Page 82 of Florescentia

My steps creaked and whined the entire path up the stairs. Lingering outside the room allowed me to see into a time capsule, a delicate image. The energy was much stronger than her father’s nostalgia before.

Though now, despite being a guest, I felt like an intruder.

The room was yellow, crisp wallpaper dotted in small white flowers providing the most jovial of colors.

The furniture was dark wood, the bookshelves covered with small books for small people, whittled toys, and homemade animals made from industrial produce bags.

Pushing the door open farther revealed Lucia in the small bed, her knees tucked to her chest and her skirts slipping over the side.

She wasn’t sleeping; she knew I was there.

My presence only agitated her more, based on the sickening feeling that emanated from her.

The light scattered as the tree leaves waved by her window, a calming hush that filled the stale air. By her head was a child’s blanket, her face buried in it. It was tattered and old, the embroidery the only thing keeping its shape. Even in the suffocating position, her shoulders rose and fell.

The moment my foot passed the threshold, the intrusion weighed on me. This scene was so unfamiliar, yet the weight of its story pressed down, a crushing memory. Children felt things so deeply, so thoroughly, that the things touched by their memories were more precious than a diamond pressed by the implosion of a star.

I picked up one of the picture frames, a boy and a girl, one marked by stars, the other a spitting image of my chosen skin. Except in doing so, a horse toppled over on the shelf.

Before I could turn, Lucia had already snatched it from my hand.

“Don’t.” Her word had a bite to it, faltering almost. “Don’t touch things you shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they do not belong to you.”

“I thought you would say because they’re important or delicate,” I answered. Then, I went for something bold, unprecedented.

I reached for her hand, my fingers brushing against hers, but I didn’t grab it.

Her eyes fluttered to mine, but she held her ground. She was so unwilling to be moved, physically or emotionally. It was like her walls were made of lead. Was teasing her a good idea? Absolutely not. But there was something that made me want to know it all. To see every emotion, to figure out what made her tick and snap. It was like opening a clock to observe the gears ticking. To open a body and inspect the organs pumping.

Even fully knowing I was hanging over her, close enough to feel her breath, to see her chest moving with each inhale, I started to ease into this outsider’s skin. She expected me to know a lot of things, things that were so painfully unimportant to the vastness of reality—yet I found myself caring, learning, and eager.

It was a change that I didn’t like in myself, but perhaps I was inspiring a change in her that she also despised.

Her lips trembled, the two-toned bronze clashing with the pink of the markings. Her eyes held longing but also distaste for the thing in front of her. Her entire being was conflict, friction coarse enough to start a flame.

But she wanted it.

She wanted to use me for selfish ambitions.

She wanted me. I knew it, but could she admit it?

I leaned close, watching even the slightest of movements, waiting for her to break down.

Kiss me.

A sharp sting against the side of my face and a sound like the crack of a whip. Only to be followed by heavy shoes and her disappearance from my view.

I touched the tender skin. The numbness didn’t even so much as tickle.

And I was left alone with the rest of the things she’d abandoned.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Nova