revealing of a personal detail. If asked for autobiographical information, Carmine had learned to deflect by redirecting the conversation to his peer’s favorite subject, usually themselves, sometimes club activities. People liked him without knowing him. They knew he was there but left him alone. He and Abel had attended Shadowcrest since kindergarten and never talked until one odd day last term. Abel had promised him that they were friends. This memory was false. He had promised to protect him. Now, he did not see his friend before him. His friend did not briskly glide past him. Abel grabbed the old stranger by the arm. They stood side by side, Abel facing the black door marked 1, Carmine craning his head to eye his obstructer.

‘I did not give you permission to touch me,’ said Carmine.

‘I need help. Ilanya is–’

‘If you wanted my help you would have called me. You came here instead.’

‘Why are you being such an ass?’

Abel felt the tension that erected Carmine’s superior guard slacken. He pulled him around, and they faced one another. Carmine knew Abel was going to present an invitation that he should have refused but would not. He had rehearsed this confrontation in a series of daydreams. He saw his dismissive actions; he heard the harsh responses. He had not considered the mounting dynamic that unleashed and synergized their feelings. There was Abel as a figment of his imagination, a puppet on the strings of his will who conceded flimsily to his demands, and now there was Abel, a human being outside of him. Two shadows had said things and done things in a mental play that Carmine thought could influence reality. The dream of Abel had no effect on him. The true Abel did. He had unwittingly strived for others to behold him as a moral prince seated on an ice throne in a castle of books. He wanted Abel to see him differently. He wanted Abel to see him as righteously flawed but not evil.

‘I’ll tell her you’re staying with me,’ said Abel. ‘I swear.’

‘She might not like that.’

‘I wouldn’t be with that kind of person.’

‘I am sure she will be fine. But I can stay with you until it is resolved if you like.’

‘Yes, that would be nice.’ He nodded like a king bowing his head to recognize a knight’s good service. Carmine snatched his arm from Abel’s grasp and completed his exit. Abel watched. Once he heard the gate slam shut, he continued through First Avalon.

IV.

Ilanya should have gone home. Instead, after lunch, she returned to Abel’s wing of Lion’s Bluff and tested an urge. When she had first arrived to plan for his return, he had locked his bedroom door. Now the door opened. She did not enter. She felt unwelcome.

She returned to the sunshine room and retrieved her leggings from under the sofa. Alone, she felt exposed. She felt a chill. She sat and slipped the stretchy fabric over her heel. Hands cupped her own and guided her as she removed the leggings, remaining bare.

‘Your skin is your connection to the outside, the membrane between your spirit and the world. To be exposed is to open your heart to the universe’s power. You will survive this if you understand these words. Do you understand?’

Ilanya nodded. She calculated. He could have strangled her with the leggings. His soothing voice suggested he did not intend for her to fight. If she launched into a defensive–maybe leaped over him to grab the crystal clock and bludgeon his head–she could have the time-halting effect of surprise on her side. She did not move. She had understood his words. His calm tone was cold. If she fought and lost, she would die. She wondered if she had wished this on herself.

She closed her eyes and laid back. ‘Do what you are going to do, so I can get on with my life.’ She was a coward, she thought. She had judged the girls who did not fight. She had sworn that, if confronted with such violence–civil or not–she would claw for her freedom. She would die a fighter rather than live as a victim. She had proven herself a hypocrite. In time, she would realize that she was, in fact, a survivor.

He hovered inches over her. His weight emitted a smothering aura. His arms wrapped around her, his palms against her back. She laughed, tears falling. His caress was sickeningly tender. She imagined he would brag to his friends. He would tell people he had made love to her. He would tell them she betrayed her boyfriend for an overwhelming lust that he invoked. She would live, and the cost would be her dignity. If she did not open her eyes, she would never recognize him. He would be a shadow in her mind but also in life. If she ever heard his voice, she would scramble to find the face that possessed it. She should have at least given herself the chance to identify him, but she did not want him to be real.

He lifted her. He wiped her tears. ‘You are an odd duck.’

‘I am not a duck. I am–’ Her hands moved in a quick gesture. He grabbed them, her nails an inch from his eyes. They trembled, their force pushing against each other. She looked into his gray-blue irises. Her French-manicured nails were her claws. She was the beast. He pulled her arms down, shaking and staggering. She collapsed. She cried. She was human.

He held her head up with a finger against her chin. He was an ugly man. His cheeks were puffed. Freckles speckled the rouge patches that stained his milky skin. His wet lips formed a thin crack of a line across his face. The deep ridges of his forehead, his protruding brow–he was a troll. The thought of him inside of her. Ilanya wanted to vomit. She regretted opening her eyes.

She slumped over, resting on his shoulder. ‘Please don’t do this,’ she whispered.

‘I brought you a present.’ He gently pushed her back to the position he had initially raised her. His cologne was quite refined. He smelled like a gentleman. He wore a cordovan suit with thin, white pinstripes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he presented a black wooden box, its engraved rings the color of straw. She opened this tiny box held in his thick, pink fingers and saw a zaffre velvet cloth cradling three chocolate truffles. She heard his voice as she had in the relative beginning, as a tranquil and disembodied entity. She now found it familiar. He said: ‘You must decide if you will eat this chocolate, our royal jelly. Do not ask questions. You said you understood. All I will say is that your heart knows what I am offering. Close the box and return it to me so I can leave. Or taste my tribe and let your tapestry burn only to be rewoven with your own fingers.’

