Prelude
Rani's hands were cool against my cheek. It was in that moment—on the eve of July, backstage with the velvet curtains drawn and a thousand seats filled with chattering students—that I knew the next sunrise would be when her eyes opened into mine to stream light into my tortured soul. She knew that I was hopeless in the world of doctors and lawyers. She knew that I was born to entertain, to turn cards into doves, to spin gold from her dreams.
But she also knew that I was a lonely wolf craving the full moon's goodnight kiss. Dying, perhaps, but still able to howl in grief when the sun shrunk night into street corner shadows. Survival had always been my second nature, but I didn't know how to survive a fall when I was the one who was choosing to jump.
"Are you nervous?" she whispered, her forehead gravitating towards my trembling one.
"No," I lied. "Are you?"
I bit my tongue to swallow a sigh when she smiled at my response.
"I trust you not to drown me in front of the whole school." She smiled again, this time softer, this time to herself. "I trust you with everything."
She swirled a finger around my lower lip, the beginnings of a whirlpool, her touch inducing a thunderstorm in my chest. I heard the racket the audience were making on the other side, but all I could feel was my shallow breaths and her ever-waiting smile. Her words hovered between us like water droplets suspended mid-air; I was frozen, leaning back against the sloshing water tank with my top hat lopsided. She righted it with a boyish grin--always with her skimming, butterfly fingers to save the day. Always lingering, teasing, wanting, but never taking.
Rani knew that I wanted to win first place more than anything. To want so much, that was my greatest flaw. I knew it would be the end of me, but I didn't know that it'd be the end of us, too.
***
Chapter One | This Is Not A Battle Cry, This Is War!
[Song of choice: Turnover // Dizzy On The Comedown]
Sunday night is supposed to be the August of each week. There are a number of ways I could be spending my last night of fleeting freedom: I could be making a pyramid out of my tarot cards; I could be mixing a herb concoction I stole from Madame Penelope's wooden chest; I could be lighting candles and tracing a pentagram on my bedroom floorboards in crumbling chalk; I could even be meddling with an ouija board that never stops rattling like old bones.
Instead, as of the past hour, I have been a victim of child labour. More precisely: a victim of zipping up Mum's brimming suitcase with no luck. Lacy bras and straw sun hats spill from its large lips. I've tried jumping on it, singing to it, praying to it, kicking it across the room, cradling it in my arms and lying flat on its back like a starfish. I've even emptied it, refolded Mum's embarrassing granny knickers and repacked all fourteen gladiator heels. It was no use, thus making the suitcase the bane of my existence. And I thought Monday mornings were bad.
"Mum, the suitcase won't close again," I yell, jumping up and down on her suitcase and missing the living room's modest chandelier by a hair.
Her voice floats downstairs, followed by the cacophonous clicking of her heels. She pokes her head into the living room, wearing a towel on her head like a turban.
"Have you tried zipping it?" she asks, unaware of the fact that she is clad in nothing but a set of lacy lingerie that could pop a few eyes. Or mine, for that matter.
Mid-flight, I glare at her. My ponytail smacks my lower back like a steel rod when I land on the suitcase, which exhales sharply, winded by my weight, before it sags. It's not enough to seal it off forever, but it's progress.
