Black & Blue

FAY

"F

ay, are you still here?"

Swiping a finger under my eye, I wet my lips and blink myself back into reality. "I am."

"What do you want from me?"

I try soothing myself with fingers too shaky to actually stroke my scalp properly. "Why are you doing this now?"

"Must be a curse. It beats me black and blue, and I can't do it anymore."

I shut my eyes, my stomach churning. I was going to bounce back with a joke, a flimsy "I didn't know glitter could be so brutal," but I'm stuck to the potency of 'I can't do it anymore,' struck by the hammer of realization that I've harmed him, splitting a chord in my heart that he realizes it too.

My breathing sharpens. He sees my flaws now. All of me.

"I'm not the right person for you, Tyke."

"Don't say that. You're just un-secure. Insecure, I mean. And it's okay. I'm not that... What I'm trying to say is... Arrr, kera'ish! Can we just start over?"

My left wing pulses with pain as I collapse onto my back.

Silently, I wince. It's from a burn. It was fast to heal, but the soreness is still there, a reminder of Deon... and soon, twisty, overwhelming thoughts begin to race.

I'm an athlete, a pro-runner, bolting away from my problems to chase after temporary, meaningless, connections at three in the morning, searching in vain for something I don't even know.

And now Tyke. He's catching and pulling at all my 'what if's' and possibilities, right after stomping into my soul and kissing it. He left an indelible print behind and fuck is it burning bright. I thought my pathetic hookups would come in handy. Like rags, using them to wash, scrap at this aching mark that won't go away. Each time I think about it, it haunts me, a bloody clutch of fear constricting around my throat to know I've tasted a bond that will never become one.

I bring a hand to my neck, fingers coiling damp at my nape, bracing. My pulse is frightened. What if Tyke walks out of my life? I would lose the glimpse of what we could have had, one, until now that was enough to keep me going.

"Fay, you're my anchor; hold me steady."

"Your anchor?"

"Yes, an anchor. I know you don't like hearing this, that I'm breaking your rules. The thing is, I don't want rules between us. I want chaos. I want you."

At his last words, my eyes set into the void. Maybe he's aware of how messed up I am. Maybe I could drop the illusion and embrace the possibility of a future together.

I'm lost.

I'm so lost. "Tyke, you got me; you know it. You keep fixing me, putting the pieces together just to throw me against my socially pressured walls over and over."

"I love throwing you against walls," he whispers, probably with a smirk.

And he does right, because here I am, chuckling. But then a spasm strikes. The fuck is on me? I'm drowning in water on my phone.

I need a tissue. Rolling onto my stomach, my elbow sinks into the bed, seeming to be not only that scaffolder holding me and my phone, but also the weight of my entire life. At least, that's how it feels.

The stare I shoot at my vanity is the lengthiest I've ever given to a piece of furniture. The thought of standing and getting to that tissue box exhausts me, and I give up on the idea like I should give up on everything else.

My head drops, my chin sinking into the mattress, along with my crummy tears.

"Bug?"

"Yes," I say quietly, slanting my eyes down to the untouched mail on the floor. I know what it is.

Last night, Donna slipped a letter under my very penned-in door. "That'll be fifty bucks whenever you decide to talk to me again."

On my bed, I was painting my toenails, mostly daubing polish anywhere but on the nail, and neared a back strain when I recognized the logo of entwined snakes of 'Getchecked.std'.

I'd sucked in my cheeks and released a breath, along with my ego. "Can I give you the money when I return to work next week?"

I expected a "You're due three months' payment already." But she just went with, "Yeah, whatever." Donna's credit card is billed monthly. What is the reason behind it? Well, here's the best part... my non-existent bank account.

I inhale deeply. I still don't get why my parents refuse to let me open a bank account. My father was adamant about it, and Gods know why the man refuses. I could go against him, snap for good, and break my mother's heart, but I won't. Precisely because of the latter.

Having no cash reinforced the feeling I felt inside, shame or the very essence of my life.

"Fayra, please, just talk to me."

Tears swell over the rim of my eyes still beaded on this letter of shame. "Trying..."

One falls. I have such a mess of a sex life that I signed up for a monthly lab membership like a porn star to avoid any STDs. I wouldn't need to do that if it came down to trust. As a gargoyle, Deon is immune to any disease. With my other partners, I always play it safe, taking the pill and bagging it all the time. But there's always a risk...

And with Tyke... The condom causes him pain—it's a question of size. Knowing safe sex is discriminating fifty percent of monster species, fae being the dominant one in Faerhan, doesn't make things any easier between us. Tyke can't go for regular checkups because the cost is too high for him, and I'm not sure if he's allowed to 'fuck around,' according to the law.