She wanted him to swear he would leave. She looked to the truffles as if a clue to their riddle existed in their shells. She knew the answers were within. She wanted to close the box and be with Abel. She wanted to eat the chocolate and know the man’s answers. She looked at him again. He did not frighten her anymore. She took the box and sat back, crossing her legs. She sniffed the chocolate, also taking in the scent of the wood, an earthy sweetness. Her teachers had taught her to deny that conscious forces beyond humans existed. She learned that ignorance was a shield, the denial of her tongue a sword. She could close this box, watch this man go, and tell Abel and her aunt that today had been like any other day. She did not want another day like any other day. She held the chocolate ball to her lips and with a single finger pushed it into her mouth. It melted on her tongue, the chalky, rich sweetness melding into a silky filling, raspberry with a pungent saltiness. The rancidness provoked a look of disgust, but, as the flavors fused, she settled into elation. She tasted the fruit. She tasted honey. The undesired saltiness became a delicacy. She was curious for the second. The same taste, but the fruit was cherry. She craved the third. She tasted strawberries. She wanted more. She felt empty, a craving.

The man grinned with satisfaction. ‘You have filled the cup of evolution. You will swim in the primordial ocean and emerge through creation.’

‘I don’t feel any differently,’ she said to the man standing behind him.

‘Then you are still tethered to the fears that the world has seeped into you,’ said the familiar stranger, stepping forward. He wore a black-on-black suit. ‘Commit to your desire to return to your instincts. A half-measure of ambition is still failure. There is only the all, and all else is nothing.’ His red hair curled in styled tufts, his eyes blazed flecks of violet that flickered in the light.

A hand touched her shoulder. She saw his identical, standing above her. Another sat next to her. One man as three, three men as one–she looked to her original attendant for an explanation. He had collapsed on the floor.

‘He won’t wake up,’ she said.

‘He knew his purpose,’ said the first, standing over the body, ‘and he was happy to serve it. You should know that suffering for passion is a worthy choice for life. We sacrifice too much to be comfortable.’

‘Do you remember how this started?’ asked the second, standing behind her.

‘Does that matter?’ asked the third, seated next to her. He had taken her hand in his and looked at her with an admiration that made him distinctive and pleasant.

‘You were the strawberry,’ she said to him. ‘Your sting was the most gentle.’

‘Has your boyfriend explained to you what we are?’ asked the first.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘We are not supposed to believe in you. You do not talk about things that don’t exist.’

‘A myth is created because it is spoken. We are nothing but myths. There are the daemil. There are the oddities. And there are the recumon.’ As he spoke, his brothers carried the fallen body to the corner of the room. A black wooden trunk, much like the candy box, had appeared. She realized the small gift was gone. They stuffed the body inside and shut the lid. ‘The daemil are spirits, shadows cast by human existence, the ghost of your darkest mind, the mind unknown, the mind of purest creation. This mind reaches out to you, to help you, to love you, but you have abandoned it for more worldly angst. The daemil long for you. They seek to return to you, but, when they do, you corrupt them and so they corrupt you. You become an oddity, the possessed. Reconcile your natures, and you become recumon. Do you remember when your nature finally revealed itself, the yearning to come home so powerful that it risked oblivion to be seen?’

‘It was that long ago?’

‘Yes, it was.’

The day Abel found her, they adventured as magic knights. She became his ally, a warrior who saved a feared creature and battled dark wizards. She had felt a pain behind her ear. It persisted for hours. She brushed her hand over the side of her head and felt something like crumpled paper tucked under the lobe. A bee had stung her and died. She remembered earlier today. Abel had pointed to the window. She had seen nothing, but now, in her memory, she saw a bee flying in a circle then spiraling downward. She had heard a buzzing at lunch. A bee followed a circular path over her head.

‘I’ve never been alone,’ she said.

‘You are always with yourself.’

The brothers had returned to their respective positions at her side. They had placed the coffin before her. They gave her silence. She sensed her final decision. When Abel walked away, he would evolve beyond her. He would leave her in this common place, or they could sacrifice transcendence for each other. A condition forced onto them, they could now choose to be alone, together. Would he promise to her an eternity of soft aching? He would. She could make him. He was gallant. She could become an obligation that required their eternal binding. This idea was delicious to her. This had been her sweet jelly in the past. She had found a romantic misery with him that fulfilled and destroyed her. They could not console one another. They never brought each other joy. But they did not want consolation or joy. They wanted someone who understood that they did not want to change. They accepted their destiny as savior and pretender, but the smoldering dissatisfaction reminded them they were more than these roles. Others had masks for faces. They wore the masks, their breaths stifled.

If she could not grow with Abel, then they could grow apart and reclaim a new love in the future. Maybe, as two different people–two better people–they could build a happier life on childhood memories. This would be impossible. The world cast him as the hunter, her the prey. He was becoming the light, she the void. They could meet on a horizon but never cross worlds. Had this always been their nature? She loved him enough to defile her being, to act against the script of essence. He could love her the same way. If rules were made to be broken and Nature was the ultimate rule, then she had an obligation to become a god, he her prophet.

