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“Asortsol?”
Nodding, I adjust her a bit, so she’s not glued to me, sweeping a hand over the tattoo on my ribcage. “A flock of starlings. One of nature’s most beautiful and terrifying phenomena.” I tangle a hand in her hair, working my fingers against her scalp. “Kind of like you.”
She doesn’t respond, just traces the path of the birds on my skin, causing goosebumps to pop up in her wake.
“It’s temporary, almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but the murmuration can sometimes completely block out the sun, cloaking the world in darkness. They do it just before they decide on where to rest for the evening, and often resemble a dance-like formation. My mother had never seen any in the United States, so when that happened, she took it as a sign.”
“Is that why you believe in fate? Because your mom did?”
I avert my gaze. “I don’t believe in itbecauseshe did. It’s almost the opposite. Her belief got her killed; I’ve spent my life since ensuring I don’t leave things up to fate or chance. Making decisions for myself, sometimes because of loyalties and sometimes because I feel like it.”
“What was I?”
“Completely unexpected. An absolute fucking miracle.”
Her toes flex, and she draws abstract shapes on my hip bone.
“New York mafia families have stringent rules about culture and ethnicity. They like Italian-made stock, Catholics with closet drinking problems and violent streaks. Flawed creatures they can mold, use to continue the business. My mother, a Lutheran Dane that liked herbalism and openly supported contraception—even for married couples—became an instant target.”
“So, your dad’s outfit killed her?”
“No. They planned on it. Hired a few different soldiers to drive her out to the middle of downtown Queens and leave her in an alleyway, frame her as a prostitute and let the police chalk it up to just another day in the city.”
My pulse kicks up, pumping blood through me at an erratic rate, and she slides her hand up from my side, covering my heart with her palm. “If this is too hard, you don’t have to tell me. I know all about repression. Sometimes, it’s a handy tool.”
I cover her hand with my own. “Repression just flattens the memories, stuffs away our feelings. But they remain, and the pain associated with them won’t ever go away if we don’t unpack it all.” My chest rises as I draw in a deep breath, dropping down as I blow it out above our heads. “My mother failed to recognize that asort solcan be a bad thing—an omen. I mean, it translates toblack sun, literally. What good connotations does that actually hold?”
“Maybe she saw black as a clean slate. A chance to pour color into something, make it brand new.”
“Maybe, but it still doesn’t change the fact that she married my father, had me, despite knowing the world she would involve us in—one she didn’t belong in and didn’t want me to be a part of. I think the black sun, in this case, completely blocked her ability to reason, to run. Like a stamp on her brain that bled her of all logic.
“They came for her one night, men with ski masks and machetes. Broke into our crummy apartment when my dad was out of town on business. I heard the commotion, ran out of my bedroom to find her writhing on the ground beneath a man, who had his massive hands wrapped around her neck.”
I swallow over the knot in my throat, placated only by the warmth seeping from Caroline’s body into mine. Otherwise, it’d be too easy to sink into the memories, recall the cold Brooklyn air drifting in through one of the broken windows, or the way the cool tile on my back felt like being dropped into an ice bath.
“I fought back when they spotted me. That’s how I got these.” I point at the moon-shaped scars scattered along my arms, the sting of their knives carving into my skin almost palpable.
“How old were you?” Her voice is low, broken, and I grip her tighter, wishing I could shield her from my reality—from her own. From everything.
“Seven.”
She rolls her head, burying her face into my chest. “Jesus, Elia.”
I lift a shoulder. “Some people are younger than me the first time they experience violence.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it means I’m not alone. It doesn’t matter how old you were; you’re never alone in that.”
Lifting her face, she meets my gaze with watery eyes; pools of desire and sadness I find myself wanting to drown in.
Blinking, she breaks the spell. And fuck if I don’t immediately want to cast it again, pull her into me for all of eternity, stitch her inside my skin where I can keep her safe.
“Who killed your mom?”
I cup her cheek, the truth barreling through me before I have a chance to stop it—to consider the consequences. “I did.”
Caroline
