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I saw her in bed, naked, a snake wrapped around her throat, eating its tail, pulling tight around her.
I saw her in the woods, outside the Deacon’s house—the Deacon in the pale moonlight, wings outstretched.
And then I saw another red-haired woman.
Valerie against a tree, naked, tied tight against the bark.
The Deacon feeding on her, taking her blood, knowing everything about me, everything Valerie has seen, everything she has felt.
He had her memories.
I saw the girls then, the missing. The Deacon drinking from them in a cave. Their hands searching, pleasuring themselves as he fed. Weeping in the dark all alone, waiting for death the way I always have.
I saw his white eyes turn away, searching for a sound and Sorina escaping into the night.
I saw it all, the horrors of her life, the beating of her heart when I was with her.
Solace in a nightmare.
My sun.
I was meant to devour her and as her blood burned in my body, as I writhed on the floor, her blood and memories surged through me. Waking me. Burying me.
I needed to find my home again.
* * *
When I walked into Sorina’s room, the sun was cresting the horizon, but the dark curtains kept all the light out. I touched them as I walked around, my human fingers tracing the edges of her things.
I could smell her everywhere, and I missed her with parts of me I didn’t know existed. We had few words between us, more touch, more reassurance that I was not broken inside.
I didn’t know what I was—a beast dressed in magic? A mirage? I shouldn’t look the way I did. I shouldn’t have been able to fit my body into hers, a phantom with her on that bed in the trailer. But I did. And I was scared.
I walked to her nightstand and saw the worn paper and a pen where I’d seen it before. I shouldn’t have opened it. I shouldn’t have invaded Sorina’s privacy that way, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I wanted to see every dark thought in her head, devour the pieces she kept locked away.
I wanted to know what she thought of me when she spoke to the pages.Ifshe spoke of me. I was more teenage boy than beast when I opened the pages. And I blinked when I saw it was not a journal, but letters to someone.
My eyes roamed over the first words on the page.
My Moon
I skimmed her slanted handwriting, the sharp ink piercing the pages. They were letters to her sleeping daughter.
Salina.
A beautiful name like her mother’s. I skimmed through the words, suddenly feeling foolish and wrong. The end of each page ended withYour Sun,and I ached with the letters.
She said she had raised her daughter for a while, and I wondered if when she slept, that was what she was doing—shining on her daughter.
I fucking hoped it was not a forever sleep.
I flipped more pages, perhaps looking for my name, maybe just wanting to fucking feel her again. And I stopped flipping when I saw an entry not addressed to herMoon. Instead, it was simply addressed with one word—Daughter.
The letter was one sentence, one jagged edge of words scribbled. The pages were crumpled a bit, as if she almost ripped it out and thought better of it.
I wish you were never born.