She stood. Her dress slipped from her shoulders, piling on the floor. The first opened the royal cup. She stepped into an opaque liquid that drained her consciousness. She swooned. The third brother caught her, her body wilting over him. He lowered her into the preserve, and her lungs filled with the first ocean.

The second and third brothers flanked the trunk at its shortest sides, facing the door. They bent down, the second brother reaching forward, the third reaching back, and lifted the trunk by its handles, unmoving iron bars. The first brother led the procession away from Lion’s Bluff.

V.

The office at the end of the fifth floor smelled like burning charcoal and aged paper with a hint of haunted dust. Previous visitors snagged the burgundy carpet, its tight weaving loosened into stringy trusses. As Abel approached a grand desk, the floor whined under the pressure of his thumping stomp. A broad leather chair lined with brass studs presented its back to him and overlooked a four-paned window, a portal through a wall of texts. This barricade of knowledge continued through the adjacent walls, the final boundary wallpapered in a golden-brown fawn with thorny vines wrapped around cream stripes.

Abel punched the back of the chair. ‘We need to talk.’

The chair swiveled around. ‘Well, if it isn’t the exorcist voted most privileged,’ said the diabolist, Norton Amparo, his assortment of gold bracelets tinkling. ‘The hero who levels towns and is championed as he walks the streets, the golden boy who makes the shadows recoil into the light, the god who is too important to make an appointment–he is Abel Carraway.’ The skull on his black t-shirt was faded, visible under an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt shaded with the hues of sunset. His dark hair greasy, his eyes lined in black–he pitched forward, his hands clasped before him in a fist, his bracelets fallen down his arms. His nails glittered sinister blue. ‘How may I serve the most respected of exorcists? Should we talk about who I’ve just met with, or perhaps some other matter concerning a sweet little bee drowning in her honey?’

‘Both.’

‘You only get one, and I choose Carmine Lassiter. He came for an application to leave our esteemed town. One of our brightest denizens needing to search outside of his home for opportunities and happiness distresses me. What can we do about that?’

‘I get it. He can’t leave. And he won’t. I’ve already handled it.’

‘Wow, you are quite efficient when you want something. And there wasn’t even a mess to clean up.’

‘I did it because it was necessary.’

‘Again, you are quite efficient when you want something. What you want is always necessary, Abel. What does Lassiter do for you?’

‘He’s more useful than you.’

‘Even without his memories of the daemil? Because if he did start seeing mysterious horses galloping over the moon, or let’s say, a monkey–’

‘I said it’s handled. If I patronize him with denial, he will hunt for answers. He does not recall the specifics as an oddity.’

‘That’s a lie. But thank you for actually keeping me out of it.’

‘I didn’t do it for you.’

‘I gave you a chance to pretend to be a decent person, and you still couldn’t do it.’

‘I may be an ass, but I’m not a liar.’

‘We all lie. I’d rather you knew that. But a sun that is aware of its shine never shines that bright.’

Abel grabbed a rough and splintering wooden chair from the corner. He placed its back to Amparo and sat with his legs out to the sides. ‘So tell me about bees.’

Amparo had heard from an informant that a swarm had gathered around Lion’s Bluff. The bee daemil were utilizing their recumon to recruit queens. A supercedure had commenced. The recumon prepared their royal jelly from the cream of their life-force and the honey harvested from the daemil. As the candidate queen ate her cedurs’ truffles, the royal jelly infused her with the daemil’s customs and bonded her to her presiding drones. Only consenting believers saw the daemil. The bee recumon had a custom that a candidate queen should see them once she had blossomed into full awakening. The ritual protected their identities and strengthened their bonds to the potential royal.

‘She would never eat that,’ said Abel. ‘She doesn’t even like going down.’

Amparo jingled his bracelets, amusing himself as a diversion from the fool before him. ‘Did you miss the part where I said they squirted baby batter into truffles? I had a girlfriend allergic to cocoa, and she once risked her life to eat a chocolate stuffed with a rare French truffle. It cost five hundred dollars. How could chocolate cost so much, a person not full of himself would ask? Simple. Since chocolate is chocolate, you paid for everything but the candy, which is obviously negligible at such a price. The chocolatier wrapped their sweet turds in twenty-four karat gold with twenty-four karat gold flakes folded into the filling. Then there was the twenty-four karat gold embellishing the handcrafted box and the blue suede lining that nestled each truffle. Each box is one of a kind, its wood cut from an ancient tree. The barbarians. It’s proof that for any manufactured good you are really paying for the packaging. Elitism is the dumbest driving force of capitalism.’

‘You should have married her.’

‘I like a woman with pretentious tastes and a rebellious streak, but I live to give women chocolate. You can imagine my conundrum.’

‘Your greatest joy may kill the one you live to serve.’

‘Yes, you were actually listening. Fulfilling yourself, fulfilling your role in life, may get someone killed. So, I abandoned the woman most perfect for me and searched for someone new, someone who will accept the secret research I do and pitiful pittance I make but craves all the fine things I can never reveal or afford. What do you seek in life?’

‘I just want to help my girlfriend.’

‘And Carmine?’

‘And Carmine.’

‘You could just marry them. Well, I mean one. You will have to choose which one to save.’

‘Just tell me how to help her.’

‘They need an anchor. They need love. They need family. You can only give that to one of them. If you can be convincing in the charade, make Carmine fall in love with you and take him as your brother or commit the predictable with Ilanya and take her as your sister. Isn’t it weird how we equate the married with siblings through the very concept of in-laws? I never want my future wife to claim my mother as her own.’

