Page 15 of Palingenesis

He leads me all the way through the back of his shop, past displays and racks of bulk bakery shit and it’s not until I feel the damp night air hit my cheeks that I realize we’ve burst out of the back door.

Maybe to put me out of my misery.

There’s a light above the door, but it doesn’t do much to tame the darkness pressing in the second we take a step just far enough away from the exit to not be hit by the door.

Finally, Avery turns to me and signs it again. “You okay?”

The growing thickness in my throat makes it hard to speak.

He watches as I hold my hands out in front of me, preparing to tell him, wanting so desperately to spill everything and anything but stuck inside me with nothing more than shaky fingers.

Never once have I spoken ill of my partner.

Not to family or friends or colleagues.

In the three years I’ve been with Henry, I’ve never even considered it. Every one of our arguments was just because he had a bad day, or there was a misunderstanding, or simply because I was different.

That being with me was difficult.

I always tried to make it easier for him.

Be quieter for him.

Smaller.

Smarter.

I blamed it on the language barriers, and that someone so logically minded just couldn’t understand the needs of someone more creative.

That my stories are my life–my work. And I’m just lucky enough to be able to pay some bills with them.

I’m not bestselling–yet. What if my next one is?

What if my art could also make my living comfortable?

I’d be willing to starve to make that a reality, which is just another tick on the list of things Henry refuses to get.

And yet, as I consider all those things, while standing in front of a perfect stranger, I can’t help the tears that rush over.

“Thank you,” I sign and swipe at my face then clear my throat. “Sorry.”

Avery pinches his first two fingers against his thumb, his brows turning inward. “No apologizing. Wanna talk about it?” His hands are choppy and his signs are short, but I appreciate them regardless.

“Maybe later.”

He nods, tucking his arms into his chest and turns to look out at the expansive night that’s thick enough it feels like it could reach out and grab us.

Mirroring his stance and with my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I see that the backside of the building butts up against a thick forest. There’s only a thin alleyway separating where we are from the edge of it, though the looming trees still aren’t tall enough to block out the sprawling mountains behind them.

A thin fog begins to spread between the foliage, slowly building and seemingly absorbing any remnants of light from the hanging moon rather than reflecting it. Like the forest is eating it alive and spitting out an inky blanket of blackness.

“Do you ever feel like there’s something in there watching you?” I ask aloud, my voice raw and grating.

Avery’s chuckle is thick, but when I glance at him, he’s smiling. “Definitely. I was used to it until I heard the story of the mines about ten miles that way.” He points in the general direction, and a chill runs down my spine.

I want to look. The urge is strong to follow his gesture, but I can’t bear the idea of finding something staring back at me when I do.

“I don’t think I wanna know that story.”