Touch wood, I've never contracted a sexual disease, so I wonder whether Tyke has ever slept with anyone else besides me. Orcs are non-monogamous by nature and––

Shut up, Fay. You know he doesn't sleep around!

"Fay, I know you're overthinking. Speak to me."

A smile cracks from my puffy face. "I..."

I drop my phone, bringing my fisted hands over my face, knuckles shielding the guilt that's coming out of my eyes. A frail grunt of anger vents out my lips. I won't kid myself.

Or him.

Not anymore.

I exhale short, and pick up my phone right back to my ear.

"I'm tired of this." My teeth punish me with a tongue bite that is brisk and sharp. Why did I rush this out? Tired of what?

A quiet gasp frisks out of me at the sound of familiar barks bouncing off the walls of the narrow street below.

"Bug, just say the words, and I'll be up in seconds."

What?! "Where are you?"

"I'm stalkin' you."

Him being close by, every wicked thought dissolves at once, and I crack a wet grin, sprinting for the window. "What are you doing here?" I shout, almost bumping my head against the emergency ladder.

Pacing in front of the building's entrance, leathered in his biker jacket, Tyke stares up at me with Cerberios at his feet. His jeans are worn, holes that are not there for fashion.

Right now, it feels as if I could be hisonly and always.

Tyke...

"Lately, whenever I start walking, I always end up here. I don't know why. Must be Cerberios tracking the scent of the butcher one block away... You know, Wizked Chops," he says, the phone still against his ear.

This dork has me simpering because we aren't that far from one another to actually need a phone.

"Yeah, I know Wizked Chops." We get bacon from that butcher.

"Come down."

My aching wings begin to flap, reminding me how badly I want to.

Myeyes are fixed on him, a furious envy to fly myself into his arms.

Myhead is spinning, my heart pounding a mile a minute, raising my blood pressure a little too much.

Probably because there are too manyours.

But somehow, I lose my smile, my face wrinkling in disgust, for it reflects an ugly soul. Mine.

Our voices echo across the street, and it doesn't take long for some curiosity-filled windows to open.

Nausea grips me, like sulfur and acid fuming in my lungs... I cough as my throat cramps; Tyke's words keep hitting back at me, 'I can't do this anymore,' 'You're my anchor,' 'I want your chaos, I want you,' sweeping through my brain, blowing order over my thoughts, saturating me with enough evidence to convict myself, and no matter how hard I try to clamp down on it, the verdict jumps: I play him like a wind instrument and stash him in my box whenever I waltz out in the street. I've done this to him. Me. The fae he wants to be with.

Cannot look at him... face him.

Should be a 'now-or-never-moment-to-kiss-and-fly-away-in-the-distance-palooza,' but it's not.

Toying, that's what I'm doing with Tyke—pushing him away, then rushing into his arms whenever I feel dead inside.

It's an easy, brutal, regret-filled activity I can't continue. Everything hurts from it.

For all the times Tyke was there for me when he didn't have to be. All those moments watching me binge drink, spoiling me with kindness as I openly treated him like a vulgar swappable fling, while I took momentum to sabotage my life. Very much a dull story of fruitless failures I have to stop scrubbing him with.

I step back and close the window.

I want him.

But not in this life. I won't be able to love him peacefully. What if he leaves me? What if something happened to him? I don't want to be exclusive with him; I'd be giving too much, and I have nearly nothing left of me.

Even if we did make it work, the ghost of how we started would haunt me. The fucking guilt will never leave.

No, I want Tyke, but I want him safe... from me.

"Show me your face, bug."

My feet slip on the tiles as my ass slumps down to the floor.

"Don't hide from me."

And my back drops, skin grating against the ledge, against the iron bars of the heater, against my fucked-up fifth-floor barriers separating me from what I want. Although I hate seeing this exchange end, tears are ruining it for me.

Despite the pain, I swallow my tears. "I hate myself for having treated you this way. And bear, I-I?—"

"Please, don't cry."

"I'm sorry, Tyke. I'll lea?—"

"Don't! Don't do this."

"I'll leave the key under the doormat."

"Is it my flat? I'll find another one, big and spacious, on the Upper East. In a high-rise, where you can fly higher than anyone else. I was planning to?—"

"Stop. Ju-just stop."

"Or, if you want, we could run far from this city. Runaways, little bug, just you and me. I'll take you back to my?—"

"Stop!"

There is a dry swallow across the line, and I wince, knowing my words are hurting him.

"There's no deadline, Fay." I finally hear after ten deadly seconds. "And I'll be waiting."