‘I really don’t like it when you get ridiculous.’

‘Matters of recourse often seem absurd until the problem is in full view and disaster is obvious and hence inevitable. But maybe, for once, don’t be so myopic and handle a situation before it passes the tipping point of crisis. You should have learned–’

Abel slammed his fist. The table shuddered. He looked at the printed skull on the t-shirt. Amparo sat back in his chair, staring discontentedly at humanity’s defender. Abel had sensed his consultant was edging near the upheaval of an incident he had worked hard to bury under a veneer of normalcy. If he allowed certain events to have their full effect on his psyche, he could never act with the typical civility that society required of everyone. His anger surprised him, but he did not regret the outburst. If courteousness could not assuage Amparo’s smarminess, then the moment’s escalation was his ally’s fault.

‘Fine,’ said Amparo. ‘I just read books, so what do I know about life? But please remember, even though I am a superior ass, I did take this position because I care,’ he tilted his head and curled his lip at the revolting admission before adding, ‘in my way.’

Abel nodded. ‘I know. You’re a better person than I am.’ He looked at his confidante with sincerity. ‘And I thank you for keeping Carmine a secret.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Now, what do I do about Ilanya?’

‘Do what you’ve always done. Exorcise the daemil. You seem to have your methods and never do what I tell you. I don’t even know why you come here.’

‘I needed to know more about the bees.’

‘Ah, and alpha males don’t need to spend precious time reading. That’s what ego fodder like me is for.’

‘Yup.’ Abel stood, swung one leg around the chair, and returned it to its place in the corner.

‘The bees may be more peaceful than most daemil, but they are protective of their queens.’

‘Whatever,’ said Abel, opening the door. As he left, he waved his hand as a farewell. He had not turned around, but Amparo knew they were leaving on good terms. Abel’s dismissal had its usual fresh-faced tone. The diabolist never wanted to know the exorcist he oversaw. Men like Abel were always more tolerable as acquaintances. The people who considered themselves his friends were never truly such. The most notable magic trick of the likable was their ability to convince everyone that their true personalities were contained in the small talk, friendly jabs, and self-deprecation that were the hallmarks of their interaction with the world. They made people feel close to them with a smile. God had truly blessed the beautiful. They quickly brought down red flags with an instant of modesty, and yet, despite this self-effacement, they still managed to always get what they wanted. Who else other than God’s chosen could never demand, or demand outright, their desires and expect their reception, never forgotten or judged.

Amparo knew that anyone whom Abel took as a friend beyond pretense was at once honored and cursed. To know Abel would be a rarity and a disease. Any fool on vacation in the Mediterranean who related to hip-hop because his parents divorced when he was eight would claim to have a dark side. There was self-righteous angst, and there was righteous anger. Abel insisted he did not have this shadow doppelganger. The exorcist who seemed to find more comfort in the feel of a blade slicing through the supernatural than a home cooked potpie believed he was good. Everyone wanted to be different. Those who declared themselves ‘crazy’ proved their humdrumness. Someone under the demented spell of Madness would hold a knife to the throat of anyone who suggested they were unusual. Abel did not understand why people watched him. He did not understand how the abnormal drew attention despite reason. In Abel’s mind, he was normal, and this belief was his leash on sanity. Amparo was terrified of his most amiable charge. In ways he was wrong about Abel. In ways he was right.

VI.

Carmine did not doubt his reality. He had a method for contending with his perceptions. If he saw something he did not remember to be there or did not believe to be plausible, then he assumed it was not real. For example, when he left Avalon Square he walked to the street corner. The button for the cross signal was green, but he had recalled it to be red. It did not exist. He waited until the traffic had cleared and quickly crossed with the red palm trying to blink him to a halt. And for another example, when he arrived via metro in White Swallows a howler monkey sat on a cherry red mailbox. As he passed each uniform mailbox, the monkey appeared on top. It pointed down the street, in the direction from which he came. This monkey was not probable. He continued to Kingfisher Gardens. And for the final example, when the gate to the elite community opened, a man walked down the middle of the street. Carmine also walked down the middle of the street. A parade of twelve, all dressed in black, followed the oncomer. This was not realistic. Carmine quickened his stride, remembering the time. He had to hurry. He did not want to miss the beginning of his favorite soap opera. The monkey stood between him and the convoy. If an unlikely monkey was concerned with unlikely people, then Carmine resolved the riddle: there was only he, the road, and the urgency to watch his television show propelling him to his destination. This allowed for one reality: he was walking down the street alone.

Carmine had confused the first recumon brother, Demeter Proctus, who saw this young man confidently gliding with efficiency towards him. Proctus took pride in knowing that he was blind to the ignorant, but Carmine had a refined and stern air. This human presented himself as someone who had deliberately faced difficult truths with poise. Demeter was titillated, the hairs on his arm tingled. He desired to be seen. He wondered if Carmine was a virgin or a master. Could he experience the joy of opening such a singular prize to the ethereal, or would he have to settle for the satisfaction of exposing a polished con artist to his own fear of Truth?

