Antilove

Venticinque

CAPITOLO VENTICINQUE

is it love or is it war?

***

IN HER LIFE, an impressive span of twenty-five years, Rose has managed to cram in more memories than she can recall. It all comes down to remembrance, for Rose. God knows what films will be projected onto her hospital room ceiling as she dies.

    And in those twenty-five years, Rose has never come across the paranormal. There was no doubt that when she laid her mom down into the ground, she'd never see her again. No apparitions, no traced out messages on the fog of her mirror, no visions. Rose has, however, had dreams about her. She's had dreams about everyone she's ever missed.

    Then came along a deal, made in a dark car, the smell of imported cigars and gunpowder—the smell of cavernous wealth, one of another kind. She never questioned it, Rose never questioned anything. What comes has come and will go. Will always go.

    But they have come, as of the moment, and Rose tremors in the aftershock.

    "Don't think about it. I'm not the product of a fever dream."

    "Then what are you," Rose whispers. "What are you?" her voice regains its sharp nature.

    Smooth, immaculate skin. Pronounced cheekbones. Jawline made to match. Brows detailed down to the hair, arching above hooded, provocative eyes. The colors, the colors make up the canvas. Flushed lips and rainforest eyes. A sculpted structure sitting on a perfect figure.

    He doesn't reply her. He never has the answers to her questions—he doesn't need to.

    "Answer me," Rose says. She steps closer, the licking fire beginning to singe the frays of her shirt. The heat rises and she builds a flame to match.

    "Rose," he says.

    "What are you? Answer me, Lucien, or I swear to god."

    "What am I? Do I even know?"

    "You do. You must."

    "And why, why are you so bent on that? Why do you think I know everything? Why do you think I have the answers?"

    Lucien spreads himself out on her couch. This is Lucien like Rose has never seen. There's a crackle in those eyes—always a favorite of hers—and the shadows cast by a single light source transforms his face into another work of art.

    "You get it, don't you, Lucien? You get me. You know why and you know how."

    "I don't get a single thing about you," he says, voice dipping lower and lower. "In fact, I don't think I even know you."

    When Rose doesn't answer, hesitating out of fear, of wonder, he continues.

    "My dad could give you everything and yet you convince yourself you don't need it. You need it, Rose. Don't be insane. Your life right now—"

    "Yes, my life right now. Is that what you want to entertain yourself with next, Lucien? Find yourself a girl who can't refuse you, is that it, then? I don't need jack from you or your family. I've been doing fine before you and I'll do fine after."

    Standing in the living room that Rose bruised her knees on as a child, they're a run out passion and a blaze. Static pricks her skin and Lucien never shifts from his recline on her couch. Something starts welling up beneath her surfaces and the heavy blanket of weariness covers her.