Page 47 of Roses & Ruin

Hayden had looked so, so scared when he talked about my possible death. That, more than anything, silences any doubt: I don’t want to know the level of threat it takes to frighten a vampire.

When panic starts to squeeze my lungs, I stop walking and turn to the churning sea. The visibility is cut by a thickening layer of fog hovering over the dark water. In the distance, a foghorn blows mournfully.

Hayden thought he could keep me safe by staying away. Keeping us apart.

He’s done that (mostly), and I’ve still almost died twice. Maybe three times. Who knows what Noah would have done to me at the Ballroom? Will keeping us separated truly be enough? Sleet stings my skin, and I realize: In all likelihood, I am going to die soon.

The wind snags a loose carabiner hanging from a sailboat mast. It slams it against the metal pole, ringing like a church bell. Clang, clang, clang. It sounds funereal. A seagull the size of a beagle lands on the fence in front of me, balancing on the splintering, swinging rope. It fixes me with a sharp black eye.

“But I’ve already died,” I blurt at him. The seagull gives a reptilian cock of its head, blinks.

Then why am I still so scared? Why aren’t I braver? Maybe because some small part of me wonders: If I die again, what if I don’t come back? How does Hayden know I will? But does that even matter? It’s not like I’ll remember.

The whole train of thought makes me feel bleak. I turn away from the enormous seagull, the harbor’s death knell, shove my hands in my pockets. Do what I’ve always done.

Just keep walking.

—

The Institute of Contemporary Art is an ultramodern geometric marvel, a building of sleek right angles of glass and metal on Boston Harbor. It’s exactly the sort of aesthetic I hate. Which, right now, I love; right now, as much as possible, I want to feel as removed as possible from Reincarnated-About-to-Die Rose.

I pay for my ticket and enter the hushed, just-as-ultra-modern lobby, feeling none of the warmth that older buildings and lived-in spaces bring me. I stop walking when it hits me. Of course I’m drawn to historic buildings. Of course I’ve always loved standing in ancient rooms, picturing the lives of the people who left the grooves in the antique wooden floors, the fingerprints of those who wore the brass candles to fading. I wasn’t fascinated with the people from bygone days.

I was, in a way, reminiscing.

I have to stop walking and press a fist to my forehead, just for a moment. A girl can only take so many universe-tilting revelations within a certain period.

I came here on a whim, following the call of the oh-so-relatably titled piece Lost in My Life. Well, in my case, lives. Plural, with a capital P. But as I stroll through the echoing gallery, I stumble on an exhibit comparing current works with classic ones and glimpse a painting that strikes me still.

There, rendered sumptuously on the canvas, is a pale, ethereal beauty of a young woman floating listlessly in a river, surrounded by dense, verdant grasses and trees, the lush greens scattered with dots of white, red, and purple from daisies, poppies, violets. Ophelia by John Everett Millais, the label says. Rendered in oil on canvas, Millais has captured the moment before Ophelia’s death.

Ophelia, drowned by the madness of heartbreak. The madness of toxic, agonizing love. Her face haunts me. I’m sure this is what drew me to her, the vacant, almost relieved surrender in her gray eyes, the slack mouth. What kind of love leaves you with such despair that you embrace death with such abandon?

It’s been a while—I read Hamlet in tenth grade—so I don’t remember much other than Hamlet needlessly being an asshole to her. Other bad stuff happened, but right now, that’s what’s striking me. Hamlet, her love, was a mercurial, emotionally savage man.

Hayden, my love, is a mercurial, actually savage vampire. A monster, as he’s been telling me all along. I fiddle with the buttons of my peacoat, staring at Ophelia’s face, obliterated by heartbreak. The saying comes to me: It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

Whoever said that is smug, righteous, and has never had the perfect vampire of their dreams say I love you, but you’ll never see me again.

Would I have preferred that things had gone according to plan? That I had never known of Hayden’s existence at all? I bury my head in my hands because, probably, that’s what I should want. Hayden has ripped people’s throats out. He’s broken my heart more than once. Is no love better than doomed love?

I chew my lips, trying to picture following Hayden’s instructions, going on to live my life like normal, like I never met him. It’s laughable. Does he really expect me to get a part-time job at an Einstein’s Bagels? Find a cute guy in organic chemistry? Accept his invitation to watch the new Fast & Furious movie in theaters? Chew stale popcorn with him, let his sweaty, hot hand find mine in the dark?

I realize that’s the best-case scenario, because all of that can only happen if I don’t die in seventeen days.

I have an insane, unbidden thought: If those are my only two options, Einstein’s Bagels without Hayden or dying to restart the cycle again with the slim chance of loving Hayden…I choose death.

Hayden shouldn’t have given me a taste, a glimpse of what being loved by him might be like. There’s a dark, bottomless fire within him. He tries to keep a lid on it, but I’ve seen it before, the lick of flame that flickers from his eyes when he’s glanced at me sometimes, the molten curl in his voice, his words.

Even in my woeful inexperience, I can sense it. I can tell.

To be loved by Hayden is to be burned alive—but not like a forest fire. Like a phoenix. I want to turn to ash in his hands, his mouth. I want him to ruin me every night, resurrect me every morning.

But he’s taken that choice from me, hasn’t he? Decided it for us both. Would I rather die a horrible death in seventeen days at least knowing what his lips feel like on the skin of my neck? Below my belly button?

Or would I rather live long, healthy, and so, so lonely?

It feels like being offered two poisons: One tastes like strawberries, the other mango, which one would you like? Neither. Neither. Both choices end in the sloughing of my gut, a gruesome, organ-failing pain.