They met at the monkey. The first Proctus stared directly at Carmine. Carmine looked through Proctus. The leading brother’s grin turned into puzzlement and then shock as they were three strides away and his challenger had not slackened his pace or even shifted his glance to assure him that his existence had registered. The sheer determination to disavow his presence proved that he had been recognized. Demeter veered around the object of his curiosity, snapped his finger authoritatively, and the line encircled Carmine, forcing him to stop.

‘Is this yours?’ asked First Proctus.

Carmine reached into the side pocket of his satchel and retrieved his phone. ‘I completely forgot to make this call,’ he said to himself. He talked on the phone about organizing the Cultural Festival. The election for class officers had taken place on the last day of the term. His English teacher had notified him of the results during break with a sincere congratulations that he cut short. The principal would not officially announce his appointment until the first day of the new term, but he took the initiative concerning the largest, most important event of the school year. Everything he said was a matter of true concern even though he had not called anyone. He looked to the sky as if in a fluster and turned slowly in a circle, recording every face surrounding him. He had considered the possibility that the true frontrunner had camouflaged himself amongst his inferiors. He noticed the second and third brothers holding a trunk but knew neither was in charge. The specter he had confronted had a more smug and rigid character, his brothers more youthful in their artlessness. Everyone else appeared too simple to earn the first brother’s loyalty as a leader.

He felt a pressure on his shoulder. The recumon at one with his bee had leaned forward with his hands held behind his back and rested his chin on Carmine, the oddity stalked by a monkey. Carmine ended his call.

Proctus introduced himself and then repeated, ‘Does that belong to you?’ He pointed to the monkey seated on the trunk.

‘I have never claimed him, and I never will,’ replied Carmine. ‘Do you prefer Demeter or is there a nickname you use to make yourself seem more appealing?’

A laugh. ‘The simpletons I need familiarity with call me Demi. In the most respected and official of capacities, I am Proctus or First Brother. But I think I would like to hear you say Demeter.’ He paused, expecting Carmine to comply with the request. There was no response, so he continued, ‘I wish more people took life seriously. It makes life much more fun unless you are a child. Children need games to be easy. Otherwise, they become anxious and quit. People like you and me find satisfaction in the struggle. We aren’t fake about it. We don’t whine for credit, exhausted when the real work has just begun.’ He repositioned himself before Carmine, taking his listener’s sight for himself, away from the monkey. ‘I’m not surprised such vermin would labor so hard for your attention. Does the silly beast know you’ve recognized it?’

Carmine released a disinterested sigh.

‘You can keep your secrets. It doesn’t matter. But I promise that the monkey will not abandon someone like you. Not unless you surrender to a different daemil.’

‘And what are you?’

‘We are the bees.’ He opened his arms out, inviting Carmine to behold his swarm. The monkey’s oddity heard buzzing. He saw the bees, dark spots circling and spiraling around their recumon. A single bee floated, descending from his worker brethren, and landed on the tip of Demeter’s finger. From his pocket, Proctus presented a truffle wrapped in silver foil: ‘Unfold it.’ Carmine obeyed. The bee flew onto the chocolate. ‘Eat this and join a recumon tribe of the highest breeding. The monkey is a silly trickster. We are social engineers.’

Carmine understood that Demeter valued him due to the monkey. The noble bee criticized the crude monkey and yet considered its judgment worthy.

‘I will pass,’ he replied. ‘I’m not desperate enough for a shotgun wedding.’

‘I should kill you to protect our identity.’

‘You don’t toy with prey just to gobble it down.’

‘You are right.’ Demeter folded his arms, debating with himself whether to honor Carmine as a potential equal or maintain skepticism and behold him as light amusement. All that was new settled into something old. All that was once exciting soon became a bore. Every adventure became a routine. He had learned to accept the risk of happiness, chasing the mysterious, the provocative, even if it killed him. He lived with the realization that life was a choice: He could be bored, or he could dangle off a cliff. Concerning Carmine, an obstinate daemil like his monkey presented three options: adaptation, lunacy, or suicide. He believed the oddity would adapt, but he was intrigued as to his theurgist, the method and manner of this revelation. A rival, an ally, or a fool may have emerged from the transformation. He was hoping for a rival.

The First Proctus walked away from Carmine. The circle parted to allow him passage. His brothers followed and the circle slithered from around their constricted captive until once again in queue. The monkey had disappeared. The bees vanished in smoky puffs. Carmine watched until the gate closed behind the ghostly pageant. He sent his recording to Abel.

VII.

The house smelled of cabbage. The water boiled on the stove, steam rising in torrents. The humidity threatened Demeter’s composure, melting down his statuesque stance. Hands clasped behind his back, legs spread shoulder width–he stood as if prepared to command. His suit felt stuffy. Sweat dampened his hairline. His mother hummed while chopping carrots. She shook her hefty hips and two-stepped in her pink slippers, her floral dress swaying.

‘Well, close the door and sit,’ she said. Demi followed her orders.

The Proctus home was one rectangular room painted marigold and carpeted in juniper green. Along the left wall, a yellowed counter scuffed with knife marks wrapped around the corners. The cabinets were white. A square window, two feet all around, provided a narrow escape for a daydream or a prayer while washing dishes at the sink. Partitioning the right side of the house, two white sheets covered in abstract sunflowers hung from nails hammered into the ceiling. Mrs. Delora Proctus slept behind these drapes. A dining table for four stood in the middle of the remaining space. This was where Demi took his seat. A gold, three-tiered canopy suspended a chandelier with dangling crystal droplets over his head.

