Chasing Nova

Knowing Nova

THE THIEF

"Tomorrow, sprout," Dave's warm hands lace through my hair like silk. I am the fabric, he is my tailor, "Tomorrow you'll have your own room. Big windows. Dolls, scattered across our kitchen... A late spring garden—"

"With wildflowers?" I cut in tiredly.

Light chuckle. Sage eyes matching my own, "Too many to count, sprout."

Kisses my forehead. I'm thirteen. Childish, yes. A thirteen year old that is still fascinated by dolls and dresses and decorated outdoor delicacies because I never got to touch, have, keep any of it as a child.

How exactly would one go about letting go of something that they never exactly had?

"I'll be back," Dave's last words to me if it weren't for the screams he'd release later that night.

Steps on asphalt. That rigorous asphalt. I still hear it. The pebbles scraping along new shoes, old shoes, car tires, bullets, every detail and sliver of nothingness that crawled down that pitied street— I still hear it all. It hurts me, it haunts me.

I get up. Following him. I see men, about five of them. Actually, too many to count. Actually, none at all. It always changes, in these dreams. Sometimes, I see no father, at all. Just hear the scream. My name. A term of surrender for those who appear guilty, alone, petrified.

I see Dave this time. Tussled hair. Thirty, at most. Hear the gun.

Except, this time, as I turn to run away from the scene, from his murder, I look down at my hands.

Blood thickly coats each wrinkle of pale skin, each knuckle and crease ever crafted into the wedges of who I am.

Because I did it.

Here, I did it.

Here, my running, my leaving him there to rot, is as good as pulling the trigger myself.

He's dead, but I hear him— He's dead, but I feel him, "Nova... NOVA—"

THE LAWYER

I'm racing up toward the bed as fast as I can.

The cramp forming on my lower back begging me to get off the hotel floor.

"Hey, hey, you're okay... You're okay..." I take her into my arms.

She's staring at her hands, strangely, "Blood."

I glance at her hands. Completely clean. I glaze over her open palms with my fingertips, "You're alright... There's nothing there, Blondie."

Looks up at me. It's three in the morning. Mutters, "Do you think I killed him?"

Hold her tighter, "Nova, no... Of course not."

Silence. "Don't say my name."

I stare at her, confusion evident on the stitch between my brows, "Nova... No one can hear us here."

"Stop..." Holds her ears. "Don't say it." I don't miss the light quivering of her lips.

This is more than anonymity. This is more than the formality between two criminals, more than secrecies kept hidden in the face of a home that isn't exactly yours.

"What's going on..." I'm lost. Everything is so complicated with her. When she's laughing, yelling at me, there's a pocket in my soul that breaks free. Like air being sucked out of a balloon and into the masses, a bracelet's beads falling onto wooden flooring. With her I am scattered, and free, and almost alive.