Our Ashes Will Fly

V. Scar Tissue

Next stop: Washington, D.C.

            Except we take the Metro, so it’s really a lot of jerky stops.

            I don’t even like the District, despite the fact that I’ve grown up beside it. I’ve been there a million and one times, and that’s not as much of an exaggeration as one might think. I’ve smelled every dogwood blossom in the spring. I’ve named the furry elephant that greets you when you walk into the Museum of Natural History. I’ve been on too many class trips, I’ve heard the same stories too many times.

            But Alistair pulls the “I really want to see it before I explode” card, and soon we’re on the Metro, headed toward the city.

            I actually have a burn scar, on my thigh, that reminds of me of the capitol building. Maybe that’s why I don’t like going to Washington. I don’t need to see any pretty buildings. I have my own personal view of the city, dug into my skin,

            Alistair wants to know the stories. He hasn’t asked about it since dinner, but he’s looking over. He doesn’t stare, he doesn’t grimace like the others. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to. With the graceful tips of his fingers, he traces the lines in my arm. It’s not curiosity in his eyes. It’s pain.

            “I’ll tell you someday,” I whisper.

            “Just tell me one thing.”

            “It depends on the thing.”

            “Who is that for?” He gestures at the heart on my ankle.

            “Someone.” I hate being cryptic. I’m a freak, I’m a ghost, and now I’m a puzzle. But I can’t tell Alistair anything, because then he’ll put together the pieces, and he’ll see the monster’s face that forms. He’ll know that it’s not myself I destroy.

            “But they’re gone now?”

            I nod. We don’t define what gone means.

            Alistair puts his arm around my shoulder. He feels warmer, but it might be that I’m just cold. It might be that I’ve never felt human warmth like this. Our cheeks are pressed together. I take his hand, and hold it in my lap. He has dirt under his fingernails, but his hands are beautiful. His fingers are long, slender. Piano player fingers, though I doubt he’s ever played a piano

       He’s so warm. I imagine us melting, our body heat getting too much, too perfectly high, and our skin melts, my arm dripping into his, his fingers stuck through mine. I imagine us melting, molding into one.

            Another jerk, another stop, and a mother with a screaming child and a baby stroller joins us. Alistair’s wings take up half a row of seats, and he quickly stands up, offering the weary-looking woman his seat with a dramatic bow.