Mrs. Proctus finished her task, checked the cabbage and, after patting her forehead with the hem of her apron, sat opposite her son. Demeter hated the apron. A gray British Shorthair cat stared at him with wide orange eyes. He felt foolish being under the gaze of something so ridiculous.

‘Is there a problem, Demi?’ she asked, leaning back. ‘Should I change into something more sophisticated? Maybe whip out one of them five hundred dollar dresses I got stashed under my bed.’

He had not realized that his lip had curled at her appearance. She pulled back her frizzed and graying chestnut curls, keeping them pinned with the hair clip clamped to her apron strap. She propped her arm on the back of the chair and twirled a loose curl around her finger.

‘No, Mother, you look wonderful,’ he replied. ‘You look like a woman who has sacrificed so her children could have.’

She scoffed. ‘That may have sounded like a compliment if you weren’t so fussied up. If you ain’t proud of where you come from then you can leave. Go to where you deserve to be. Don’t let an old woman like me keep you from grandness.’

‘I’m fine where I am. This is my home.’

‘Good. Then go change your clothes. If you’re gonna talk to your dear ole mother, then you should look like her dear ole son.’

‘Yes, Mother.’ And he swiftly took his leave.

She chastised him for his own good. She had bought her sons their suits. Still, they needed to understand their clothes were not their worth. Their trappings were one of many tools for their trade. Demeter was the quickest to ransom his good sense and respected name for a little bourgeois pomp. So she humbled him to ensure that he listened to straight country reasoning.

The backyard was a patch of hard dirt sectioned off with a wire fence. Flourishing weeds encroached, growing through the fence’s openings. A forest of weeping trees drooped over six outhouses. Four houses were slender shelters, a toilet and grooming station for each member of the family. The house to their left served for showering. The largest house was erected behind these modules. It functioned as the Proctus triplet’s living quarters. Against the wall, a triple bunk bed stood, each mattress cloaked with a cornhusk blue silk duvet. On each side, barrister bookcases were posted displaying neat stacks of boxers, balled up socks, and casual clothing. Along the opposite wall, three holographic computer projectors were stationed on a desk. Above, shelves floated, supporting dozens of classic novels and historical texts.

Mrs. Proctus considered these outhouses a wise use of her husband’s life insurance benefits. He had intended the money for a royal burial in a grand mausoleum that would serve future generations of Proctuses. She had him cremated, poured into a plastic bag, and kept him under her bed in a shoebox. Life and all of its resources should serve the living and not the dead, she thought. Parents should serve their children even in death, she also thought.

Demeter changed in his room. He removed his fine black dress socks and put on ones that were thick and white. He left his silk boxers on. To compensate for his arrogance, he wore a white t-shirt with overalls and yellow-brown work boots. She always loved him in overalls. They evoked childhood memories from when he and his brothers would make mud pies for her. He shook his hands through his hair, messing his polished coiffure into a straggly bush.

When he returned to the dining table, his mother clapped her hands together in delighted surprise. He could not help but smile at seeing her happiness.

‘Now that’s my boy,’ she said.

He sat at the table, and she held her hands out. He placed his palms in hers. Her eyes narrowed. She gripped him, her nails pressing into his skin.

‘Do you know who you took?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied.

She dug her nails deeper. He flinched but quickly stiffened.

‘Ilanya Respa,’ he said. ‘But she’s like us. She lived on the other side of the park. Once she sees the world here isn’t really what it looks like she’ll come back.’

‘And you’ll be together?’

‘Yes. She can see that you can have humble beginnings and still be happy. And comfortable.’

‘She thought she was too good for this place. Or at least her mother did. And I can respect that. I grew up accustomed to these po’ rustic accouterments. I’m so used to them that I get antsy around nice things. I made sure my children were easy about the finer absurdities of life without gettin’ all ludicrous about ‘em. You only need what you think you need to be happy.’ She released him and eased back. She pointed at him, deliberately tilting her finger once and returning it to an upright position. ‘Manage your expectations. Be happy with less so you can enjoy more.’ She sighed, placing her hands in her lap. Deflated, she listlessly swayed back and forth. ‘You’ve always wanted that girl. I was always nervous what would have happened when you got the courage to deal with her. I thanked God when she moved. But I should have known she was with you the whole time. She isn’t your heart, though, Demeter. She’s just a...’ she shook her head, weighing different choices for words, ‘a symbol, an embodiment of everything that you don’t think you have but want.’

‘It’s not like that,’ he replied. ‘She’s good for me. She’s been where I’ve been, and she’s going where I’m going. Who else can understand that? A girl from here can’t do jack to help me. And a girl from out there would want me to turn my back on everything I have here, and I’m not doing that no matter what you keep suggesting when you make fun of me.’

‘Oh, baby, don’t forget that I always want what’s best for you.’

‘I know. I know you’re just trying to keep me grounded. But other than her, who can do that once you’re gone?’

Mrs. Proctus raised her chin. ‘Don’t count me out yet.’

‘If it ain’t the cancer, then it’ll just be Time. Somethin’ will get you. That’s life. You won’t be around forever, and the other swarms got their candidates. I’m tellin’ you, Mama. Ilanya is the one. She’ll keep us on top. You know they been buzzin’ around here trynna check on you. If they sense you’re not up to strength, it’s war.’

