Page 10 of Tangled at the Root
But it hadn’t just been about my ability to connect to and harness the eshé.If only.
It had been about my other … “gift”.
How I’d begun to suspect something about that “gift”, something that had subconsciously held me back—that had strangled me with fear and a premature sorrow, left me sitting still in that crowded terminal, staring into space as Genevieve had boarded her bus home on that early morning, and I’d watched her leave, taking my heart right with her.
I’d come home, and I’dstillheld onto useless hope until graduation. Until I’d had my phone out, and somehow, I’d known.
I was too late. Genevieve was gone. I’dlosther. And I’d thought, with all the secrets resting heavily on my shoulders, perhaps it was best to let her go.
When my mother had eventually corroborated my suspicions, I’d told myself I’d made the right decision.
The less attachments I had, the better I’d fare in the long-run.
If I’d let myself—
If I’d lether—
What would happen tomorrow?
And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? How would I survive it when—
Stop. Stop.Stop.
The loneliness I’ve felt all my life—only exacerbated after my mother had confirmed my worst fears—rears its ugly head once more.
Oh, how easy it had been to stand firmly in my convictions when I hadn’t had to see Genevieve face to face. How easy it had been to trick myself into believing time and distance had dulled the sharp edge of my ardour.
I try to remind myself I’m not here for her. I’m not here forus. I’m here on business, and coming clean is a necessity so I can properly do my job.
The thought makes my skin itch and the back of my mouth taste like blood and dirt.
My mother won’t approve. She dislikes when I “introduce” myself to people who haven’t specifically been referred, or aren’t already in the know. Unsurprisingly, the Venn diagram of those particular people is a circle.
Then again, she hasn’t approved of the way I’ve been handling the family business since I’d been given the reigns, so to speak, but all she can honestly do is complain. How does she expect us to grow with the same dusty client list from way back when? The older generation of Oronariode women have always been too old-fashioned. They can consider this yet another modern upgrade.
Ineedto tell Genevieve I’m an oerhwu so I can easily figure out what brought me here and why.
If that means I get to liftonesecret off my chest—that I get to blow apart at least one wall standing between me and the love of my life, I’m considering it a bonus.
4: DROWNING IN MEMORY
It’s nightfall by the time I feel calm enough to leave the cocoon of blankets and sheets I’d made of myself on what had once been my mother’s childhood bed. There shouldn’t have been even a hint of her scent lingering—I’d been very young when she’d fallen out with her mother, and we hadn’t visited her since—but with my abnormally, ever-evolving supernatural senses, despite the fact that she’s been dead for a little over ten years, I swear I can still smell her.
The sharp tang of the cheap body spray she buys every month from the local market, along with sweat and skin and something … unnatural that I try to ignore. I bury my face in the pillow and inhale despite the rising tide of my grief, the scent and the pain choking me.
My temple begins to throb. I taste the phantom copper of spilled blood and hear the faint sound of a shrill scream, abruptly cut off. It happens every time I linger on thoughts of her, like the beast is trying and failing to conceptualise her death.
The sheets threaten to rip in my fists. I empty my mind, trying to ground myself in the present.
Rosemary is cooking. My stomach rumbles, for once as a result of simple mortal hunger. I sit up, staring out into the darkness. The curtains are still open, revealing the tops of the trees in the distance, the dark, but clear deep, purple sky, twinkling with stars. If I concentrate hard enough, I’d probably be able to see and count every single one.
The air smells like rain, though its still a distance away. There’s the tinny sound of a radio, Rosemary humming along. The nostalgia it stirs is painfully unwelcome.
I desperately wish I could, but I unfortunately can’t hide forever. Whatever magical lockdown had happened downstairs is the same upstairs. I hadn’t even been able to go onto the balcony; the sliding glass doors have melded into a single, solid pane. Attempting to break the glass had yielded equally disappointing results as when I’d tried to pull the metal bars off the windows.
Fuck.Rosemary. My gut clenches. My ribs, right over my heart, feel terribly sore, like they’ve been punched in.
Ten years. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’ve been asleep this entire time, and now I’m wide awake, the last ten years we’ve spent apart some kind of horrid dream.
