Page 82 of Hilarina and the Ogre

“Never.” Trenton knew he had taken the bait, but he couldn’t have refused it. There were just some things one couldn’t get away with saying. “That’s not possible. I won’t—”

He couldn’t finish over the sound of Hilary’s laughter, tight and mocking, meant to inflame. Still, Trenton knew he shouldn’t have shaken him, Hilary’s head bobbing with it, as if nodding along.

“Stop it. If you’re angry, let’s talk. We can talk about it. You can tell me.”

“For what?” Hilary’s laughter cut off abruptly, but the smile was still there, stretched out and manic. “I told you, you’re going to forget, so it’s pointless. All of it.”

“Don’t say that.” He tugged Hilary close, pressing his face into his shoulder. “It’s not pointless. You’re everything I want. We’re going to be together.”

Hilary began to laugh again, and Trenton hated that. He hated it so much. How he couldn’t fight it. How he couldn’t say anything with any weight. “If this is about my amnesia, I’m sorry, but it’s not like I forget everything. We can make new memories. And I’ll be careful. I keep a journal now. Since meeting you. And since coming here. I write everything down. I’m not going to forget.”

“And it’s your first journal, is it?”

There had been a sinking in Trenton’s stomach since the beginning the conversation, only deepening with Hilary’s laugh. Now it pressed against his mouth, his throat. Hilary stood. He went to the closet and dragged a box down from the shelf, too forceful. It hit the ground with a thud and opened like a pinata, spilling things everywhere. Papers and notebooks, dried flowers, old ticket entries. Trenton sank down and began to gather the things, but Hilary only kicked the box, scattering more. “No point. It won’t trigger anything—it never does. Do you think this is the first time I’ve shown you?”

The sweater the jar was wrapped in had shielded it for the most part, but there was a crack in it from the fall, the glass filled with hundreds of brightly colored scraps of paper. He hugged it to his chest. “How many times? How often have we—”

“Who knows? I’ve stopped counting. Getting you is the easy part, you know. You never refuse me. Even when I’m being horrible or when I’m out for revenge. You just take it, go along with it. Like dragging you back here. There’s a reason you like it. You picked out this house, you know. The red wall in the kitchen? That was your idea. We painted it together, and then you sucked my cock. Remember that? Do you remember?”

“You’re lying.”

Hilary laughed again, low and horrible. “You’re right. You didn’t suck it. But you tried to. You always try that eventually. You would have tried it today if I’d let you. And maybe I should. You’re going to forget, anyway. You’ll forget tonight. I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, just like always. And when I find you again, it’ll be in some new place, a new dead-end job, and it’ll start all over again. Even though I told myself to stop this. That really, it was the last time. It’s always the last time.”

Fifteen years. He’d been torturing this man for fifteen years. “Why do I forget? If I love you.”

“It’s never been love, Trenton. Just a game of tag. You run and I chase you. That’s the game.”

Trenton held up the jar and shook it, angry—furious—even if it was cruel to be. “Then why keep it? If it’s just a game. If it only hurts you. You’re coming apart, but you keep—”

“Because you made me this way!” Hilary was so big and so small, shaking there, a blade of grass, a sword of iron. “You, with all your stupid lies. It was only words. Books and words. But I was stupid and young, and you tied us together. You made it so we could never be apart. And then you left. You left me. When I needed you. When we needed each other. You left. And you’ll leave again. Because it’s what you do. When bad things happen—when you find something unbearable—you leave it. And I am unbearable. To you, I’ve become something unbearable like your sister was.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“No, Trenton, you don’t.” Exhausted. Like every last bit had been wrung out of him. “Not anymore.”

It was all lies. Hilary was unstable. A stalker, as he’d said. But that was only more reason to believe him. Hilary needed him to believe, so he would. He opened his arms.

Hilary fell into them, chest heaving as he cried.

“Your cock is pretty. That’s why I try to suck it.”

Hilary choked, too miserable to laugh. But it was enough. Trenton folded the man in to fit better and rocked with him, stroking his hair. He wondered if this was why he had been chosen. Because he was a blank slate. Any history could be pushed onto him. Any belief. And that was fine. It was good to have a reason. Better than thinking he was just some pity project. “Are you really afraid I’ll leave tomorrow?”

“It’s not about being afraid,” Hilary said once he’d calmed down a little. “It’s what happens whenever we get too close to the truth. I thought it would happen the night you read the poetry. Or even back at the restaurant. When your arm hurts—that’s usually the sign.”

That brought something. The words like lightning carving into flesh, embodied premonition. “Why tell me the truth then? When you think it will ruin things.”

“Because I’m stupid. Remember? I get fucked up and I tell you and then it starts over.”

“Then don’t let it. Stop me from leaving.”

“How? Once you forget—”

“Then before I forget. Do it now. Here.”

The drawer was within reach, he didn’t even have to stand to get it. Trenton rooted around for a couple of seconds and pulled out the duct tape. “It’s like I said before. You make the rules that you need. If you’re anxious that I’ll leave—stop me.”

Hilary stared. “That’s kidnapping.”