‘I don’t need explanations of things that I taught you to begin with. I am proud of you despite the facts. Ilanya was a fine choice. But the problem with fine choices is that they are usually taken before we get our fair chance if we even get that. We had time to breed a girl right. But for now everything’s on hold.’

Demeter wiped his hand on the table. He had wanted to slam his fist down. ‘Nothing’s on hold. It’s done. I have Ilanya. We have Ilanya. I used to walk behind her on the way to the bus stop for school. Her hair used to bounce and shine. She would walk in the same dirt as everyone else, but her socks were always clean. I knew she was meant to be a queen. I knew I was meant to be the one to place the crown on her head. And I was right. She accepted me. She accepted us. I promised her something greater, and she heard the truth in my voice. She was so much better than any human. She did not play mind games with herself. She did not try to weigh some ignorant assumption of the mundane with the splendor of her ringing soul. These humans know there is a living world breathing, pumping, under the cold glass they call reality. They don’t care. They can’t see us because they deny us. And even when a part of them opens up to the truth and they catch a glimpse of us, they pretend not to, praying we don’t see them. And we don’t because we accept hiding. So give me one reason after thinking about all you’ve given up for us, all you want us to achieve, why I shouldn’t fight for my dream?’

Mrs. Proctus loved her sons. She did not respect mothers who allowed their sorrow for one child to compromise their ability to raise another. Parents who cried, yelled, and screamed thought these outbursts validated them as good nurturers. Delora asked herself: did Woman love her children enough to bottle her fury and harness it as the fuel for civil fortitude? She believed women would rather burn their beloveds in the name of righteousness than serve them with cold rationality. More than once women had judged her. She refused to be angry on behalf of her children. Wrath was not a tool of her trade. She needed to save her son:

‘Your brothers are dead,’ she said.

Demeter pursed his lips together. ‘You’re lying. You’re just trying to scare me. But I am–’

‘They are dead.’ She nodded slowly. She lived in harmony with her children’s hearts. She felt a cold void that leeched her essence. She felt her spirit yearn to cave into the emptiness, but she clung to her Life.

‘You don’t know that.’ Demeter saw her solemn grief and could not refuse its weight, an anchor to reality. ‘When? It’s impossible. I left them with...’ He toppled over the chair as he bolted from the house. He hopped his backyard fence. He waded and stumbled through the forest. He found a patch of leaves and twigs. They covered a blanket that concealed a hatch. He dropped down the tunnel and stood in a dirt hall lit with hanging lanterns. At the end was a door.

The room was hexagonal. The walls were a pale pink. He had purchased for her an antique vanity, freshly painted lavender. He had built and decorated this space with an image of her as a child with shining hair in his mind. She wore pink jeans. She was always walking away from him. Until now, there had never been a time when he saw this place and had not wondered how to make it more worthy of her.

His brothers lay on the floor, their heads rolled next to them. A thick, opaque fluid oozed from the stumps of their necks. He sat between them, pulling their bodies into him. He gathered their heads and held them in his arms, rocking back and forth. A pair of black boots stood behind the door. The door swung closed, and the bee faced Abel.

VIII.

Abel had promised Delora Proctus that he would not harm her eldest son. She knew he would hunt her children. She knew he would kill them. She sacrificed her pride to spare one from the slaughter. She took all blame. Demeter would not destroy himself with guilt’s maddening grief if she took the fire upon herself. He would find purpose, a new life, in hating her.

Abel did take pity on the mother. He respected any woman who dared to feel for her children. His own mother did not find nurturing appealing. She had told him that she was not brave and preferred a more pragmatic approach to their relationship. She asked if he could accept this. Could she love him in her way? He said she could. He was five.

One could better provide for a child without the undermining effect of emotional attachment, Abel had learned. Even as the queen of bees bargained for one child on a utilitarian principle, he heard the quiver of desperation in her voice. She struck a deal, recumon to exorcist, but he knew she was begging. He had fought to become strong. He would never succumb to another’s power. He would never have to cower.

He did not have a choice. An exorcist that did not punish wrongdoers with brutality was a servant of humanity that did not deserve respect. To protect the ones who gave his life meaning, he had to speak in a language of primal simplicity. No creature, living or undead, could mistake his message. He was the hero, and, if you stood against him, you were evil.

When he closed the door, he gave Demeter a moment to appreciate what had transpired. The recumon had seen Abel’s black boots, his gaze rising, reality further impressing itself on his mind. This man before him was an exorcist, thought the bee, a nightmare that his mother had seeped into him with horrifying bedtime stories.

‘You shouldn’t be angry at your mother,’ said Abel, resting the blade of his machete against his shoulder. ‘And I know I’m the last person to tell you how to feel, but there isn’t really anyone else to do it. Your mom explained you a little though. You’ll hate me for saying this, but I get it. I definitely know what it’s like to be the crud around a diamond. When you think about it, you’ll see the bigger picture. How did I know you took Ilanya? How did I know where you took her? When you answer the first question, I suggest you leave him alone. He’s with me. I know you think you hate your mother right now, but trust me. He’s not worth her life. I was going to find you. That was inevitable. That’s how these stories go. The bad guys never win. The funny thing that isn’t so funny is that I’m far more evil than you. It’s all degrees. Bad people do some good. Good people do some bad. But bad people do too much wrong to be good, and good people do enough right to keep from being bad. I do good, and yet I’m really bad. I think I’m evil, but that’s not how life views things. I protect people from you. So I’m the good guy. I only came here because you took someone important to me. I will only come back here if you try it again. Your mom probably wants you to blame her. I’ve watched enough television to know how good mothers think. They lie out of love. But this is your fault. You overreached. You didn’t know your limits. On the bright side, you still have your mom. She still loves you. Things won’t ever be the same. However, being miserable with someone is still better than being miserable alone. And if you think you deserve to be alone... well... you don’t. No one does. If everyone had someone and the world just left them alone then only the serious sickos would ever need punishing. If you appreciated your family a little more, then you wouldn’t have had to do this. I wouldn’t have had to do this. So go home. And if you want revenge keep your hatred locked on me. You seem like the kind of guy who dreams of a big, dangerous life. Well, this is it. If you like it, you can come for more. You know where I live. Can you be trusted with that information?’

Demeter nodded.

‘Good.’ Abel observed this domestic tragedy, wanting to feel sympathy. He could not. There was silence. And then he left.

The first Proctus saw the howler monkey sitting on his brother, the one who was sweet, the romantic. He was too exhausted to be disgusted. The monkey confused his worldly fatigue with acceptance and walked on his brother’s body. He reached up and pressed his lips against Demeter’s forehead.

The bee laughed. ‘He’s still too good for you, but I’ll leave him alone.’

The monkey appreciated this peace offering. He opened the dead brother’s mouth and scampered out of the room. Demeter cried in laughter. Life was so stupid and so cruel.

IX.

The television screen displayed a painting. A renaissance man sat at his desk, illuminated in a celestial beam of inspirational sunshine. He poured his attention over his drawing of Man’s liver, a pile of designs for various contraptions underneath. A woman with a slight smile stood over him to witness his genius at work. She cast a shadow over half of his face. Abel placed a black trunk on the gray marble hearth of the fireplace, under this work of art. He opened the lid and sat on the sofa. He waited.

Ilanya awoke. She gripped the edge of the trunk and pulled herself up. She had existed in a darkness where dreams were born, where flickering reflections escaped but never shined back on their source. The audit of her soul was unknown to her ego. She had believed that her survival would have been her proof that she had transcended the trial. Never before had her life been so certain. If she had lived, then she had succeeded. If she had died, then she would have moved on to oblivion or the afterlife. For a moment, her life was a pass/fail test. There were no relevant probabilities. She had reached a stasis where all branching possibilities converged at one choice before branching out forever once more or collapsing altogether. This place of decision, within yet beyond her, only required an act of acceptance, and, in this surrender, there was serenity. The room at Lion’s Bluff, the night floating outside the window, Abel seated before her–these observations ruined the harmony that she had secured for herself. She cried.

‘What did you do?’ she asked, her head hanging low, tears dropping to the floor.

‘I did what I had to,’ he replied. ‘You had to have known this would be the ending. For you. For me. For us. There are no fairytales, only ghosts. We are all trapped here together. Doing it over and over again.’

‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t need you to save me.’

‘I did what I had to.’

‘I went with them. I decided this for myself. I had finally found a place where what was real was also what was true. I found a place where I could be where I wanted to be. You took that away from me.’ She expected epiphany to overwhelm him, to drop him to his knees and usher tears of regret. He raised an eyebrow. She drooped over her cell. Did she have to accept this? Did she have to accept him? In a burst, she cried out and hurled herself onto Abel. The nail of her thumb punctured his eye. Naked, she lay against him. He held her, sliding her finger from his socket and holding her hand against his chest. Her sobs pulsated through him. He felt a trickle of blood fall down his cheek. His eye tingled as the tissues reconstructed the damaged organ. He had felt the pain. He had screamed in silence.

Ilanya felt the warmth of his humanity. His breath raised his chest. His heart beat. ‘Oh, God,’ she said, looking to see the wound she had inflicted. It had healed. ‘How did you do that?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

She rested her head again. This moment would be a manufactured facsimile of the stillness she had acquired. She allowed it to suffice. Her skin was dry. The essential fluid had filled her lungs and infused her body with a spirit that echoed every tone of her passion, her humanity. Abel heard an angelic resonance springing from her cells. As her potential settled, the glorious chorus faded.

‘What am I supposed to do now?’ she asked.

‘Live the way you always planned on living.’

‘I can’t. I know too much now. I feel it inside of me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He balled her hair in his fist and pulled her back. He saw her fear. His teeth dropped from his mouth as two fangs protruded from his gums. She struggled. They toppled over, falling to the floor.

‘No, Abel. Please don’t.’ She whimpered. His weight smothered her. His jeans chafed her thighs. The coolness of the wooden floor stung. She pounded her fists against him, but, as his fangs sunk into her neck, her arms fell away. She waited until it was over. The ocean of Life slipped away. Four strangers had offered her a dream, and one love stole it from her. She wondered when it had become impossible to imagine other futures. When had she signed her fate over to this man? She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head.

‘I will kill you some day,’ she said. She did not see the tears fall from his eyes. If she had, she would not have cared.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MICHAEL R.E. ADAMS writes stories in the fantasy and science fiction tradition. He completed his undergraduate studies in English at Georgetown University and his graduate studies in English/Writing at Mills College.

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